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She nodded, heartbeat slowing. “You’re happier alone.”

“Alone?” Aunt Sylvia’s expression shifted between concern and amusement. “My dear, I’m not alone.” She glanced at Miss Lolly, who lifted her chin.

“We’re not alone.” Miss Lolly dropped her handful of spent nettles on a dish, a plop of punctuation.

Again, Nina glanced between them. She had the distinct impression they were communicating something of vast importance.

She wet her lips. “I meant something different. I meant, you’re happier because you didn’t choose that kind of love. You know, romantic love.”

She blushed. She wasn’t about to describe the love she’d experienced with Alan, composed of hope and agony, longing and giddy, unbearable pleasures.

Aunt Sylvia looked pensive. “Nina dear, there’s a great deal we should have said to you.”

“We thought it went without saying,” interjected Miss Lolly.

“Oh.” Nina stood for a moment, flummoxed, eyes flitting from woman to woman. “Will you say it, then? Or not?”

Aunt Sylvia’s gaze met Miss Lolly’s.

“We will,” she said. “But not now. You look as though you have somewhere else to be.”

Nina realized she was on her toes, half-twisted toward the door. “Do I?”

She was wringing her hands together, as though that action would keep her from tearing apart.

“Most certainly,” said Miss Lolly. “You go, now.” She smiled at Aunt Sylvia. “We’ll be here.”

Nina went. She sped upstairs to grab her portmanteau and the ledger Jack had left for her, and she clattered down again, gasping her goodbyes to her aunts, and to Fritz—snoozing with Billie in the parlor—then bursting out the front door. She reached the train station with mere seconds to spare. It wasn’t long before she’d caught her breath. But her heart raced on.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Three new paintings, and six works in progress. And you’re looking at the door.”

Alan turned to face Augustus Burgess. The man feted as England’s greatest living painter was shaking his head.

“I’m crushed,” Burgess added, a hand pressed to the frogs of his colorful smoking jacket, light green velvet and rose madder silk. “Surely Love in Avalon is worth a second glance.”

Alan’s gaze swept the vast painting studio, crowded with aspirants and notables and with Burgess’s easels. He hadn’t given the pictures a first glance. Nor could he bear to do so now. The pigments seemed dangerous, as though they might stain his corneas. Make him see red where it didn’t belong.

“You’re looking at the door again,” observed Burgess. “Come, now. The picture’s not as bad as that.”

Alan allowed himself a beat, to compose his face, to mirror his friend’s teasing smile.

“It’s worse,” he drawled. Burgess laughed, easy and unoffended.

He should have stayed home. He’d hoped the salon would provide a recess from his roiling thoughts. Instead, he felt overstimulated, every sight and sound an irritant.

“I worried something was wrong. Not with Love in Avalon.” Burgess flicked a lock of black hair over his shoulder. “With you.”

Alan reached up to adjust his spectacles and remembered he wasn’t wearing them.

“Standing in the corner,” continued Burgess. “Perhaps you’re saving your strength?” At Alan’s blank expression, he grinned wickedly. “For a more important battle.”

“You invited Syme.” Alan waited for his own reaction. This news should organize his mind, give him purpose.

“Of course I did. My guests don’t come for the canapés. They come to see history being made. Syme’s fired up. Did you hear? He got that prominent American critic, Ingalls, to inspect the paintings you disputed. And Ingalls agrees with him. Says they’re originals.” Burgess clapped his hands. “I’ll clear the dais. You and Syme can have it out. Tit for tat.”

“An exciting opportunity.” Alan shrugged. “Sadly, I must decline.” He started to walk, trying not to catch anyone’s eye.