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She smiled at him, but before he could approach, Whitmore arrived with a question about a carriage. By the time the matter was settled, the Fairchilds had gone into the drawing room. Tristan stepped outside. Near the garden wall, Lydia sat on a bench with her collecting case beside her. Henry stood beside her, holding a small branch. “This one?”

Lydia examined the leaves. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. I was beginning to fear you meant a different tree altogether.”

She laughed and made room for it beside her collecting case. Henry turned as Tristan approached. “Your Grace. I have been put to work.”

“So I see.”

Tristan glanced at Lydia’s foot. It rested on a cushion placed at the end of the bench. “How is it?”

“Better while I am sitting.”

“Then remain sitting.”

“I have been. Henry will confirm it.”

“Under protest,” her brother said. “I brought her outside on the condition that she would let the plants come to her.”

“How obliging of them.”

“It has required some assistance.”

Henry indicated the collecting case. A few leaves lay on a clean sheet of paper beside it. Lydia touched the edge of one. “Samuel said he would bring another cutting when he had finished.”

“Where is he?”

“In the greenhouse.”

The greenhouse door stood open beyond a short stretch of level gravel.

“There is a chair inside. If you wish to speak to him, it would save him coming back and forth.”

Lydia glanced at the distance. “I could manage that.”

Henry frowned at her foot. “Slowly.”

“I had not intended to run.”

Tristan offered his arm. Henry helped her rise and waited until she was steady before retrieving her case. “I can carry that,” Tristan said.

“I shall put it inside. Then I have promised to find Mother.”

Henry went ahead. Lydia took one careful step, then another. Tristan matched her pace and kept his eyes on the path. At a shallow break in the gravel, she stopped and changed her footing.

“Shall we turn back?”

“No. A moment.”

After a few seconds she nodded, and they continued. It was a short walk. He attended to every inch of it without once offering to carry her. The greenhouse heat met them at the door. Damp earth thickened the air; green scents sharpened and softened as they passed each bench. Yet amid the moisture and humidity Tristan found himself acutely aware of Lydia’s hand resting on his sleeve, the faint pressure of her fingers against his arm, and the warmth of her beside him.

Inside, the world narrowed to glass and leaves. Condensation blurred the lawns beyond the panes. The formal house disappeared behind green growth that ignored symmetry: vines reaching for wire, seedlings crowded in rows, broad leaves turned toward whatever light they could find. Lydia relaxed almost at once. Tristan watched her shoulders ease and felt, absurdly, that he had brought her somewhere private, though the room was staffed by a gardener.

Samuel straightened from his work. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Lydia hoped you might show her the cuttings you were selecting for her.”

“Not much to show just now.”