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Ursula was silent a moment, seemingly pondering her answer to this. “You will want me to come and visit with you, I am sure,” her sister rallied stoutly. “And give me plenty of nephews and nieces to spoil. I will spend my evenings writing you long letters and practicing my lute.”

Aimee sighed, giving up on this approach. Her sister was too complacent in her role as the prop of their father’s old age. “What if Father were to remarry?” she flung out into the darkness. “What then? You would not even be mistress of your own home! His new wife could bring him stepchildren who would supplant you and steal your portion on his death.”

Ursula gasped, propping herself up on one elbow to look at Aimee, even though she would not be able to make out her features in the dark. “Aimee, where is this coming from?” her sister asked in troubled accents. “Father has never indicated that he is looking to take a second wife. Indeed, the way he speaks of Mama, I cannot imagine –”

“Oh fie, Ursula!” Aimee burst out. “He is so rich these days, he even pours coins into the king’s coffers! Do you imagine some canny widow will not soon have him in her sights! You are not blind; you must know that the Widow Hemmings has set her cap at him this past three years –”

“Aimee!” Ursula’s shocked tones sounded deeply grieved. “This is not a proper subject for us to be speaking of.”

“Ursa –”

“No, Aimee!” her sister cut her off resolutely, and her voice shook with emotion. “Please do not wound me by giving voice to such matters. It is not our place to judge Papa and –” Ursula broke off with a suppressed sob, and Aimee guessed her sister had dropped back onto her pillows and rolled away from her.

Aimee bit her lip. Upsetting her sister was the last thing she wanted to do. Any discussion of Mama always brought Ursula to tears. She remembered their sainted mother so much better than Aimee who was younger and had really been raised by her sister. “I did not mean to wound you, Ursula,” she said in a small voice. “It is my sincere attachment to you that brings me to raise such matters.”

“I know, Aimee,” her sister’s tearful voice replied after a heavy pause. “I do not mean to be vexed with you. You have always been warm of heart and impetuous of speech. It is one of the things that makes you so lovable.” Aimee felt her sister’s hand groping for hers in the darkness, and they clutched each other’s fingers tightly for a moment.

Aimee lay wondering if she should try a different approach. “Sir Renlow seems to be in dire financial straits,” she ventured and heard her sister’s softly indrawn breath.

“To be sure,” Ursula replied sounding slightly strained.

“It seems likely, then, that he might welcome patronage from one such as Papa?” Ursula did not answer for a full minute, and Aimee thought as usual her sister was likely measuring her words carefully before speaking them aloud. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “Do you know of any existing attachment or betrothal with regards to that knight?”

The pillow rustled, and Aimee guessed her sister was shaking her head. “I have never made enquiry,” Ursula said at last. “But I think … that is, I am sure that it would be a good match for you, sister. Would you like me to approach Papa on your behalf?”

Aimee lay silent a moment with astonishment, both that Ursula could think she intended Renlow for herself, and also that Ursula should suggest herself as an intermediary on such a matter. Ursula was so reticent that picturing her in the role of emissary was hard to imagine. “I was not thinking of myself,” she said at last, “but of you.”

This time, Ursula’s gasp was audible. “Me?” she said in stunned accents, the bedsheets rustling as she sat up in bed. “Aimee, what can you mean?”

Aimee looked in the direction of her sister’s dim white form. She wished she had not blown out the candle now. “I was thinking of Sir Renlow for you,” she said simply.

Ursula sat very still. “Aimee …” she said at last in wobbly tones. “Y-you must not think that I –”

“I can tell you admire him,” Aimee rushed on. “And I think you would suit him admirably.”

“No, no, dear sister,” Ursula protested. “He would be far better suited to you! You are so much closer to him in both age and beauty –”

“Just how old is Sir Renlow?” Aimee demanded, thinking of his youthful appearance with sudden misgiving. Ursula was rather on the shelf, in truth. She had turned down the only offer she had ever received and made herself too indispensable to their father, so he had been loath to part with her when she had reached marriageable age.

“I believe he numbers some two and twenty,” Ursula stammered. “The same age as yourself.”

“Well, but you are only seven and twenty. What does a couple of years signify when it comes to such matters?”

“Five years, dear,” Ursula corrected her painstakingly.

“After all, what is five years?” Aimee asked practically. “There are five years between us, but were ever any two sisters as close as we? Five years is hardly an insurmountable barrier to love.”

“Love?” Ursula echoed. “Aimee, my dear …”

“What is wrong?” Aimee asked patiently. Ursula was ever a worrier. It came of the fact she had been expected to pick up so many of their late mother’s responsibilities too young.

“You must understand,” Ursula said with some difficulty. “That among these nobles, love does not enter into such matches. It is other, more practical considerations that take precedence.”

Aimee waved a hand which her sister would not even see. “Oh, yes, to be sure!” she agreed airily. “Very well, let us look at it from that angle. You are a very wealthy heiress –” Ursula spluttered, but Aimee ignored her, plunging on. “And Sir Renlow is an impoverished knight in much need of funds.”

“Aimee –”

“You have so many sterling qualities and would make him an admirable wife quite apart from the wealth you would bring him.”