4141.222 · August 10, 1821 AD
Beneath Cultivated Beauty
Gardens are meant to conceal ugliness beneath beauty—weeds buried, dead branches pruned away, secrets pressed into rich soil. Broadmoor watches Mrs Harrington's fingers work nervously at her keys, watches Victoria position herself like a chess piece, watches a robin tilt its head as though it knows something men don't. Some places hold violence in their bones. Some earth remembers what was planted there. And sometimes, what you dig up refuses to stay buried.
There's an art to searching grounds this carefully tended. Every rose placed with purpose. Every hedge trimmed to precision. Every gravel path raked smooth. The Jeffries have spent months imposing order upon wilderness, creating an English garden on colonial soil that refuses to be entirely tamed.
Broadmoor knows what disorder looks like when it invades such careful order. He knows what trampled grass means, what disturbed soil suggests, what shadows beneath cultivated beauty might conceal. Seven years in Van Diemen's Land have taught him that the prettiest facades often hide the darkest truths.
Mrs Harrington watches the search with hands that won't stay still. Victoria Ashford positions herself where she can observe both constable and housekeeper. Philip Pyke kneels in soil that tells stories through boot prints and disturbed earth. Each of them knows something. Each carries pieces of a puzzle they're not yet ready to assemble.
The garden yields its secrets reluctantly—a drop here, a mark there, evidence of something that doesn't belong in a place designed for beauty and contemplation. But gardens, like people, can only maintain their masks for so long.
Eventually, something always surfaces. The question is whether you're ready for what emerges.
