“Right.” He did not immediately move.
Mrs. Plum appeared in the doorway with a blanket, went to drape it over Isadora’s lap, and left the room without comment.
James finally moved toward the door.
“James,” Isadora called softly.
He turned.
She looked down at Violet, who had dropped one small fist from her collar. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
He nodded once. “Good night, Isadora.”
With that, he left.
Isadora sat in the chair with the baby and the storm and the warm lamp and rocked.
She thought about the direction his eyes had moved for one unguarded second.
She thought about the warmth of his sleeve against her arm.
A small smile curved her lips.
* * *
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.”
“James.” Isadora looked at him across the breakfast table, the jar of milk she was holding tilted dangerously. “A fair.”
“The village fair,” he emphasized. “It’s an annual event. Henderson tells me my cousin attended every year without fail, which means the estate has a relationship with it, which means?—”
“You want to go to the fair.”
“I want to uphold an important tradition.”
“You do know that going to fairs means having fun.”
“I am not averse to having fun. I know how to have fun,” he stated, waving his bread knife at her. “Besides, Violet would enjoy it.”
“Violet is too small to even enjoy it.”
“She enjoys things. She enjoys finding sticks.”
“She enjoys sticks in general. That is a low standard for a public event.”
“There will be more sticks at the fair,” James said. “And other things. Colors and sounds and movement, all of which she responds well to.” He reached for the butter. “Also, I believe there is a pieman whom the tenants describe as extraordinary.”
“You want to go for the pies.”
“I want to go for several reasons, pies being one of them.” He glanced up. “Come with me.”
She looked at him, at the ease of his demeanor, at the complete absence of any sense that he might be refused.
“All right,” she acquiesced.
He smiled.
