Page 52

Tristan looked down at his gloves. “Agreed.”

“If that changes, we shall say so. Both of us.” She moved a finger down the page. “Third, I shall keep my mornings for drawing. You need not come looking for me whenever the house grows quiet.”

“Fourth?”

“Fourth. I shall be civil to our guests. But if your mother tells them how delighted I am, I reserve the right to contradict her.” She looked up. “You need not laugh. I could scarcely eat at breakfast for people telling me how happy I must be.”

The carriage slowed for a cart piled with hay. Through the open window came the smell of it, warm and dusty, and a man’s voice calling to his horses. Lydia folded the paper while they waited. Tristan realized she had not expected him to answer the last condition.

“I meant what I said on Monday,” he told her.

“I hope you did.”

“I have not asked you to forget the passage.”

“No. But I think you hoped we might not have to mention it again.” She smoothed the paper on her knee. “I want to be glad I married you, Tristan. I was glad this morning, even when I was frightened. Then we got into the carriage and you had nothing to say to me.”

“Then let me add what I can.” He shifted on the seat so that he could look at her squarely. “I have a few promises of my own.”

“I had hoped you might.”

“You may have the east suite, and a room for your drawing things wherever the light suits you. You need not ask my permission to work.” He paused. “I will be faithful to you. Whatever else we have yet to agree upon, you will not have to wonder about that.”

“And before your mother?”

“If my mother objects to any arrangement you have made in your own house, I shall remind her whose house it is.”

She studied him. “Then let Mrs. Bell take her instructions from me. She need not wait for you to repeat them.”

“Agreed.”

“And the conversation we promised to continue?”

He knew which conversation she meant. The motion of the carriage brought her hand briefly into the light; the ring sat where he had placed it that morning. “We shall have it,” he said. She held his gaze until he added, “Keeping separate rooms does not excuse me from answering you.” Only then did she nod. He was grateful for the time she was giving him, and ashamed of the relief he felt at not having to speak yet.

“There is a fifth,” said Lydia.

“Only the fifth?”

“Five is a very respectable number.” She looked at the paper. “Fifth. You are not to laugh at my drawings.”

“I have never laughed at your drawings.”

“You noticed the leaf.”

“You told me you had drawn it badly.”

“It was my leaf.”

“It was an unusually undisciplined leaf,” said Tristan, “and I stand by it.”

The corner of her mouth moved. It was so slight that a man not looking would have missed it, but he was looking. She pressed her lips together, and he saw her fight it, and lose, and turn her face to the window with a small, inelegant sound that she converted into a cough.

“You are still finding fault with my leaf,” she said, when she could speak.

“Only with its discipline. The drawing was excellent.”

She glanced down at the list, and the smile faded before she spoke again. “Your promises are longer than my rules.”