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“I did not know any of that,” Nathaniel said. Laura watched his face soften, the usual sternness fading away. “Seven Geralds seems excessive, even for a lucky beetle.”

“There could be more Geralds! We haven’t finished the border.” Iris speared a potato with great ceremony. “Laura says I’m better at digging than she is. She keeps planting them too deep, and Mr. Whipp keeps fixing them.”

“I resent that,” Laura piped up. “I am improving.”

“You are not,” Iris snorted.

Nathaniel let out a laugh—a short, surprised sound, as if it had escaped without his permission. Laura found herself savoring the lapse in control.

“Why Gerald?”

“Why not Gerald?” Laura teased.

Iris giggled. Even Nathaniel’s lips twitched.

“There are many wrong things with that answer,” he said as the soup course was served. “And yet I find I have no appropriate counter for it.”

“A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet,” Iris argued confidently.

“Well said! And tell me, Iris,” Laura said as she picked up her spoon. “Does Mr. Whipp have opinions on daffodils as strong as his opinions on tulips?”

“Oh yes, very strong opinions. He says daffodils are common and everyone plants them, and he’d rather have something nobody else’s garden has.” Iris paused. “I told him tulips aren’t uncommon, and he told me I was cheeky.”

“A cheeky diplomat,” Nathaniel drawled. “You’ll be running the estate within the year.”

“I should like that very much,” she said, lifting her spoon to her lips with a smile.

“I have no doubt about it.”

The soup was finished and cleared away. Next came the fish course, a steamed cod with lemon and herbs.

“Do horses dream, Uncle Nathaniel?” Iris asked as she took her first bite.

“I believe they do. My first horse, Maddox, used to twitch in his sleep, as though he were still running somewhere.”

“Running where?”

“I never asked him.”

Iris dissolved into giggles.

Nathaniel answered every one of her following questions with more patience than Laura had ever seen him spend on anything. She caught herself watching him intently, noting how his shoulders had lowered just slightly. Her ears reveled in the low, warm timbre of his voice when he spoke to his niece.

Eventually, Iris steered them somewhere none of them had braced for.

“Laura,” she said around a mouthful of bread during the main course, swallowed when Nathaniel gave her a look, and tried again. “Laura, what was your mama like?”

The air went very still.

Laura set her fork with care. She took up her napkin and dabbed at her lips, taking a moment to collect herself.

“Well, my mother passed away when I was very young,” she began, keeping her tone light the way she’d learned to do over the years so it wouldn’t invite too many questions. “I don’t remember her, unfortunately. Though sometimes when I dream, I can hear her humming.”

“Did she die like my mama did?” Iris’s small face had gone serious, clearly trying to understand something too big for a child. “Was she sick for a long time?”

“She died when I was born,” Laura said gently. “So, I never truly had her.”

Iris was silent for a long moment, her bread forgotten on her plate, and then her chin began to wobble. “That’s the saddest thing I have ever heard. You didn’t even get to know her voice!” Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over. “I don’t remember Mama’s voice anymore either. I try and try, but it’s faded, like a dream you forget by morning. I’m scared that one day I won’t remember it at all, and then she’ll really be gone.”