He asked, “Will you attend the ball?”
“I had not expected to remain in London that long, but it appears I shall. So, yes.” I had avoided balls since Papa became ill. But I had danced, and the sky did not fall. There was only wind from a dragon.
However, a ball required funds. I was clever at shopping without spending—Harriet always exclaimed that she bought more than me—but we would need dancing slippers and shoe roses at least. On top of our expenses until we met Mr. Debrett.
I stroked the fur cuff of my red pelisse. It was embroidered and silk-lined, and had cost tens of pounds. It was a favorite, but I had other coats at Hartfield. They said one could buy or sell anything in London. The answer might be draped around my shoulders.
Mr. Knightley stopped, and our linked arms drew us together as I turned inquisitively.
His full lips had an earnest smile. “May I have the first dance at the ball?”
I smiled back. “Of course.”
His smile faded. “I meant it seriously.”
“I am answering seriously.”
“You would dance with me before all the elite of London?”
“You did not say the elite will attend. I shall have to consider, now.” I felt his arm tense. “That is a joke. Did you wish me to hem and haw, and say I must consult my dance card? I know nobody in London.”
“So your choices are few,” he said stiffly.
I stepped back to scowl at him properly. “Why are you cross? Did you think I would refuse because you are a musician seeking patrons? It is a dance, not a marriage.”
Unexpectedly, that made him bark out a laugh that crinkled his eyes. “Is that my flaw? A lack of wealth that renders me unsuitable for marriage?”
“Well, I did not mean to make it a flaw. That would be horribly coarse. In any case, I have no intention of marrying. If that relieves you so much that you laugh, very well. But it means I may dance as I wish.” He continued to chuckle, and I added softly, “That night, on the ship, it was not easy for me to dance. So I know I am able to, with you.”
His expression became somber. He offered his arm, and we resumed our circuit of the yard.
Nessy’s thinned face beamed when I announced an outing. I stepped into the schoolroom to tell Harriet I would meet her later—she had promised to help the students all day—then Mr. Knightley and I wrapped Nessy in blankets and flagged down a hefty carriage. Nessy and I settled in seats first, then we pointed out obstructions and called encouragement while Mr. Knightley and the driver hoisted the wheeled chair and fought it through the door.
“?‘In this Yearof our Lord, 1673, by the Worshipful Societie of Apothecaries,’?” I read, then I had to squint. The words were carved in a stone block atop a plinth, and the letters were stained, mossy, and crumbling. “?‘Here, Invoke Healing through the Wondrous’—I think it says plants?—‘of the Physic Garden. Delight, for these are found Nowhere Else on these Great Isles. Within are Remedies and Medicines of…’ I cannot read the rest.”
We had passed a large riverside gate to enter. It had a peculiar emblem, a golden man astride a wyvern-sized draca.
“Are we here to give me medicine?” Nessy said with profound distaste.
“These are herbs, so they make tea. You must like tea.”
“If it has…” Her breath hitched, and she tried again. “If it has honey—”
Her cough struck—wet, convulsing hacks that rose from far too deep for such a little girl. I embraced her in her chair, whispering, “It will pass.”
At last, her fit eased, and she clung in my arms, exhausted. I wiped her lips and smoothed dampened hair from her eyes. “Save your breath. We will explore the garden, and you must listen. They say the herbs speak. It is a game.”
I stood. Mr. Knightley’s face was gray with shock. He had never seen one of Nessy’s coughing fits. I aimed a bright smile at him until he mastered himself, then we began wheeling the chair along a walk beneath three towering cedars.
“What do you mean, the herbs speak?” he said finally.
“Georgiana’s mother, Lady Anne Darcy, was a healer. She said the herbs spoke to her. This garden is so old and full of herbs, I thought it would be fun to visit.”
Mr. Knightley absorbed that with skepticism. It did sound like a thin excuse, but if there was a scrap of truth in these stories of a great wyfe of healing, Nessy deserved that I find it.
The groomed walk became wandering, wild paths, each as likely to peter out as to open onto obscure bird baths or benches. The physic garden nestled beside the Thames and was lush even in the dead of winter. Some plants had been wrapped in muslin or canvas to protect against the cold, but there was no sign of caretakers and only an occasional glimpse of another walker.
We reached a fork in the path. “Which way?” I asked Nessy. She pulled her thin arm free of the blankets and waved it playfully, then pointed to the broader path, well-trod and gravel lined. I watched her happy smile and thought of Papa’s frustration when he could no longer walk unaided. When had she last chosen a left or right turn for herself?
