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Something cold and desperate flickered in his eyes, here and gone before Sofia could adjust to its presence. “It's just one document, Sofi. Once you have it, we’ll go. Somewhere warm, where it doesn't rain every other day. We’ll be together, safe and comfortable. I’ll take care of you, just like I always promised I would. And the duke will never miss what we take.”

Sofi looked away. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“All right, little flea. I’ll let it alone for now. I do not wish to upset you. You’re all I have. All I have ever had, really, and I love you so dearly.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “When can you come back and visit again?”

Sofi nibbled on her lower lip as she considered. “Next weekend, probably, but there may be an afternoon when the children’s lessons finish early and I can visit in the evening.”

Oliver’s lips pressed together in a flat line. “I don’t want you wandering the woods at night. There may be poachers. It’s bad enough you are working in that great house completely unprotected. English aristocrats are infamous for taking advantage of their servants. We know what kind of fiend Northam’s father was, and selfish cads beget more selfish cads.”

“I think you’re wrong about the Ansons, Oliver. And even if you aren’t, blackmailing the duke will destroy every member of his family. Is that really what you want?”

Oliver folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “I’m not going to destroy them, only lighten their coffers a bit. And I thought you didn’t want to talk about this?”

“I didn’t. I don’t. Just think about it Oliver. I should get back. They are going to miss me if I am away much longer.” Standing on her toes, Sofia kissed his cheek.

“Be careful, little flea.”

“Stop calling me that,” Sofia said, attempting to shape her lips into a smile she didn’t feel.

The return home took twice as long, her energy reserves depleted by both exertion and the haunting unease that crept up her spine at the memory of Oliver’s determined expression. He had been stubborn even before he left home, but there was a hardness present in his eyes since returning that she could not recognise. His gripping dependency upon alcohol only added to her disquiet. On their way to England, even when Sofia had gone to sleep hungry, somehow Oliver had found the means to fill his belly with drink.

Still pondering, Sofia opened the door to her room and froze. Two. There were now two pear trees basking in the afternoon light. To pollinate, she realised. An unwanted smile slipped past her frustration, and then she started laughing, her body shaking with the force of it as she covered her lips with splayed fingers. Sofia sucked in a breath of pear-scented air and all her tense muscles fell slack, her worries temporarily evaporating beneath the sweet fragrance and the ridiculousness of Christopher P Keene.

Sofia stroked a finger across the velvety skin of a pear, plucked it from its branch, and brought it to her nose. God, it had been so long since she had laughed, since her heart had served a purpose beyond its rudimentary function. She’d thought that Oliver’s return would usher happiness back into her life. Instead, the joy that had grown in her chest with his return had fallen flat again within hours of his arrival, and he’d brought with him only the promise of more grief.

But she wasn’t the same bewildered young girl who remained sobbing in their front garden long after Oliver had turned his back and walked away. Her misfortunes had made her stronger, and she’d learned she needn’t depend upon other people to bring her joy or fix her problems.

She would convince Oliver of the wrongness of his plan. And in the meantime, she would focus on what mattered—the children and her work. She would save every coin she could and disregard any feelings of comfort or happiness that did not derive from those things. Sofia allowed herself only a moment of melancholy before she embraced the truth—there was no place in her life for Christopher or his pear trees.

Five

Fighting back her exhaustion and ignoring her rumbling stomach, Sofia lifted the hem of her skirts and scurried through the upper halls, down the stairs, and out the door into the front garden, determined to reach Zach before he vanished again. True to her word, Sofia had tried to find and speak with Zachariah after returning from town. Twice, a servant had assured her that he could be found in a certain location, and twice, she had arrived to find that location vacant.

The sun slinked lazily towards the horizon as Sofia travelled the path to the stables. A young gardener paused in his pruning to give a friendly nod, and in the distance, she could hear the squabbling of geese.

When she had arrived yesterday, the grandness of the estate and the obvious care that went into its maintenance had overshadowed the quaintness. Now, she noticed the vibrant colours of the mismatched plants that grew snuggled alongside one another, and saw all the spaces left to grow in their natural state, beautiful and untamed. It occurred to Sofia then how much the estate seemed to mimic the family who resided there.

Sofia slowed her steps as she approached the stables, keeping her eyes trained on the young man whose expression grew increasingly wary as she walked closer. As if she were a cold gust of wind, he stiffened, then tucked his knees into his chest. He had the build of a boy who had grown tall far too quickly for his muscles to keep pace. A vegetable sprout, all stalk with very few leaves.

He rose to his feet, but instead of greeting her, he turned his back and planted his elbows on the fence railing. His long fingers tunnelled into his guinea-gold hair. Sofia stopped, watching the unnaturally rapid rise and fall of his shoulders.

Sofia, who had felt awkward and out of step since arriving in England, experienced a sudden jolt of empathy for this boy. She longed to provide him with a fraction of the calm she wished she could find for herself. “I hear the English like to talk about the weather when they have nothing more pertinent to say,” she began. “Although, quite frankly, from what I have seen of your skies, it must be a brief conversation because the answer is always ‘grey.’ Murky grey. Blotchy grey. Hazy grey. Mottled grey. Like a string quartet that only knows one song, really, and a tedious one at that. That may be precisely what makes it an easy way to begin a conversation, I suppose. It requires very little consideration. Do you think it will rain? England seems to exist under constant threat of storms.”

Sometime amidst her rambling, Zachariah had turned, but now he was staring just over her shoulder in the direction of the manor. Whether plotting his exit or offering some partial nod towards civility, she couldn’t tell. Sofia followed his lead, feigning interest in the goat stables and attempting to appear indifferent to his part of the conversation … or lack thereof. She continued on to fill his silence.

“And from there, it’s an easy transition into the state of the roads. Which, after travelling from the Peninsula, I’m rather an expert at. Muddy and lumpy most days, in case you are curious. And on the rare occasion where the weather remains dry and grey instead of wet and grey, they become dusty and lumpy.” She shrugged. “If forced to choose between the two, I think my preference leans more towards dusty and lumpy.”

“Roads aren’t lumpy. Old feather beds are,” Zachariah mumbled.

Maintaining an impassive expression, Sofia reconsidered her word choice. “Gnarled, then? Crumbly? Curdled?” Sofia searched her vocabulary for more slightly incorrect words. “Scratchy?”

Zachariah smirked at the grass beneath his boots. “Those would be descriptions of tree bark, hard cheese, old milk, and unshaven beards … respectively.”

She winced. “It would be a great favour to me if you would help me with my English while I teach you a bit of maths and Italian. Perhaps then I wouldn’t find myself in a near-constant state of embarrassment.” Sofi meandered towards the fence and leaned against a wooden post. She watched a goat kid determinedly follow his mother, who seemed disinclined towards maternal tasks at the moment. The doe hopped this way and that as he zigzagged after her. Eventually, she cut the kid an annoyed glare and allowed him to nurse.

“What’s that one’s name? The pushy little lad.”

“Pumpkin Pulp.”