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He took a deep breath, and said, “It is Miss Brown.”

“My Miss Brown?” Archie said.

“For God’s sake, will you stop calling her that!”

He had struck them dumb, which would have been amusing if it weren’t for the ever-present gut-churning.

Effie recovered first. “Several aspects of our trip are suddenly making a great deal more sense.”

“Such as?” Simon asked.

“That yellow ribbon you purchased,” Effie said.

“Don’t forget the dark green one he found on the road,” Archie said.

“Yes!” Effie laughed. “‘Loving you is like eating rotten meat, and as a token of my affection, please accept this dirty scrap I plucked out of the mud.’ Oh, and Archie, wasn’t he so concerned that Miss Brown ought to be able to join us in the evenings?”

“Yes, but he was right to be concerned about that. As he was right to urge me to raise Miss Brown’s wages.”

“You knew!” Effie exclaimed.

“I wouldn’t say that I knew. But I did observe that in addition to his concern over Miss Brown’s employment situation, he suddenly seemed to know a great deal about her personal history. There were other tells, too.”

“The novels!” Effie shouted. “The lady novelist fixation! And—”

“Are you going to help me, or are you going to mock me?” Simon interjected. Honestly.

“Well, I should think both,” Effie said, raising his eyebrows at Archie.

“Definitely both,” Archie said, but he schooled his expression and added, “Miss Brown is a fine lady, Simon.”

“She is,” Effie agreed. He swung around to look at Simon. “How may we assist?”

“You may tell me what to do!” Simon said, aware that he had delivered that plea in the opposite of his Parliament voice. He sounded utterly pathetic.

“Well,” Archie said, resting his chin on his fist in a thoughtful posture that made Simon think they might actually be getting somewhere, “perhaps you could start by telling her how you feel.”

Simon scoffed. “I can’t do that. Are you daft?”

“He’s not daft,” Effie said. “He’s right.” He paused. “Definitely leave off the bit about rotten meat, though.”

“Let us be serious for a moment,” Archie said. “Why can’t you tell her? What is your aim?” He looked, suddenly, displeased. “Are your intentions honorable?”

Effie, not leaving space for Simon to speak, said, “This is why you had it out with your mother.” He turned to Archie. “You remember he said he could not take a wife while his mother was around?” He looked back to Simon. “I admit I took that to mean you couldn’t take a wife until your mother was dead, but perhaps that was only my own tendency toward the Gothic talking.”

“I did mean that.” Simon turned to Archie, and added, quietly, “And, yes, my intentions are honorable. I want her to marry me. I want to marry her.”

That was the first time he had said those words aloud, and he was irrationally afraid that now that they were out in the world, he wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.

“Well, then, what’s the problem?” Archie asked. “If you’re concerned about my mother, you needn’t be. We shall work something out. Miss Brown has been a godsend, but we can’t hold her hostage forever.”

“The problem is, she doesn’t want to marry—me, or anyone.” Simon thought back to one of their first conversations, when he’d suggested marriage to someone suitable as a way out of Mr. Hill’s trap. He had not been thinking, then, of putting himself forward as a candidate, a fact he found remarkable from this vantage point. “She is adamantly opposed, in fact. She observed her sister’s disastrous marriage up close, and she has quite a lot to say about how men are always ‘keeping’ women—fathers, husbands, and so on.”

Archie and Effie exchanged amused looks.

“What?”

“I seem to recall we have heard something similar once or twice recently,” Effie said.