“Delicate,” Colonel Hartley scoffed.
“They are proud of their process,” James said gravely, his hand moving to the back of her chair. “One must respect the process.”
“One must want to throw the process into the nearest ditch.”
“Also that,” James agreed. “Both things can be true.”
Laughter rippled through the table. Isadora watched James’s face light up with mirth before looking down at her soup.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Pembroke leaned forward slightly. “I was hoping to ask about the walled section at the back of the kitchen garden. I do not know if you’ve had a chance to look at it yet, but the previous?—”
“The herb section,” Isadora cut in. “Yes, I’ve seen it. It needs attention, but the bones are good.”
“The previous housekeeper planted lavender along the south wall,” Mrs. Pembroke said warmly. “A most extraordinary amount of it. The whole kitchen smelled of it in August.”
“I’d like to restore it,” Isadora said, then stopped, slightly surprised by the certainty in her voice. “I mean, I think it would be worth restoring.”
“You should,” Mrs. Pembroke encouraged. “Ashbourne smells of old paper at present, which is… well…”
“My fault, I expect,” James piped up from Isadora’s left. “I have been in the study more than is probably advisable.”
“He has,” Isadora confirmed pleasantly. “The study is his natural habitat. We are working on broadening it.”
She had said it without thinking, and she felt the small collective pleasure of the table.
Lady Eversleigh was looking at her with undisguised satisfaction.
James went slightly still beside her. Only slightly. Only for a moment. Then he returned to Lord Eversleigh and resumed their conversation.
“The lavender,” she said to Mrs. Pembroke, a fraction too quickly. “Tell me about the south wall.”
Halfway through the second course, she realized James had moved her chair closer to his. She was not sure when it had happened, but she was closer to him than she had been at the start of the meal. Not so much. A few inches, perhaps. Except that his right hand was resting on the table beside his wine glass, and the arm of her chair was close enough to his that his proximity was… difficult to ignore.
He was speaking with Colonel Hartley about something, following the thread enough to appear present. His left hand moved to her chair and pulled it closer as he spoke, and then returned to rest on the table.
He had not looked at her. Apparently, he was not aware of having done it at all.
She looked down at her plate, feeling too warm.
The fire…Briggs built it too high.
The fire was at the other end of the room.
She reached for her wine and focused her full attention on Mrs. Pembroke and the question of the herb garden, which was an excellent topic that required no proximity to James and stirred no warmth whatsoever.
“I must say.” Lord Ashfield’s voice carried the comfortable authority of a man accustomed to being listened to, and the table gave him its attention. “Ashbourne feels different this evening.”
“How so?” James asked.
“Better,” Lady Eversleigh answered, before her husband could open his mouth. “It feels better, Reginald. Say what you mean.”
Lord Eversleigh accepted the correction with the equanimity of a long marriage. “Better,” he agreed. “For a while, it felt… I do not mean any disrespect to your predecessor, but it felt like a house waiting for something for years.” He raised his glass. “It has stopped waiting.”
“Hear, hear,” Colonel Hartley cheered.
Lady Eversleigh was looking at James and Isadora with the expression of a woman whose earlier assessment had been confirmed and who was pleased about it. “You suit each other,” she said. “I said it when I arrived, and I shall say it again nowsince I have had enough wine to be entirely honest and I am past the age of being indirect about things that are simply true.”
There was a small pause.
