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“Oh?” She looked at him more closely. He was flushed, cheekbones glossed with sweat, mouth relaxed and humorous. But his eyes were darkening, lines bracketing his smile, which flattened as she stared.

Her stomach hollowed with foreboding. “Where to?”

She knew, though. She knew as he bent over her, as he rested his lips on her crown. He said it almost below the threshold of hearing, warm breath sifting her hair.

“Hensthorpe.”

She didn’t shrink, although in her chest, something crumpled. She put her palms on his pectorals and pushed. He leaned back against the headboard.

“That’s your village,” he said. He should have sounded smug. She wished he did sound smug, so she could muster dislike, maybe even despise him.

“I’ve been there.” He looked at her steadily. He sounded serious, bleak, something just short of apology registering in his tone as a slight hesitance. “It was years ago, when I was writing my essays on English landscape. I wanted to see the oak from The Priory Oak, and other sites that appear in Berney’s pictures. There’s quite a cluster in Hensthorpe.”

She was starting to cool. Her damp skin felt clammy. He’d spent himself against her belly. How strange, these traces of their fusion, their intermingling, when suddenly they were so clearly distinct.

Art critic. Art forger.

“It only occurred to me this morning.” His large warm hands settled on her shoulders, smoothed the gooseflesh from her upper arms. “The picture I saw last night, and the pictures at Broughton’s—I was too focused on compiling the faults, noting everything false. I didn’t let the truth of your painting speak.” A brief smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “They brim with love.” His hands tightened on her arms.

She couldn’t utter a word. For the second time that morning, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Your love.” His voice continued in the darkness. “It was there on the wall for anyone to see. The light you painted so truly as it brightens the lichen on the Priory Oak—that same light ripens the gooseberries you put in your tarts.”

She opened her eyes. She’d given herself away. And given Jack away too. Alan would find the cottage easily, in two steps. First, detrain at the Hensthorpe station. Second, ask for Sylvia and Lolly. Ask anywhere.

“It’s Sunday, isn’t it,” she said. The days had begun to blur. “Aunt Sylvia will make a roast. If it’s fine outside, they’ll eat in the garden. Miss Lolly will have invited her cousin, Mrs. Swales, and Mr. Middleton will stop by whether invited or not. That’s what you’ll encounter. Elderly villagers eating under a plum tree.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Jack won’t have waited this long.”

Alan nodded. “It might well be a fool’s errand.” That nod, his tone—he meant to comfort her. Her nose burned. She blinked rapidly and dropped her gaze, which landed on that notch at the base of his throat. She stared at his fluttering pulse.

“Ask me not to go,” he said, and brushed back the damp hair that had curtained her face, tipped up her chin.

“No.” She shook her head. He’d always made his own intentions clear. She’d accepted the terms. His fingertips slid to her cheekbones. He framed her face and looked at her with lowered lashes.

She took a breath. “But I’m going with you.”

She reached out and tugged the bellpull herself.

—

The sun was high when they detrained in Hensthorpe. Alan turned to Nina, who sidled away from him on the platform. Now, as at every moment along the journey when she’d shifted to avoid contact, he felt a strong pang of unpleasant emotion.

Her big-eyed pallor made clear the intention behind the distance. She wasn’t punishing him. She was struggling to preserve her composure.

He carried her portmanteau and they walked into the village center, like strangers who happened to find themselves on the same path. Fritz skipped ahead and veered toward the churchyard. Cursing under her breath, Nina raced to retrieve him. She looked—briefly—like herself again, and the strength of his relief bordered on ridiculous.

They passed the church itself. He wasn’t sure if he remembered its round Saxon tower from his previous visit or from Berney’s painting Afternoon, St. George’s Church. They turned down a cobbled street lined with shops. Brick and flint façades, pantile roofs. The tavern had a Dutch gable that seemed about to topple.

As they passed the last shop, its large bow window caught Alan’s eye. He stopped and considered the display. Cakes and buns. Jars of jams, glinting jewel bright where the sun struck.

Here it was.

Nina retraced her steps and stood beside him. The bakery was closed for the sabbath, but even so, Alan thought the air seemed warmer, faintly sugared.

“That’s Aunt Sylvia’s hedgerow jelly.” Nina’s skirts brushed his leg. “As a girl, I went with her to deliver the jars and collect the empty ones the customers returned. And sometimes I’d stay and pit cherries or crack eggs for Mr. Craddock, in exchange for hot biscuits.”

The corner of her mouth had tipped up at the memory.

“And now he wants to sell his bakery, to you.” Alan smiled at her as she looked up at him, with more color in her cheeks, and life in her eyes. Then she dimmed.