Lillian stared at him, her mind racing. A solicitor in London. Anonymous payment. The same pattern as the physician.
"How long will the repairs take?"
"Two days, three at most. We'll have her watertight by week's end, miss. You can count on that."
Lillian thanked him mechanically and returned to the house. Her mother was in the entrance hall, having been roused by the commotion, her expression a mirror of Lillian's own bewilderment.
"The roof," Mrs. Whitcombe said. "They are fixing the roof."
"Yes."
"Who..."
"I do not know." But the words felt like a lie even as she spoke them. She knew. Of course she knew. There was only one person who would do this, whocoulddo this, without revealing himself.
"Lillian." Her mother's voice was quiet, serious. "What is happening? First the physician, now this. Someone is helping us. Someone with considerable resources. Why?"
Lillian could not answer. Her throat was too tight, her eyes too bright with tears she refused to shed.
"It is the duke," Mrs. Whitcombe said. It was not a question. "The Duke of Wyntham. He is doing this."
"I believe so."
"Why?"
Lillian thought of the folly. The kiss. The way Daniel had looked at her when he saidyou have systematically dismantled every defence I have ever constructed.
"Because he cares," she said quietly. "And because this is the only way he knows how to show it."
Mrs. Whitcombe was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle.
"He loves you."
"I do not know if he would call it that."
"Perhaps not. But that does not change what it is." Her mother reached out and took Lillian's hand. "The question is, what do you feel for him?"
Lillian could not answer. Not because she did not know, but because the knowing was too enormous, too overwhelming to put into words.
"Go to him," Mrs. Whitcombe said. "Your father is stable. The household is managed. Go to the duke, and speak with him, and discover what this means for both of you."
"Mama..."
"I am not a fool, Lillian. I have seen how you look when you speak of him. I have seen the way you light up when you return from your visits to Wynthorpe Hall." She squeezed Lillian's hand. "You have spent your whole life being practical and sensible and resigned to whatever fate offers you. Perhaps it is time to want something for yourself."
Lillian felt the tears spill over at last; hot tracks down her cheeks that she did not bother to wipe away.
"What if I am wrong?" she whispered. "What if this is not what I think it is?"
"Then you will know. And knowing, even painful knowing, is better than uncertainty." Her mother smiled, a complicated expression that held both sorrow and hope. "Go, Lillian. Find your duke. And discover what is possible."
***
There was one more discovery to be made before Lillian could leave for Wynthorpe Hall.
She was in her room, changing into clothes suitable for calling on a duke, when a servant knocked with the day's post. Among the usual correspondence, a letter from a distant cousin, a bill from the apothecary, was an envelope addressed to her mother in an unfamiliar hand.
Lillian brought it downstairs and handed it to Mrs. Whitcombe, who opened it with trembling fingers.
