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“Indeed there will be, thanks to Mr. Edmons, who has arranged it all,” Aunt Edmons said encouragingly.

Sophronia’s heart swelled as she watched her father and aunt with her pupils, Aunt Edmons indulging the nurturing instincts that came naturally to her and her father showing an interest in life again that Sophronia had not seen since her mother died.

“Who can tell me an important event that happened at the Bear Hotel?” Sophronia asked as the girls lined up to exit.

“It was owned by a wife of Henry VIII,” one of the younger girls said with great excitement. Royal brides were a topic of universal interest.

“Five of the six, in fact.” Sophronia nodded. “What else?”

“King Charles I stayed there when he was fleeing the rebels during the Civil War,” said another girl.

“When he was fleeing the Parliamentarians who wanted representative government,” said Horatia, who was every bit the eccentric reformer that her aunt was.

“And King William as had the oranges,” piped one of the smaller girls. She was wide-eyed and timid, away from home for the first time in her life, and all of the older girls had taken her under their collective wing.

“Yes, the Bear Hotel had the great distinction of witnessing the Glorious Revolution, when James I gave the Crown of England to his son-in-law, Prince William. That is why, when the Tutti men are collecting fees, they give out oranges. You will see them during Hocktide in the spring.” Sophronia helped the girls straighten their line, adjusting bonnets and collars and sleeves.

“Beware, girls,” Lily called out, “for if a Tutti man offers you an orange, he wants a kiss in return!” She laughed as the girls, at least the younger ones, gave way to expressions of disdain and disgust at the idea of kisses, while some of the older ones struggled to hide a blush.

If only Rowden could see this, Sophronia thought, her heart swelling as she settled her pupils, teachers, and loved ones in the borrowed wagons that would conduct them up Priory Lane toward the town, where they joined the crowds that had turned out for the opening of the canal. Colonel Westall had saved them a prime viewing position on the new Canal Bridge, using his military authority and claims of educational benefit. Sophronia squeezed her father’s arm as they stood side by side behind some of the younger girls, who pointed to each frog, fish, and heron they spotted inspecting the banks of the new canal.

“Your mother would be so proud to see this,” Sophronia’s father said, his eyes glossy as he gave his daughter a fond smile. “Running a school for girls! It was the greatest regret, on her deathbed, that she would not live to guide and teach you.”

Sophronia merely squeezed his arm, struck by the old sorrow. Her mother had died so young, and so had the brother whom the young Sophronia had supposed was a gift by God delivered directly to her. “I am proud of you for going on with your life, Papa. I look at Lord Denford and—” Her throat closed.

Her father shook his head. “Denford will never recover from that blow. He lived his life in fear that something would afflict Giles, and now that his worst fears have come true, he is crippled. But to send Rowden away, when the boy could have been an ease and comfort to him! I do not understand.”

Her dear father always saw the best in everyone. Sophronia tried to swallow the lump in her throat, a tangle of grief, affection, and raw despair. “The Baron hates that Rowden is alive and Giles is not,” she said simply. “I believe there was some long-ago competition over Rowden’s mother as well which the Baron felt he lost. But Rowden is not a boy, Papa. He is a man, and he is trusted by the government for very delicate work.”

“Spying.” Papa shook his head. “Never trust the government. Any government, I say. But the Baron must call him back sooner or later. He will be Denford’s heir, whether Frederick likes it or not.”

“I suppose he will.” Sophronia had not thought that far ahead, but the outcome was obvious. With his heir apparent gone, Rowden, as the son of his brother, would become heir presumptive. The estates were entailed on heirs male of the body and the Denford title was conferred along the same lines. Legally, it would be very difficult for the Baron to get around that fact.

What would that mean for Rowden? He would hate stepping into the role that ought to have belonged to Giles. He would feel he was stealing from a ghost. Her heart ached all the more. She didn’t blame Rowden that he needed distance to sort through all that had befallen him.

She didn’t blame him for leaving her. She’d left him first.

Oh, if it must be said, she blamed him a little bit. He could have stayed to grieve with them. He could have stayed to endure the Baron’s wrath and resentment, to grapple with the knowledge that the loss of Giles meant a staggering and unanticipated twist in his life and his future.

But she meant to prove to him that he was worthy of her love and faithfulness. She had told him as much in the letters she wrote him whenever she could, answering the letters he wrote regularly to her. He had assured her he thought of nothing more than returning to make her his wife in every sense, legal, spiritual, carnal. She had blushed a bit reading that last promise.

And a tiny part of her still feared. Words were easy to put on paper. Distance and time might change the heart, or new opportunities might arise. She could not yet entirely trust that loving him would not end in disaster, and she could scarcely endure the wait until she knew what was true, her hopes or her fears.

Standing on the bridge brought back that memory from a year ago, when she had been at Kintbury for the opening of the canal and had seen him on the barge from Newbury, the first time she had seen him in several years. The new and solidly male shape of him, filled out to full maturity. The look of longing in his eyes as their gazes met. The way her heart had stirred like a hedgehog emerging from long hibernation, moved by a new hunger to explore the world. And to see him again.

The onlookers stationed along the sides of the canal cheered when the prow of the boat edged into view. The draught horses plodded along the towpath, hauling the heavy barge laden with Portland stone and Russian tallow. Sophronia blinked. Her longings were feeding her imagination, giving rise to fantasies. She wanted so badly to see him again that her mind’s eye was drawing pictures of Rowden on that barge, his eyes searching the crowd for her.

He scanned the bridge, and his gaze locked with hers. She raised an arm in its orange glove, her heart beating like a caged bird, wild with one thought. He was here. He was here.

The barge floated at its sure and steady pace, welcomed with more cheering, waving scarves, and air kisses. The girls jostled one another and pointed, waving their arms at the passengers. Rowden waved back, and they squealed with delight, but his gaze never left Sophronia’s face. When the barge passed below her she behaved as recklessly as the girls, pushing through the crowd on the bridge to see him emerge from the other side, still there, still watching for her.

By this time other onlookers recognized him. “Ho, isn’t that Rowden? Victor Rowden! Halloo!” someone hailed him.

He waved, and some of Sophronia’s older pupils giggled, lifting their hands in return. “’E’s right ’andsome,” one of them breathed.

“That’s Mrs. Hinton’s suitor, so don’t you be dangling after him like a goose,” Horatia said quite sternly.

Lily dug her fingernails into Sophronia’s arm, laughing with her as the barge pulled to the dock and the interminable wait began as the passengers disembarked. “Soph! Is it him? Is it really him?”