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“Was a physician called?”

“I did not require one.”

“Then why did you let Hollis write?”

“Because I required you.” She reached for a biscuit, broke it, and left both halves on the plate. “I did not intend to frighten you.”

“What did you suppose would bring me here so quickly?”

She had no immediate reply.

“For God’s sake, Mother, I spent the entire journey wondering whether I would arrive in time to find you alive. Every mile, I imagined something worse. And here you sit, drinking chocolate.”

His mother lowered her eyes to her cup. “I’m sorry, Tristan. I did not think⁠—”

“No. You did not.”

Tristan worked at the fastening of one glove, failed to free it, and pulled the glove off by the fingers. The anger was easier to bear than the relief beneath it. He had never been so grateful to find someone had deceived him, nor so furious at being made grateful.

He sat before she could tell him to do so again.

“You might have written,” he said, “that you wished to speak with me.”

“You would have answered that you were occupied. You have been occupied for eleven days, I understand. Collins told Whitmore, and Whitmore told Hollis, and Hollis, being a sensible man, told me. The gate in the lower meadow has been replaced.”

“It needed replacing.”

“So you mentioned in March.” She opened a drawer. “Lord Pembroke called on Tuesday. He made it plain that his daughter is not to wait indefinitely while we discuss whether you might change your mind. Harrington is calling on her. He is welcome in the house, and she appears to like him.”

She laid a folded packet on the blotter. Across the top sheet, in her solicitor’s hand, were Tristan’s name and Lydia’s. Below them lay a letter discussing a marriage license. He read far enough to see that inquiries had been made and the particulars collected. No application had yet been sworn.

“You have engaged a solicitor.”

“We already employ one. I have given him something useful to do.”

“Concerning a marriage I have declined.”

“Concerning a marriage you may wish to consider before someone else offers her one.” She pushed the packet toward him. “The preparations need not oblige either of you. Lord Pembroke was particular about that.”

Tristan left the papers untouched. His name had been written above Lydia’s in a neat legal hand. He wondered how often his mother had unfolded the sheet before he arrived, and whether she had practiced this conversation over it.

“Does Lady Lydia know?”

“Her father wished to speak to you first.”

“Then put it away. I do not want it.”

“You want it very much. You have wanted it for eleven days and disguised the wanting as a drainage survey.”

“You presume to know what I want.”

“I know what you look like when you are happy, Tristan. I had almost forgotten.”

He looked away.

“I saw you with her. You laughed. You sought her company when you might easily have avoided it. And when she left, you buried yourself in work as though you could undo whatever you had begun to feel.”

“You mistake ordinary courtesy for something more.”