She was dressed in pink muslin with a green sash that made her skin seem almost translucent, a straw bonnet perched at the back of her head, the ribbons trailing loose. There were no jewels, no ornament. In the full sunlight, she appeared unprepared for society.
He wondered if she had done it for him.
“Will you walk?” he asked, offering his arm with minimal flourish.
She accepted, her hand cool and precise on his sleeve. Together they descended the slope, moving in tandem, neither speaking for several steps. The silence was companionable but not comfortable. It buzzed at the edges, demanding to be filled or acknowledged.
“You have been well?” he ventured, aware of the simplicity of the question.
“Well enough,” she replied. “And you?”
He considered. “No better, no worse.”
She smiled, thin and genuine. “We are perfectly matched in mediocrity.”
They approached a group of guests, two women in bright green and a clergyman. William felt the familiar sensation of being watched. The women fell silent as they approached, while the clergyman continued talking about the dangers of waterfowl in ornamental ponds. Helena nodded to the group with confidence, and William admired her for it.
As they passed, she whispered, “I hope you did not find my correspondence inappropriate.”
He suppressed three potential responses—too brief, too honest, too much—before settling on, “I found it precise.”
“That is not an answer.”
He allowed a faint smile. “It is as much as I can offer, here.”
She raised an eyebrow but remained silent. Their walk led them toward a folly, an artificial ruin surrounded by wild tulips, where the path narrowed and the crowd dispersed. It was here, out of easy earshot, that she let her hand drop from his arm.
“William,” she said, using his name with a familiarity only she allowed. “We should be cautious.”
“Of what?” He let the question linger.
“Of making promises neither of us can keep.”
He studied her profile, the curve of her cheekbone, the subtle tension at the corner of her mouth. “Is that what you want?” he asked quietly. “Promises?”
“No,” she replied firmly. “But I will not be a secret to manage.”
He exhaled, feeling the tightness in his chest ease slightly. “Nor would I ask it.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You are lying,” she said. “But I forgive you.”
He chuckled.
She smiled at him, then continued, “I wish us to be clear in our expectations. You are a rogue and I a widow with no desire to marry again. I do not wish for us to change.”
Before he could respond, a commotion erupted from the lower lawn. A spaniel chased a screaming child through a bed of hyacinths, scattering petals everywhere. The moment faded, and Helena stepped aside, resuming their walk.
It was then that the handkerchief fell, a piece of lace caught in the wind and drifting to the ground.
The handkerchief landed at Helena’s shoe. She stared at it for a moment, then bent to pick it up, her posture revealing more fatigue than the hour warranted. When she straightened, she found William’s gaze fixed not on the handkerchief but on her hands, the way she clutched the lace like a wounded bird.
He understood immediately that she was about to leave.
“Later,” she said.
He nodded his agreement.
She offered him a smile that was both an apology and a command, then walked back toward the house, her steps measured. He watched as she navigated through the guests, pausing only to murmur something to their hostess. The news of her sudden indisposition spread quickly. Lady Fairfax, stricken by the sun, would retire early. She pressed the handkerchief to her temple as she ascended the steps, appearing fragile.
