“Now,” Lavinia said, “we must begin our lesson. I believe we left off at the matter of tea service, but today we shall attempt a full conversation, as if we were in the finest drawing room in London.”
Sophia’s brow creased. “Must I remember all the rules?”
“Only the important ones,” Lavinia replied. “Such as: never ever discuss politics unless you are prepared to fight a duel on the spot with the strictest of matrons.”
Sophia giggled, her nerves seemingly melting away. “But ladies do not duel.”
“Precisely,” Lavinia said. “That is why we are the cleverer sex.”
They set up their lesson on the low table, Lavinia pouring the tea, and Sophia arranging the biscuits. Lavinia prompted her through the correct forms of address, the protocols for refusing a scone, and the subtleties of polite disagreement.
Sophia took it all in, but her attention was divided: Whisper, now emboldened by his ribbon, leaped onto the table and promptly knocked over an empty teacup. The sound was not so much a crash as a small, dignified thud, but Sophia gasped anyway.
“Whisper!” Sophia scooped up the cat. “You mustn’t interrupt a lady at tea!”
“Quite right,” Lavinia said, “even feline gentlemen must observe the rules of etiquette.”
Whisper submitted to further snuggling, this time in Sophia’s lap, and the lesson resumed. If Lavinia’s voice shook, neither Sophia nor the kitten remarked on it. She steered the conversation to softer topics, letting Sophia ramble about her latest watercolors, her plans for the Rowsons’ assembly, and her certainty that Whisper would one day learn to sit for a portrait.
The afternoon wore on, and Lavina wondered if she would remember every detail: the warmth of Sophia’s hands, the set of her mouth when she concentrated, the way her eyes glimmered when she said something terribly clever and then tried to hide her satisfaction. Lavinia wondered if she would remember the exact shade of blue on the ribbon, or if it would blur in memory, the way so many other lovely things had blurred.
You are cataloguing the moment,she thought.You are making a reliquary of the ordinary, so that when it is gone, you will not be empty.
As the lesson wound down and the last of the biscuits had been consumed, Lavinia nudged Whisper into his basket. The kitten, for once, did not protest, but curled himself into a ball.
“Lady Lavinia?” Sophia’s voice was small and almost hesitant, as though she had sensed that something was wrong. “Will you come tomorrow, too?”
Lavinia set down her cup and drew in a breath that seemed too large for the room. “Sophia,” she said, taking the girl’s hands between her own, “I have something important to tell you.”
Sophia’s brow puckered. “Is it a secret?”
Lavinia managed to smile. “Not exactly. But it is…difficult. Today will be our last lesson together.”
Sophia’s mouth dropped open, and for a second, she simply stared, as if trying to force the words to reverse themselves. “But… but… why?” Her hands trembled in Lavinia’s. “Have I been dreadful?”
“No, darling,” Lavinia said, heart breaking with every word. “You have been the most wonderful student I could hope for. It is only that—” She steeled herself. “I am to be married next week, to Lord Dawnford. I must move away from Evermere. There are many arrangements to make.”
The silence was a living thing. Sophia pulled her hands away and pressed them to her mouth, then looked down at Whisper in hisbasket, as if the answer might be found in the cat’s unintelligible gaze.
“But you can’t,” she said, and there was a desperation in her voice that made Lavinia want to weep. “Who will help me with Whisper? Who will tell me about poetry, or music, or how to talk at balls? Who will—” She stopped, and her breath hitched. “Who will make Father smile again?”
The last question struck so deep that Lavinia almost lost her composure entirely. She reached for Sophia, pulling the girl into her lap, holding her tight as the child began to sob in earnest.
“Listen to me, Sophia,” Lavinia whispered into her hair, stroking the brown curls as if she could calm the storm within. “You are so brave, and so clever, and even if I may not be your mother, I will always care for you. Always. And you may visit me whenever you wish. I should like that very much.”
Sophia buried her face in Lavinia’s shoulder, and Lavinia rocked her, the way she had once done for Frances on nights when the world felt unkind and the dark too large.
“It won’t be the same,” Sophia sobbed. “It will never be the same.”
“No,” Lavinia said, her own voice thick. “It won’t. But some things must change, even when we wish they wouldn’t.”
For a long time, neither moved. Whisper, sensing a break in the rules, climbed out of his basket and wedged himself between them, purring so loudly that it was almost comical.
Eventually, Sophia’s sobs dwindled to hiccups. She pulled away, her eyes red and raw, but her grip on Lavinia’s sleeve did not ease. “Is Lord Dawnford agreeable?” she asked with the blunt honesty of children.
Lavinia hesitated. “He is…kind enough,” she said, not knowing whether to lie or not. Her throat burned, so she just pressed a kiss to Sophia’s brow and held her.
Movement at the door caught her eye, and Lavinia looked up to see Tristan standing on the threshold, half-shadowed by the hall. She had no idea how long he had been there, but his face was as closed and expressionless as a stone.
