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He turned to look at her.

“Five years, Tristan. I have watched you go through the motions of living for five years. I have watched you refuse invitations, avoid your friends, and find a hundred reasons to remain alone. And then that girl arrived, and for four days I saw something in you I thought I might never see again.” She hesitated for just a second. “I cannot bear watching you throw away another chance at happiness because you believe you have no right to it.”

For a moment, he could think of nothing to say. She had spoken of Eleanor without naming her, and he hated that she understood him so well.

He went upstairs without answering. In his room he laid the packet on the table and opened the window. A carriage drew up in the square; two women laughed as a gentleman helped them down. The evening went on without taking any notice of the decision his mother had put before him.

He sat at the writing desk and began an apology for being unable to call. Halfway through the first line he stopped. He had no engagement to prevent him calling on her. He spoiled the sheet with a hard stroke of the pen and took another, asking Lady Pembroke whether half past four would suit, if her daughter still wished to walk. Before sealing it, he added that he looked forward to seeing Lady Lydia. He read that last sentence once and left it.

Downstairs, he gave Hollis the note himself. The man’s relief was almost painful to witness. Tristan thanked him for sending the letter about his mother and made it clear that the fault had not been his. Only when he returned to his room did he discover that he had left the botanical volume at Ashcombe. He had meant to bring it, without once admitting that he wished to see her.

CHAPTER TEN

By Thursday afternoon the poor mint plant had been moved four times, and Lydia had run out of plausible reasons for its constant relocation. It stood on the drawing-room sill, where it received morning light without the glare that had scorched its lower leaves on Tuesday. She was learning how to keep it in a London house. The knowledge gave her pleasure even when she managed not to think about the man who had sent it with her.

She sat down at the table beneath the window with the drawing she had been meaning to finish for a fortnight. The apple mint had come out well, and in the lower left corner she had written the place and the date in the small square hand she used for all her labels, after which she had stared at the word Ashcombe for a length of time that a serious botanist would have found unscientific.

“You have not drawn a stroke since I arrived,” said Miss Harrington.

Lydia looked up. Charles Harrington’s sister had called half an hour earlier to collect the volume she had lent her, and they had begun comparing two plates and then discussing the walk planned for Saturday. Miss Harrington was three years older than Lydia, with her brother’s gray eyes and a quicker manner. She had taken the chair beside the window and made herself comfortable without expecting Lydia to put away her work.

“I am considering the composition,” Lydia said.

“You are considering the ceiling. I have been watching.” Miss Harrington marked her place with a finger. “Charles has learned the word pinnate. He used it at dinner last night. Unfortunately, we were discussing an aunt.”

“It is very good of him to take an interest

.”

“He is very good at applying himself when he wishes to.” Miss Harrington turned back a page. “He remembered which tree you wanted to see on Saturday. I should warn you that he has planned the whole walk around it.”

Lydia rested her pencil on the paper. On their first walk, Harrington had let her stop beneath a tree without apologizing for her to his sister. While she sketched, he had described the garden of the house he hoped to lease. There was a sunny room at the back, he said, which might serve better for drawing than for the billiard table his brother recommended. She had understood that he was telling her something about a possible life and had been touched by his care not to make it sound like an offer she must answer at once. She could imagine herself in that room. The difficulty was that her imagination remained so quiet there.

“I am aware of my good fortune,” she said.

“Yes,” said Miss Harrington. “I can see that you are.”

Lydia had pressed so hard that the pencil point broke. Miss Harrington reached for the little knife beside the drawing and handed it to her without comment. Before Lydia could mend the point, her mother came in, a faint scent of lavender water accompanying her.

“Lydia. The Dowager Duchess of Ashcombe sent word at noon.” The countess stopped. “Miss Harrington. How pleasant. Forgive me, I did not know you were still here.”

“I was just leaving.” Miss Harrington closed the volume, keeping a finger between the pages. She had plainly heard enough to be curious and was trying not to show it.

“The duke has asked whether half past four would be convenient,” her mother continued. “For a walk in the Park. Your father and I could accompany you.” She glanced at the open book. “Unless you have already made another arrangement.”

Lydia’s pencil rolled off the table. She put out a hand, caught it, and set it on the paper with great precision.

“The duke,” she said.

“Ashcombe. He is in London.” Her mother was regarding the mantel clock again. “Apparently his mother was unwell.”

“Is she better?”

“I believe she is a good deal better than was feared.”

He is following his mother’s orders, she told herself. Do not be ridiculous.

It was excellent advice. Lydia nevertheless heard herself accept, after making certain the walk would not interfere with Saturday’s arrangement. Miss Harrington gathered her book without comment. At the door she pressed Lydia’s hand, a brief kindness that left her feeling perturbed at how much her sprits had lifted at her afternoon plans.