It was, Harper had come to understand, how dinner always went. Not because anyone around the table was deliberately trying to make it difficult, but because the conversational instincts of the people in it were so fundamentally different from each other that order was less something to be maintained and more something to be periodically recovered.
He had stopped fighting it somewhere around the third week. He had not, however, stopped trying to steer it.
The dining room was warm and well lit. Joseph was to Harper’s left, eating his dinner with careful attention. He was quieter than usual, his eyes moving around the table in the watchful, interested way he had when he was taking things in rather than contributing to them. Harper had noticed this about his son in recent weeks, the way he sat at dinner and watched Temperance and Albina with the expression of someone observing something he found genuinely interesting.
“Some of the architecture in Paris,” Albina was saying, “is extraordinary. Entirely without function, obviously.” She looked at Temperance. “You would love it.”
“I would,” Temperance agreed.
“Spring,” Albina said. “You would have to go in spring. Summer is too hot and everything turns brown at the edges, which ruins the effect completely.”
Harper set down his fork with the patience of a man measuring it out in careful increments.
“The decision I need,” he said, to the table, “is whether we reinforce the existing foundation or replace the section entirely. The cost difference is significant, and I would prefer to make the right choice the first time rather than address it twice.”
“Reinforce,” said Joseph.
Everyone looked at him. He looked up from his plate, shyly.
“Why?” Harper said.
“The apple tree roots,” he said. “They go very deep in that section. Deeper than the wall itself, I think. If you dig it up you will have to take the roots with it, which means taking up a considerable amount of ground, which means the repair becomes much larger than the original problem.”
Harper looked at his son. “How do you know about the roots?”
“I was in the garden,” Joseph said. “The root structure is visible near the base if you know where to look. And then I read the estate records, and there was a note from the groundskeeper at the time saying the east wall foundation had been assessed and replacement was not recommended due to the root system of the established trees.”
Harper looked at his son for a moment. He had not known Joseph was reading the estate records. He had not suggested it, and it came as a surprise to him.
“The roots have been a problem since before Frederick’s time,” Albina added, as if confirming a long-established fact. “He had three men at it for a week once. They gave up in the end and put the section back the way it was.”
“Reinforce, then. I’ll tell Davies in the morning,” Harper nodded.
“Good,” Albina said. “Now. Temperance, what was the name of that book about the Italian gardens? I want to find the chapter on the water features because I have been thinking about the south end of our garden and I think there is something that could be done with the space near the old bench that would be very…”
“Mother. We are still at dinner,” Temperance said dismissively.
But Harper could not help but be fascinated by the conversation. It occurred to him that these women were interesting indeed, and that perhaps their influence was rubbing off on his son.
Which, to his surprise, he did not mind.
The second course arrived, and the conversation moved along. Harper found himself engaged, which was not something he could say about most dinner conversations.
“The east wing wants repainting,” Albina said. “That yellow has to go.”
“It really does,” Temperance agreed.
“I’ve been looking at it for three years. Every morning I come downstairs and it makes me feel slightly ill.”
“There is no need,” Harper interjected, “It does not require repainting.”
Both women looked at him.
“Oh, but why would you say that?” Albina argued. “I think it’s so very unfashionable, and one should always look to change.”
Joseph had been eating quietly through all of this, and spoke up for the first time.
“Fashion is inefficient,” he said, “The rules change every few years for no reason except that someone decides they should, and then everyone has to change everything they own, and the whole thing starts again.”
