Page 92 of Duke of Sapphire

“What,” said Henry from the doorway, “is happening to my drawing room?”

Charlotte looked up. He had come in without ceremony, jacket on, letter in hand as usual, and he was looking at the two servants and the notepad and Charlotte’s expression of perfectly composed innocence.

“I am having a conversation with Mrs. Ellison and Cook,” Charlotte said. “Thank you both. I’ll come down shortly.”

Mrs. Ellison and Cook withdrew with commendable speed.

Henry looked at the notepad. “You have a list.”

“I frequently have lists.”

“This one mentions iced biscuits and raspberry jam.” He came further into the room. “In rather large quantities.”

“Ian has a birthday in two days.”

“I am aware of that now.” He set the letter on the mantelpiece. “You told me last night.”

“Then you know why I am planning.”

“Ian said he did not want a fuss.”

“He said he didn’t want to celebrate,” Charlotte said. “That is slightly different.”

Henry gave her a look. “I fail to see the distinction.”

“The distinction is that he is six years old and grieving and has decided, very nobly, to require nothing from anyone. That is not the same as genuinely not wanting something nice on his birthday.”

Henry sat down. Not across from her. In the chair beside her, which put them both facing the list, which she thought was probably intentional even if he did not realize it. “He may find it painful.”

“He may,” Charlotte agreed. “He may also find it wonderful and go to sleep that night feeling that someone made an effort for him.” She turned the parchment, so it faced both of them. “His parents are not here. We are. We cannot replace them. But we can do what they would have done.”

Henry was quiet.

She waited. She had learned to wait. He processed things differently than she did, turned them over until the edges were smooth, and she had found that interrupting that process did nothing useful.

“All right,” he said at last.

“All right?”

“All right, we plan.” He looked at the list. Then he said, “The sponge should have lemon.”

Charlotte blinked. “Cook suggested raspberry jam.”

“For the jam. Both. Lemon sponge, raspberry jam.” He picked up the pencil from beside the list and held it. “It is a better cake.”

She stared at him. “You told me last night you didn’t care about the details.”

“I said Ian should have something nice. I did not say I was indifferent to what the cake tasted like.”

“Those are effectively the same statement.”

“They are not.” He wrote lemon sponge in the margin with the methodical precision of a man annotating a legal document. “If we are doing this, we do it properly.”

Charlotte watched him. “You are being particular.”

“I am being thorough.”

“You are being—” She pressed her lips together. “What else? While we’re being thorough?”