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"She made it for our mother," Albrecht said. "After Mother's death, Friedrich kept it among her belongings. I found it years afterward and could not bear to dispose of it."

Elizabeth opened to a pressed rose, its petals turned brown with age. Minna had described it as the first to bloom against the west wall.

"Mama loved roses," she said. "Papa said she could coax a bloom from the least promising thorn."

"She loved them at Falkenried too," Albrecht answered. "And Friedrich always claimed she stole his best cuttings."

Elizabeth traced the word west. Her mother had spoken of English roses without ever remembering the gardens of her childhood, yet she had brought the preference across the sea with her. What else had survived in the quiet habits of daily life?

Albrecht turned to a sketch of three children beneath a tree. "She drew us as she wished us to be. Friedrich much taller than he was, me considerably handsomer, and herself standing between us with the crown of flowers she insisted we make."

"You must tell me about the day," Elizabeth said.

He did. He remembered a summer picnic, strawberries eaten before the servants could arrange them, and Minna's indignation when Friedrich declared the flower crown would not survive a ride home. It had not survived, but she had worn it until every petal fell.

Elizabeth listened with an ache that was not wholly sorrow. Each story enlarged the world in which her mother had once been happy. It also reminded her that Albrecht's grief did not make him fragile. He could laugh at the foolishness of a sister he had lost, and laughter was perhaps a way of loving her still.

As he prepared to leave, he glanced toward the wedding silks lying upon a sofa.

"You are afraid I shall be lonely when you marry," he said.

Elizabeth felt herself colour. "A little."

"Do not be," he answered. "I have children, a home, and duties enough to occupy several lives. I have gained the right to know you, not the right to arrange your happiness. I hope you and Mr. Darcy will be very happy."

"And will you visit us?"

"Whenever I can persuade myself to cross the sea again. I suspect the next journey will seem shorter."

When Elizabeth mentioned Ashcombe Park, he asked whether he might send a book for the journey. She refused with laughter, telling him she had already packed twice as many as Mrs. Ashby would tolerate.

"Then enjoy yourself," he said in English as Lady Matlock entered. "You must not suppose I came to England to deprive you of the pleasure of being young."

That evening Adelheid paid a farewell call. She complimented Elizabeth upon her engagement, expressed regret that she herself had not had much opportunity to join the younger people in their amusements, and presented a tiny lace handkerchief which she said came from Germany.

"I hope you will think of us kindly during your visit," Adelheid said.

"Of course," Elizabeth answered. "You have been very generous."

"It is easy to be generous to someone who has brought my husband so much happiness."

Elizabeth thanked her warmly. She noticed that Adelheid's hand was cold when they parted, and attributed it to the approaching autumn.

In the carriage afterward, Adelheid kept her gloves on although the evening was mild. The final message from Vogel had arrived that afternoon. It contained the name of the driver and a brief assurance that the intended journey would not proceed without an interruption. Adelheid had read the letter once, hidden it beneath the lining of her writing case, and forced herself to sit through an hour of polite conversation with the girl it concerned.

She had not expected Elizabeth to be so kind. Nor had she expected that kindness to matter.

"You were quiet," Albrecht said as they drove home.

"I have a headache."

"You have had too many of them since we arrived. Shall I send for a physician?"

"No. I only need rest."

He rested a hand over hers. "When Elizabeth returns, we shall invite the Matlocks to supper. I should like our acquaintance to become something ordinary, with arguments over books and complaints about the weather. I am tired of living only among tragedies."

Adelheid turned her face toward the darkened window. Ordinary happiness had been within her reach once, before she had tried to secure it forever. She almost told him to stop the carriage, to turn back, to admit that she was afraid of something she could not explain.