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She recognized that for what it was: She’d fallen quite top over tail for the home farmer, with his easy smile and contradictory manners and adorably mischievous lamb. She felt certain he was fond of her, though how far that fondness went, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Teviotbrae, though, wasn’t London. While days seemed to fly past in a ceaseless whirlwind in Town, this peaceful corner of the kingdom felt abundant with time for pondering and sorting mysteries and discovering joy.

They stopped at the home farm only long enough to put Shadow in her pen and stable the pony. They then walked to Burnwick House, Cordelia carrying her art supplies and Sebastian carefully carrying her painting. Their conversation was not nearly so personal or revealing as the one they’d had in the meadow. But it was every bit as welcome. How easily she could imagine herself spending day after day in just this way.

As they turned down the lane leading to the back of the house, Cordelia caught sight of her parents walking along the same path toward her and Sebastian. They were not alone; the laird was with them.

“They’ve returned early,” Cordelia said. “I wonder if that portends good or ill.”

They would know soon enough. The three new arrivals spotted Cordelia and Sebastian. Even from a distance, their disapproval was apparent. Why should they be upset? They had returned early and couldn’t possibly have been expected to be greeted upon their arrival. If anything unpleasant had happened in Edinburgh, that could not be laid at the feet of two people who hadn’t even been present.

Mother spoke the moment she was near enough to do so without raising her voice, something she had always insisted was uncouth. “Wandering about? Without your maid with you?”

“I do not have a maid, Mother.” Cordelia never argued with her parents. She certainly never defended herself to them. But the criticism had been launched without warning.

“Any maid would have been more appropriate than”—Mother’s eyes darted to Sebastian—“a man to whom you are not related.”

“He is carrying my painting for me,” Cordelia said. “It was a kindness, and—”

Father spoke over her. “How many times have we told you of the need to balance this … interest of yours with what is right and proper?”

“There is nothing improper in painting,” Cordelia insisted.

Clearly taken aback, Mother whispered harshly, “This boldness is unbecoming, Cordelia.”

“Sebastian, give the offending item to Mr. Wakefield.” The laird sounded as displeased as Mother and Father. “And as you return to the home farm, give some thought to whether neglecting your duties there will serve your best interest going forward. Farmers, after all, can be replaced.”

It took every bit of self-control Cordelia had not to speak up in his defense. He was not simply replaceable. And he never neglected his land, his animals, or his neighbors. For the laird to lob that accusation at him was utterly unfair. But she could sense her defense would only make matters worse.

Her painting was given to Father. Mother took possession of Cordelia’s box of art supplies.

“Inside the house,” Father told her, his voice snapping.

She’d not thought her time spent drawing and painting was as inappropriate as her parents clearly thought. Spending time alone with Sebastian did, she admitted, push the bounds of propriety. But her parents were always so careful to present a calm and unruffled front to anyone of significance. Scolding her so harshly in front of the laird was not something they would have done for a minor infraction.

Cordelia silently followed her parents, completely at a loss. They moved directly to the sitting room where the family passed their days. Seraphina was inside, watching with concern.

“I didn’t tell them,” she whispered to Cordelia.

Without a word, Father tossed the watercolor painting directly into the low-burning fire.

Seraphina gasped. Cordelia was too shocked to do anything but stare in horrified silence.

Mother tugged the bell pull, then turned to face her daughters. “We have spent these past days salvaging this family’s standing, reclaiming opportunities for the two of you. Imagine our shock upon returning to discover that our eldest daughter is gadding about the countryside with … a farmer.”

Cordelia despised the way her mother spat that word out, as if there was something shameful in what Sebastian did. She was fully aware that Sebastian’s station in life was considered significantly beneath hers. But her family, as far as she knew, was on painfully thin ice, financially. They had fled the very Society that would have rejected Sebastian because they could no longer afford to mingle with them. Who were they to look down on him?

The fire continued to consume Cordelia’s painting. She watched the flames curl around it, and her heart sank further and further.

“The laird knows all the important families in the surrounding counties,” Father said. “He means to invite them, a few at a time, to Teviot Castle and introduce us. Seeing how you conduct yourself while we are away might very well lead him to change his mind.”

“For your sake and your sister’s,” Mother said, “we can only hope he does not.”

“I merely painted a local meadow.” Cordelia tried to keep her voice steady, knowing her parents did not care for displays of emotion. “And the home farmer carried it for me because it was wet, and I was struggling with it.” She had no intention of telling them she’d been with him all day, indeed had spent portions of every day with him since they had left for Edinburgh.

“Young ladies are permitted an interest in art. But that interest ought never be allowed precedence in the life of a lady of standing. Fill quiet hours, yes. Allow for reflection and an appreciation for nature, certainly. But to go out of one’s way to spend all one’s time in … art”—Father never could say that word in connection with her in any tone other than indignation— “is vulgar. And now it has led you to behave with little care for your reputation. Even if this farmer were the laird himself, spending time alone in his company would still be inappropriate.”

Cordelia couldn’t entirely argue with that, though she took exception to the assertion that the time she spent on her art was excessive. What else was she to do in Teviotbrae? Her parents disapproved of socializing with the local people beyond polite words of greeting at church or the market square. She had no friends here that they would approve of. There were none of the diversions of London.

Glenna McCrory arrived in the room, no doubt having been sent to answer the bell Mother had pulled earlier. She dipped a quick curtsey and awaited her instructions.

Mother held out the box of artistic implements she still held. “Destroy this.”

Seraphina grasped Cordelia’s arm, holding it tightly but not saying a word. Cordelia couldn’t breathe, could hardly think. These supplies had been obtained in London, and at some cost. They could not be replaced.

“Don’t dally,” Mother said firmly. “See that they are destroyed entirely.”

Glenna took the box, brow pulled. “Yes, ma’am,” she said quietly. She slipped from the room, having received instruction from one who had the ability to take away her employment. There was no question of not obeying the command.

“Oh, Cordelia,” Seraphina whispered, emotion cracking her words.

For her part, Cordelia couldn’t have spoken even if she’d thought her parents would have permitted it.

“There will be no more untoward behavior,” Father said. “From either of you. I suggest you sort yourselves out quickly. The laird anticipates guests at the castle within the week.”

Cordelia hadn’t the least bit of enthusiasm. Her heart ached. Her parents had taken her from London, the only home she had ever known. And they had just robbed her of her art, the means by which she had begun to feel at home in Teviotbrae. The contretemps on the back pathway likely meant there was no real hope of having Sebastian’s company again, not in the same way.

What had been such a wonderfully joyous day was ending in heartbreaking sorrow.