The accounts were not difficult—after the first week, she’d mastered Mrs. Tullock’s devilish system of double-entry—but they were infinite, like Sisyphus’s stone if the stone were also prone to multiplying every time you set it down.
She drew a face on a scrap of paper, gave it horns, and titled it “The Duke of Receipts.” The effect was pleasing.
A rap at the door startled her into respectability. Mrs. Tullock entered with the crisp step of a woman who had never once considered sitting down.
“Your Grace,” she announced. “A message from His Grace.”
Nancy raised a brow. “Is he dead? Or is it only the creditors this time?”
The housekeeper did not dignify this with a reply. “He has taken the children out for a morning constitutional. He requests that you join them. The carriage is prepared and waiting.”
Nancy stared. “He requests, or he commands?”
Mrs. Tullock’s lips twitched. “If it is all the same to you, Your Grace, I prefer not to know.”
“Wise,” Nancy said, rising and tossing the ledger on the desk. She reached for her gloves, then paused. “Did he say where they were going?”
“Only that it was a matter of some urgency, and you are not to bring any household business with you.” Mrs. Tullock’s eyes darted to the “Duke of Receipts.” “Especially not that.”
Nancy scrunched the paper and tossed it in the bin. “Fine. I am going. If the creditors arrive, tell them I have fled the country.”
Mrs. Tullock nodded and vanished, as housekeepers do.
Nancy made her way to the carriage, still bemused by the summons. She could not imagine why Oscar would take the twins on an outing without her—he barely managed them at home. Was this a punishment, or some novel form of trial? Or perhaps a declaration of war?
The carriage rolled out, and Nancy leaned back, watching the familiar landmarks pass by. Her mood was strangely light, and she tried not to read into it. The day was bright, the air sweet, and the world, for once, seemed inclined to humor her.
They reached a park she recognized, though the coachman took a winding, secluded path rather than the main avenue. The carriage stopped at the edge of a copse, where a lake sparkled beneath a screen of willows.
On the bank, Nancy spied a blanket and—surely not—a positively improper heap of food. At its center sat Oscar, his infamous blue coat abandoned to the grass, sleeves rolled up, and an expression of pure, unguarded perplexity as Clara and Henry attempted to demolish the picnic with brute force.
Nancy stepped down from the carriage, not sure whether to laugh or retreat. The children saw her first. Henry, jam-smeared and victorious, broke into a run that concluded in a collision with her shins. His hands were sticky and, after his embrace, so was her skirt.
“Duchess!” he crowed, as if she had descended from the sky.
Clara was only a beat behind, winding herself around Nancy’s waist. “There is a whole basket of biscuits and uncle will not let us eat them all,” she announced.
Nancy ruffled Clara’s hair, then gave Henry a stern look. “Are you plotting against the Duke, or simply conducting experiments in digestion?”
“Both,” Henry said. “But mostly eating.”
Oscar called from the blanket, “You are late, Duchess. If you wish to eat, you had better act before the twins disassemble the basket and use it for kindling.”
Nancy’s steps slowed as she took in the scene. Oscar looked… not relaxed, exactly, but at ease. His collar was unbuttoned, his shoes discarded, and for once he seemed more man than monument. Clara and Henry sat cross-legged beside him, devouring food with feral efficiency.
“Mind joining our little picnic?” Oscar asked, raising a sandwich as a sort of peace offering.
Nancy sat, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “I am still waiting for the catch. There is always a catch with you.”
Oscar grinned. “No catch. I simply thought the children might benefit from fresh air and slightly burnt sausage rolls.”
“They are not burnt,” Clara objected, taking a monstrous bite. “They are crispy.”
Henry added, “Oscar made them himself.”
Nancy stared at Oscar. “Did you?”
He shrugged. “I can read a recipe. Even a bad one.”
