Isadora looked at Violet with a smile.
“She is,” James said simply. “Without reservation.”
The reverend nodded. He held Archibald a moment longer, then placed him carefully on the cushion beside him and looked around the room.
“I should like to come back. Next month, if that is agreeable.”
“It is more than agreeable,” Isadora said warmly. “It is already expected. She will want to know about her mother when she has the words for it. She will want to know who Clara was, and you are the person to tell her.” She held his gaze steadily. “We cannot give her that. Only you can.”
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved through his expression that he did not attempt to conceal.
“Yes,” he said. “All right.”
Violet crawled back to him. She had abandoned Archibald on the cushion and was now holding both arms up with straightforward authority.
He lifted her.
She settled against his shoulder with the ease of a child who had been held enough to know how it was done, and pointed at the fire.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Very bright.”
She pointed at James.
“Yes,” he said again.
She babbled something at considerable length.
“I agree entirely.” He nodded.
James looked at Isadora, the corner of his mouth twitching. She hid her smile behind her teacup.
Violet yawned with her whole face. The reverend stood with some effort and carried her to Isadora.
“I think she is ready for a nap,” he said.
“She is past ready,” Isadora chuckled. “She has been pretending she was not for the last hour.”
She settled Violet against her shoulder and felt the familiar warmth of the baby’s cheek against her neck and the small fist curling into the fabric of her gown.
Violet did not fight sleep. She had, apparently, fought quite enough for one evening.
“Same time next month?” James suggested.
The reverend was quiet for a moment. Then: “Thank you.”
The words were very simple, but they carried everything.
After that, he left, the door closing quietly behind him.
* * *
Dinner was loud in the way dinners were when Letitia and William were both at the table, which was to say that it was warm and opinionated and moved at a pace that required attention.
Isadora leaned back in her chair, taking in the chaos.
“The soup,” Letitia said, “was exceptional. Wherever Mrs. Farrow is, I want her to know that.”
“Mrs. Farrow knows.” Isadora grinned. “She is constantly being told.”
