She crossed to him again and put her hand to his chest, to that steady place. He covered her hand with his own. They dressed with the awkward grace of two people who had shared something large and were trying to fold it into garments and boots. When at last they stepped into the passage, the rain had thinned to a fine mist that only polished the world instead of drowning it.
Downstairs, Winston paid the bill and thanked the landlord with the kind of gratitude that makes no mention of what has been given and what taken. Outside, the ostler brought the horses, their coats brushed dry, and their manes roughly ordered. The orchard lay behind them, rows clean and sure in the grey light.
They rode toward London without pressing the pace, each marking the other’s seat for signs of discomfort and saying nothing about any that appeared. The city met them with its steady noise. At St. James’s Place, the house stood as it always had, clean as a bone against the street. Inside, Cordelia had eaten half an orange and declared herself bored. Louisa had built a village with cards and cushions and demanded stories for each house. Adeline and Winston supplied them gladly. The fire popped, the clock kept time.
The poisoner would be found. The truth would not be put off forever. For now, Adeline took Louisa’s hand and listened to Winston’s voice as he spun a tale about a Duke who got himself lost in an orchard, and a brave governess who found him by following the path of fallen apples. Louisa laughed in all the right places. Cordelia, eyes half-closed, smiled. The house breathed. Adeline let herself belong to it for one more hour.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cordelia declared herself fit at breakfast and waved away every caution the doctor had written on a card for her bedside.
“Fuss shortens a woman’s life faster than a chill,” she said, stirring sugar into her tea with more vigor than was necessary. “I was tired, not at death’s door. If I were at death’s door, I should have the manners to knock.”
Adeline smiled because Cordelia wished it. Winston did not. He watched his mother with a patience that had worry under it and put down his cup when a footman stepped in with several folded notes on a tray.
“From your man, Your Grace. Returned from his errand.”
Winston broke the seal on the first and read. A small breath left him, not quite relief, not quite anything else. He reached for the second missive and scanned the contents briefly.
“Oswald will meet me at Greystone,” he said, looking at no one and everyone. “He’s still visiting his relatives in the county. He asks that we come soon. And there’s this, too. Briarwood is restored.”
Cordelia’s spoon stilled. “Briarwood?”
“The south wing,” Winston said. “The builders have finished. You’ll be more comfortable there.” He glanced at Adeline. “You both will.”
Louisa, who had been counting sugared almonds into small piles of four, clapped once. “We’re going home?”
“Tonight,” Winston said. “If we can have the carriage ready.”
“Tomorrow,” Cordelia countered, eyes bright with mischief. “Tonight is for Vauxhall. I’ve no intention of leaving London without one last look at decent lights.”
Winston opened his mouth and closed it again. Cordelia raised an eyebrow.
“Mother,” he said, aiming at reason, “you have already visited Vauxhall Gardens and were unwell two nights ago.”
“I am suffering from ennui, my boy,” she replied. “Tonight, I shall be less bored. A little entertainment will improve my spirits.”
Louisa leaned across the table. “Please, Papa? The lamps! And the music! And the little boats with candles!”
Adeline caught Winston’s eye. “We can keep close to the entrance. An hour only.”
He hesitated. His servant had returned, Oswald had answered, and the city had shown its teeth. He ought to pack and go. Yet Cordelia was watching him as if refusing would be a blow he could spare with little effort. He looked down at the notes again, folded them once, and nodded. “Very well. One hour.”
Vauxhall was a blaze without heat, the kind of brightness that made people kinder for a time. Lamps hung like coins along the walks. Music drifted from the orchestra stand. Gentlemen stood in clusters, pretending not to look for ladies; ladies pretended not to see them. Vendors strolled with trays of trifles. Children darted in and out like swallows.
They kept their promise and stayed near the entrance. Cordelia took her seat with a view of everything. Louisa planted beside her on a bench; her hands knotted in excitement. Winston stood with his hand on the back of the bench, the protective posture so habitual that Adeline suspected he did not feel it at all.
“It’s pretty,” Louisa breathed. “Isn’t it, Adeline?”
“It is.” Adeline kept her voice even. She did not like crowds, but Cordelia’s color was better, and Louisa’s happiness was easy to bear. “Shall I fetch lemonade?”
“I’ll go,” Winston said.
“You’ll stay,” Cordelia said crisply. “Your knee informs the world when you’ve walked ten steps. Adeline can fetch. She will come straight back, and I shall scold her for delaying when she returns. Thus, everyone is satisfied.”
Adeline rose. It soothed Cordelia to command. “Two lemonades,” she said. “And a small cake if they have it.”
“For me,” Louisa added.
