“You are prettier than one,” Lilian said promptly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Frances caressed Lilian’s cheek gently. “I shall treasure both the compliment and the flowers.”
Lilian, having bestowed both with complete satisfaction, slipped down to the grass again and began arranging the remainingstems in rows according to some mysterious principle involving butterflies, queens, and whether petals looked kind.
Time moved quietly after that. The baby woke briefly, made a soft protesting sound, and was soothed back to sleep by Emma’s gentle hand. The sun shifted higher. The lemonade grew warm in the glasses. Frances spoke a little more, listened more than she spoke, and felt, if not ease, then at least the comfort of being allowed to be uncertain in a place where uncertainty was not treated as failure.
At last, however, she rose. “I ought to go.”
Emma looked up at once. “Must you?”
Frances smiled faintly. “If I stay much longer, I may forget that the rest of the world exists, and I have a growing suspicion it will not allow itself to be forgotten.”
Lilian sprang upright at once. “You are leaving?”
“I am.”
The child came to her without hesitation and wrapped both arms tightly about Frances’s waist. The force of it was almost comical, but the feeling behind it was not. Frances bent at once and held her close.
“When will you come again?” Lilian asked, her voice muffled in Frances’s gown.
“Soon,” Frances promised, and found that she meant it. “Very soon.”
“You must,” Lilian urged, drawing back enough to look up at her with grave insistence. “Because I shall have more flowers by then, and perhaps a butterfly.”
Frances smiled, though her throat had tightened unexpectedly. “Then I shall certainly come.”
Lilian seemed satisfied by the promise and stepped back, though not far. She remained close, as children did when affection had not yet learned caution.
Frances turned then to Emma, who stood up and drew her into an embrace that was warm, firm, and familiar enough to feel like shelter. Frances closed her eyes briefly against her sister’s shoulder. When Emma drew back, she kept hold of Frances’ hands.
“You will not face this alone,” she assured her quietly.
Frances looked at her, and there was nothing but love in her sister’s eyes.
“I know,” she said.
But the weight of Andrew’s reserve, his unnamed child and his utter secrecy regarding his life lingered like a bitter aftertaste.
Chapter Eight
You know, you have managed something rather remarkable,” Philip spoke, as he was standing next to Andrew.
Andrew did not turn his head. “Have I?”
There were no crowds gathered at the church steps, no eager line of acquaintances pretending affection while counting the details for later repetition, no flowers strewn in abundance, no musicians and no breakfast prepared on an extravagant scale. It was exactly a week later, and everything had been arranged for quietness, speed, and the preservation of what dignity still might be preserved.
Only a handful of family members were present for the wedding, along with the necessary clergyman. Even the morning itself seemed subdued, the pale light through the church windows falling softly across the pews as though unwilling to intrude.
Philip’s tone was dry as usual. “To place yourself at the center of scandal and matrimony in the same week is an efficiency I had not before admired in you.”
Andrew looked over at his friend with faint suspicion. “Have we changed roles without my knowing?”
Andrew was dressed with his usual care, every line of him precise and composed, but there was nothing of the bridegroom in his bearing. He looked instead like a man presenting himself for some solemn obligation already accepted and no longer avoidable. His shoulders were set too straight, his jaw was too still, and his gloved hands were held with a control that suggested effort rather than ease.
Still, his friend’s presence comforted him.
“I was under the impression,” Andrew told him, “thatIwas meant to be the one making sport ofyou, not the other way around.”
