So many of these messages didn’t need help, per se, but reassurance. Reassurance that they thought they were doing the right thing; was this the time for that conversation? Was dinner the right thing for a first date? Was being honest with a friend the right choice?
The thing was, most people already knew all these things. At least subconsciously. Wildheart_risk, for example, one of the rare non-anon askers, already knew that she needed to be honest with her friend and tell her that she’d kissed her brother. She simply needed someone who she deemed an expert to tell her. And one anon who admitted they were fifteen and from somewhere in the United States needed reassurance that they didn’t need a big, flashy promposal—that a small bunch of their favourite flowers was more than enough.
I’d had to Google what a promposal was and then I’d fallen down an Instagram rabbit hole.
I still wasn’t entirely sure I understood it.
Seemed like a lot of work for some social media clout, if you asked me.
I liked Tumblr for this. These were always the easy requests, ones that didn’t need a lot of thinking about. It was a lot like Googling, except it was a real person—me—giving the answers on the other end.
Like the anonymous woman who wanted to propose to her girlfriend who was about to turn thirty. She’d let it slip to her future mother-in-law, who wanted her to do it at the birthday party in front of everyone, but the anon knew how shy her girlfriend was and how badly she didn’t want the party in the first place, so was doing it at home on their sofa with their two dogs the right choice?
Yes, in my opinion.
A thousand times yes.
Put the ring on the dog’s collar if you wanted to make it fancy.
“Good morning, Lady Gabriella.” Arthur strolled into the kitchen, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “You’re up early today.”
“Catching up on some studying,” I replied, quickly changing to the other browser window and clicking a random menu page. “Is nobody else awake yet?”
“Just your father, milady. Would you like some tea?”
“Oh, I’m fine with my juice, thank you.”
“Your father has requested a pot in here with his morning paper, so it’s no bother.”
“Well, if you’re making some, I’d happily take a cup.”
“Of course, milady.” Arthur busied himself at the counter by boiling water on the old kettle on the stove.
I don’t know why he didn’t use the electric one. I suppose he was a little bit old school like that, and it did make better tea, somehow. Although the whistling was a bit much early in the morning…
“Good morning, Gabi.” Aunt Cat strolled into the kitchen in her cat slippers. “You’re awake early.”
“That seems to be the general feeling this morning,” I said, trying to navigate the website.
Good God, it was a mess. Where was everything? I just wanted some ideas before I got my grade for my garden design this morning. The next step was to actually create the garden, and I’d already gotten permission to create mine here on the estate like Dad had asked.
And I really needed an A.
“You look annoyed.”
“This website is from the eighteen-hundreds,” I grumbled. “I can’t find anything. How do they sell anything?”
Aunt Cat peered over my shoulder at the screen. “I don’t think they had the internet in the eighteen-hundreds, dear.”
“They didn’t. I was exaggerating.”
“It doesn’t become you.”
“Coming from you, that’s rather rich.”
“Your tea, milady.” Arthur set a cup down in front of me. “Lady Catherine, would you like a cup?”
Aunt Cat blushed. “Yes, please, Arthur. If you don’t mind.”
I side-eyed her as she took a seat. I wouldn’t embarrass her by asking her why she was blushing at the butler, but I was going to stare at her so she knew I’d seen.
She caught my eye and immediately looked away.
Did she—
Did Aunt Cat have a crush on Arthur?
Well, well, well.
To paraphrase her words two days ago, it looked like she had some explaining to do.
“Milady.” Arthur set a teacup and saucer down in front of her, being very careful not to make eye contact with her. “And the sugar for you.”
Hmm.
He was being too careful.
Wait. Did he have a crush on her?
Oh, I was being daft, wasn’t I? I’d spent too long this morning wrapped up in other people’s love lives. I clearly needed to get out of the house for a little while, and the garden centre seemed to have my name on it.
It wasn’t as though I was having much luck with the blasted website.
Arthur set a newspaper and cup of tea down seconds before my father made his appearance.
“Ah, thank you, Arthur.” Daddy tied the robe of his dressing gown around his waist. “Catherine, Gabi. Good morning.”
“Morning, Daddy,” I said, sipping my tea. “Did you sleep well?”
“No, there was a dreadful racket coming from the garden early this morning. Did anyone hear it?” He looked around. “Sounded like a squealing pig. You haven’t snuck any in, have you, Catherine?”
“How would one sneak a pig anywhere, Henry?”
“You managed it with eight ducks last week.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps you need to see a doctor.”
“There are eight extra ducks in the pond. If you’re going to sneak them in, at least make them the same breeds as our old ones. Those black ones stick out like sore thumbs.”
He had a point.
I hadn’t seen the new ducks in person yet thanks to the weather, but from the pictures, the black ones were definitely not very discreet, compared to our other... normal… ducks.
“My Cayugas are beautiful, and you won’t say a bad word against them.” Aunt Cat sniffed and set down her teacup. “Perhaps you need an animal of your own, Henry, to keep you company.”
“I have plenty of company, thank you very much,” Dad replied, licking his finger so he could flip the page of his newspaper. “And there are enough animals on this estate without you adding anymore.”
“About that—”
“No.”
“But the goats—”
“No.”
“You’re rude.”
I snorted but coughed to cover it up.
“Catherine.” Dad sighed and set the paper down. “You cannot keep the two goats you currently have under control. I don’t care if you want to have a goat farm named after every English monarch since the eleven hundreds. You have to take care of the two you have if you’re to have any hope of convincing me that more goats are necessary.”
Several loud knocks came from the front door, and Arthur excused himself to answer it.
“Two words,” Aunt Cat said, leaning forward. “Petting zoo.”
I looked from her to my father.
“I’m sorry?” he replied.
“Petting zoo. We can open an extension of the gardens into a petting zoo for the little ones with goats, chickens, ducks, rabbits, and maybe lambs. I haven’t decided. It’s between lambs and ponies.”