privilege ? h.s

III

I nod, though I don't entirely agree. The early mornings have always been my time, a quiet space before the world wakes up. But lately, that quiet has felt more like a cage. A space that holds something I'm not ready to face.

"I suppose," I reply, though I can't bring myself to say more. I glance at Miss Dane, hoping for a change of subject.

But Octavia doesn't let the conversation die. She turns her full attention on me now, her gaze sharp. "You know, Judith," she begins, her tone slow, measured, "there are certain things in life you don't get to choose. The company you keep, for instance." Her eyes flicker briefly toward the garden again. "And I'm sure you'll understand the importance of keeping the right company, won't you?"

I blink, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say," she continues, "that not all people are of equal worth. Some people, no matter how much they try to disguise it, will always be beneath us."

Her words hang in the air like a weight I can't shake. I don't respond right away, unsure of where she's going with this. I turn my attention to my plate, pretending to be absorbed in the food, but I can feel her eyes on me, waiting for a reaction.

Before I can think of anything to say, a soft knock sounds at the door. The conversation pauses, and I hear the familiar shuffle of Miss Dane's feet as she gets up to answer.

"Come in," she calls.

The door creaks open, and I glance up to see one of the housemaids standing there, looking slightly out of breath. She clears her throat, glancing briefly at Octavia before addressing Miss Dane.

"There's a gentleman outside, Miss Dane. He's, um, asking to speak with Miss Judith."

I freeze at the mention of my name, my heart racing in my chest. "Who is it?" I ask, my voice betraying the nervous flutter I feel.

The maid hesitates before answering. "He says he's the new groundskeeper, Miss. He's asking for you specifically."

The blood drains from my face. My mind flashes back to yesterday, to the garden, to the figure I'd seen—the one with the dark, unruly hair. Could it be him? Could it really be?

Without thinking, I rise from my chair, excusing myself before anyone can say a word. My heart is beating faster now, and as I step toward the door, I can't shake the feeling that something is about to change. Something I'm not ready for.

The hallway feels colder than it did a moment ago, like all the warmth drained from the air as soon as my name was spoken.

I move with purpose, though I don't know where I'm going, not really. I've never had to seek anyone out before—especially not someone like him. A groundskeeper asking to speak to me? It's odd. Unsettling. And yet...

I can't lie to myself. I want to see him again.

The front door is slightly ajar, a crack of light spilling across the marble floor. I step through it before I lose my nerve.

He's standing at the edge of the gravel path, near the iron gate that separates the front drive from the eastern side of the property. His posture is relaxed but not careless. There's a strength in the way he holds himself—still, steady, like the kind of man who's had to fight to stay grounded.

He turns before I call out, as though he already knows I'm there.

Close up, he's more striking than I remembered. The late morning sun casts a glow over his skin, making the sharp lines of his jaw more pronounced. His dark hair curls slightly at the ends, damp with sweat. His clothes are simple—earth-stained trousers, a shirt rolled at the sleeves—but he wears them like armor.

I swallow hard, suddenly aware of my own heartbeat.

"You asked for me?" I say, careful not to let my voice waver.

His eyes meet mine—green, sharp, unreadable. "I did," he replies simply. His voice is low, steady, with a roughness that sounds like gravel and firewood. "Didn't mean to cause trouble."

"You haven't." I fold my arms, unsure what to do with my hands. "It's just... unusual."

He gives a slow nod, almost like he expected that. "Miss Dane said if I needed anything, I could speak with you."

That makes me pause. "Anything?"

"Tools," he says, quickly. "When I first came on, she told me you handle the ordering for the grounds. And there's a broken wheelbarrow near the west side beds."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Right. Yes. That's true."

He shifts his weight but doesn't look away. "Didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"You didn't," I say again, too quickly.

We stand there, the silence settling between us like fog. I should go. I should tell him I'll handle it, walk away, forget whatever this strange feeling is. But instead, I find myself asking, "What's your name?"

There's the briefest flicker of hesitation before he answers. "Harry."

I repeat it in my head, turning it over like something delicate.

"Thank you, Harry. I'll see to the wheelbarrow," I say, starting to turn away.

But then he says, "You're not what I expected."

I freeze, glancing back at him. "Excuse me?"

His expression doesn't change. "I thought you'd be different."

"How so?"

He doesn't answer right away, and I can't tell if he's choosing his words or deciding whether it's worth saying them at all.

"Colder," he says finally. "Like her."

My stomach twists, but I try not to show it. "Like who?"

He shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

But I know it does. And somehow, I know he didn't mean Octavia—not exactly. There's something else in his voice. Something I'm not ready to face yet.

"I should go," I say.

He nods. "Of course, Miss."

I hate the way that sounds. Formal. Distant. Like we're meant to be on opposite sides of something we haven't named yet.

But maybe we are.

I don't look back until I'm halfway through the door, and by then, he's already turned away—back to his work, back to whatever weight he carries that keeps him grounded to this place.

I close the door quietly behind me, heart racing and hands trembling.

I know I shouldn't care.

But I do.