Lavinia watched her for a moment, then said, “Lady Sophia, do you know what else is undisciplined?”
Sophia shook her head, not looking away from the kitten.
“Love,” Lavinia said.
Sophia’s lips parted, as if she might say something, but instead she pressed her cheek against the edge of the basket.
They were quiet for a time. Then, without warning, Sophia said, “Lady Lavinia, may I tell you something?”
“You may tell me anything, my dear,” Lavinia said.
“My mother—” The words hung, unfinished, and Sophia’s fingers tightened on the basket’s rim. “I never knew her. Father says she loved me very much, but she died before I could remember.”
Lavinia nodded and stroked the girl’s hair.
“There is only one portrait of her in Father’s study, but not anywhere in the house. I asked once why that is so, and Father was angry, and after that I did not ask again.” Sophia’s voice dropped to a whisper.
Lavinia reached out and took Sophia’s hand. It was cold, but it gripped hers with surprising strength.
“Sometimes,” Sophia continued, “I think I am not good enough for him. I am not clever or brave. I do not know how to talk to people. I do not even know how to be a proper daughter. I am—” she struggled for the word, “—insufficient.”
Lavinia squeezed the hand she held. “You are not insufficient,” she said, and the certainty in her voice startled her. “You are simply yourself, and that is all anyone can be.”
Sophia’s breath shuddered, and she blinked rapidly.
“Would you like to hear a secret?” Lavinia said.
Sophia nodded.
“I was a terrible disappointment to my mother. I did not care for music, or embroidery, or any of the things she prized. I wanted only to read books and ride horses and be left to my own devices. She called me stubborn and impossible, but she loved me all the same. Sometimes love is not tidy, or gentle. Sometimes it is just there, no matter how much you think you do not deserve it.”
Sophia stared at her, her eyes large and hopeful.
“Your father loves you,” Lavinia murmured. “But he may not know how to show it.”
Sophia’s mouth twisted. “He never says it.”
“Some people do not know how to say what they feel,” Lavinia said. “But they show it in other ways. In every lesson, in every small gift, in every time he does not interfere in your happiness.”
Sophia’s eyes dropped to the basket. “Do you think he will let me keep him? Whisper?”
“I cannot say,” Lavinia replied. “But I can say this: if you wish to fight for him, you will not be alone.”
Sophia looked up, something fierce and wild in her gaze. “Will you help me?”
Lavinia smiled. “I have never backed down from a good cause.”
They sat for a while longer, Sophia whispering secrets to the kitten, Lavinia listening and pretending not to. The sun crept behind gray clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance, as if to tell them that it was at last time to return to the house.
As they stepped outside, Sophia paused, then turned and flung her arms around Lavinia’s waist. It was a quick, desperate hug, as if the impulse might not survive a moment’s doubt.
“Thank you,” she said, voice muffled in Lavinia’s dress.
Lavinia patted her back, surprised by the force of her own emotion.
They crossed the garden together, and as they neared the house, Lavinia glanced up at one of the windows.
Tristan stood there with his arms folded, and his face was a study in conflicting sentiments. Their eyes met.
