Genevieve looked surprised. "That is kind of them."
Before she could say more, Victoria lifted her teacup. "Genevieve has always needed a project." Her tone sounded pleasant, friendly even. "When we were children, she organized everything: gardens, games, charity events. It was exhausting."
Laughter followed. Most guests smiled politely. Yet, Nathaniel noticed something important: Genevieve's smile faded, only slightly.
Victoria continued: "Some people enjoy being useful."
Another guest nodded. "That sounds admirable."
"Oh, it is." Victoria's expression remained flawless. "Although occasionally it leaves little room for more feminine interests."
More laughter. Again, the comment sounded harmless; again, it accomplished exactly what Victoria intended: Genevieve became less a capable woman and more an amusing curiosity.
Nathaniel found himself studying Victoria carefully. The pattern had become impossible to ignore: every compliment directed toward Genevieve eventually transformed into a criticism disguised as humor; every achievement became a flaw; every strength became a reason for ridicule. Yet Victoria never appeared cruel; that was the genius of it. She allowed other people to reach conclusions she quietly encouraged.
Later that afternoon, Nathaniel witnessed another revealing moment. He was carrying supplies across the rear gardens when voices drifted from a nearby gazebo. He recognized Victoria immediately. Another woman sat across from her—one of the visiting guests. Nathaniel had no intention of eavesdropping. Then he heard Genevieve's name; he slowed instinctively.
"You must admit she can be difficult," Victoria was saying.
"Genevieve?" the woman asked. "She seems pleasant enough."
Victoria sighed softly. "She means well." A pause followed. "But people rarely understand how exhausting it can be living beside someone who always needs to be admired."
Nathaniel stopped completely.
"Admired?" the guest repeated.
"You know what I mean." Victoria laughed gently. "Everything becomes a responsibility. Everything becomes a mission. Sometimes the rest of us disappear."
The words struck Nathaniel as strange—not because they sounded malicious, but because they sounded personal, deeply personal. The guest eventually changed the subject; Victoria's smile returned. Yet Nathaniel remained thoughtful long after the conversation ended.
That evening provided another clue. He found Genevieve alone in the library, surrounded by stacks of documents. Candlelight illuminated the room; outside, crickets sang in the summer darkness.
"You missed dinner," Nathaniel said.
Genevieve glanced up. "Did I? Apparently, I was busy." She gestured toward the papers. "The bridge investigation is becoming frustrating."
Nathaniel pulled out a chair. "Any progress?"
"Some." She rubbed her temples tiredly. "Not enough."
Silence settled briefly. Then Nathaniel asked a question that had been bothering him for days: "Have you and Victoria always been close?"
Genevieve looked genuinely surprised. "That is an unusual question."