The next day, Alina stepped into the garden to find a cutting table waiting there.
It wasn't like the uneven board they had been using, which wobbled and had to be braced against the wall to stay steady. It was a professional cutting table. The wood was new, still carrying the faint scent of sawdust and varnish.
It had appeared overnight. The women were gathered around it, curiosity written across their faces. Lady Brennan ran her hands over the surface as if she couldn't quite believe it. Marguerite was already spreading fabric across it, testing the space. Evelyn was grinning while Lady Talbot examined the table's stability.
"It's solid," Lady Talbot said.
Mr. Harrington stood at the edge of the garden, his hands clasped behind his back, a neutral expression on his face. He had been the steward for fifteen years, delivering thousands of messages, approving hundreds of requisitions, and witnessing dozens of dukes' whims. But this was new, even for him.
