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“How can you do that without being able to see what you are doing?” he asked. “There is not a hair out of place.”

“Long practice,” she said. “Ben’s aunt, who lives with him and Jennifer, is a champion knitter. She works the most intricate designs in multiple colors but rarely looks down at her hands as she works. It is amazing to watch. Do you always look at your hands when you play the pianoforte?”

“I sometimes have to read music so there is something for my hands to play,” he said. “And I sometimes have to watch the soprano who is singing to my accompaniment and admire the back view of her.”

“For shame,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose it does smack somewhat of Peeping Tomerism.”

“Is there such a word?” she said.

“Not until now,” he said. “I just invented it. I suppose we ought to be making our way back to the house.”

“Yes,” she said, looking around. “It is so lovely here, even in the absence of either daffodils or bluebells. I am afraid I have been distracted and not fully appreciating the view.”

“We can come back,” he said. “Perhaps when you are ready to tell me your story?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But then I would definitely not be appreciating my surroundings.”

“Maybe you ought not to underestimate the power of nature,” he said.

She picked up her parasol and tried to slip his handkerchief into one of the folds. He held out his hand for it, and she frowned and handed it over. He stuffed it into a pocket and offered his arm.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it.

They walked back across the park and into the walled gardens, where the others were still enjoying general conversation while the remnants of the tea that had been brought out to them lay forgotten on the table before them.

Bertrand and Stephanie joined them.

—

It was very hard to smile and make conversation and act like her normal self just as though a little part of her world had not collapsed again. By the time dinner was over later that evening, however, Stephanie felt that she had done well, though she was exhausted and hoped that soon after they all retired to the drawing room she would be able to excuse herself and retreat to her bedchamber to deal with the tumult of feelings roiling inside her.

There was one person she had not deceived, however.

“Shall we take our tea to the conservatory and spend a quiet half hour there?” her mother said as Stephanie was about to sit with Maria and Adrian and Peter. “I have hardly had a moment alone with you since we arrived.”

Stephanie already had her cup and saucer in her hand, as did her mother. They went to sit in the conservatory, her mother on the padded window ledge and Stephanie on the seat across from it.

“You are troubled,” her mother said.

“Just very tired,” Stephanie said. “There is something planned for us all every moment, is there not? I hope you are enjoying yourself as much as I am, Mama.”

“Is it Bertrand?” her mother asked. She was not to be deterred, it seemed.

Stephanie shook her head. “He has been very kind,” she said.

“Only kind?” her mother said, smiling. “He clearly adores you. Are you not a little bit in love with him?”

“In love?” Stephanie set down her cup and saucer with a clatter on the small table beside her. “I do not want to be in love. I do not want ever to be in love. But I cannot seem to just love him as I do…Mr. Courtney, for example.”

“The gentleman from Penallen?” her mother said. “Jennifer told me he offered you marriage at Easter before you went to London.”

“I could love him and be comfortable with him,” Stephanie said.

“Mr. Courtney?” her mother said. “Yet you said no?”

“I did not say no,” Stephanie said. “I said I was not sure, and he told me he would wait, though I did not ask it of him.”