Page 36

The countess smiled from her chair. “It was my trunk.”

Harrington laughed and waited until Lydia had sat before taking his own seat. He had brought a book. “I wondered whether this might interest you. You mentioned wanting to compare drawings from different sources.”

He offered it without ceremony, explaining that it belonged to his sister and that she had willingly lent it. Lydia opened it. The plates were clear, each specimen given enough space to show the growth of the stem. Three pages passed before Lydia remembered she had not thanked him. “This was very thoughtful.”

“My sister will be pleased if it is useful. She keeps threatening to make me learn the names.”

“You might find you enjoy it.”

“I have agreed to begin with the things I must avoid stepping on.”

The memory of their conversation at the ball made her smile. He remembered it too, without displaying the fact as a triumph. That pleased her. They spoke about the book while her mother poured tea. When Lydia explained what she hoped to find in a good illustration, Harrington asked whether accuracy mattered more than beauty.

“I would not want to choose between them.”

“Must an artist sometimes?”

“Yes. Though I usually discover afterward that I have sacrificed both.”

He smiled, but did not insult her with immediate reassurance that she could never draw badly. “Would you show me one?”

Lydia hesitated.

“If you would rather not, I understand.”

“No. I should be glad to.”

She asked a servant to fetch the sheet she had been working on that morning. When it was brought in, Harrington placed his cup aside before taking it. He studied the drawing, tilting it toward the window before returning to the leaf nearest its lower edge. “I like this part,” he said, indicating the turn of a leaf. “It looks as though it has weight.”

“That was difficult.”

“I can imagine.”

He did not pretend to know more than he did, and he did not lose interest once her answer became detailed. Lydia found herself speaking freely. For several minutes she forgot to measure the visit. There was only the drawing, his question, and the pleasure of discovering an answer while saying it aloud. Then he handed the paper back.

Their fingers did not touch. The absence should not have registered. At Ashcombe, she had grown accustomed to other measures: a hand kept half a second too long, fingers at her wrist, the secure pressure of an arm beneath her knees. Harrington’s restraint was correct, and more than correct; it was considerate. She disliked herself a little for noticing it as emptiness.

Harrington asked whether she had seen much of the grounds at Ashcombe.

“A little. I turned my ankle during a walk.”

“Your brother mentioned it. I hope it is improving.”

“Very much.” She flexed the ankle under her skirt to prove it to herself.

“I was going to ask whether you would care to walk with my sister and me one afternoon. Perhaps we should leave it until you are quite recovered.”

“I should like that.”

Her mother looked up from her tea, and Lydia kept her attention on him. He described the outing he had in mind, then asked which day would suit them, including the countess in the arrangements without letting the conversation leave Lydia behind. Ease, after Ashcombe, felt luxurious.

With Harrington she could answer a question without wondering whether the answer would frighten him or be interpreted by a room full of relatives. Tristan made conversation feel like reaching toward a candle flame and pretending she wanted only the light.

It ought to have been enough to make her look forward to the walk. Almost, it was. When he rose to leave, she thanked him again for the book.

“You must tell me whether the illustrations survive your examination.”

“I shall be fair.”