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“One thing I don’t understand,” Aunt Knowe said, catching her breath. “Where was Mr. Marlowe that you were able to ask him during the ball, presumably, to pray for Wynter?”

Viola had never been any good at hiding her emotions. She knew perfectly well that guilt was written all over her face.

“I think that perhaps Mr. Marlowe should return to the vicarage and oversee the renovations,” Lady Knowe stated.

Joan gave her a beseeching look. “Oh, please, please arrange it so that the man with blue eyes who can’t talk about anything but good works—and is horrendously tedious as a result—returns to the country.”

“That’s mean,” Viola said. “You simply don’t like respectable gentlemen, Joan, and you never have.”

Joan shrugged. “I don’t like men who wear their virtue like a coat of armor, that’s true. Father is virtuous, and he doesn’t reek of holiness. Mr. Marlowe has no sense of humor and he is practically saintlike, except that I think saints have more ambition.”

“Don’t say that,” Viola flashed. “He has done nothing to deserve such rudeness.”

“Mr. Marlowe is good, but boring,” Joan retorted. “He makes you boring too. All you do is sit around and gaze into his eyes. You may be shy, Viola, but you were always funny. Now if he’s not in the room, you just sigh and look into space!”

“She’ll get over it,” Lavinia said. “When I first fell in love with Parth, I didn’t know what to do with all that emotion.”

“You gazed soulfully into the distance?” Joan asked skeptically. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Well, no,” Lavinia admitted. “I spent my time making up insults about Parth. He wouldn’t pay any attention to me, you see.”

“Despicable Sterling!” Lady Knowe said, remembering that particular courtship with delight. “Appalling Parth!”

“I don’t have the faintest inclination to call Mr. Marlowe names,” Viola said.

“Parth thought I was an empty-headed bit of fluff,” Lavinia said. “I couldn’t make him like me, so I concentrated on the opposite.” She shrugged. “I never said it was an intelligent plan.”

“Maudlin Marlowe,” Joan cried, brightening.

Viola scowled at her. “Stop that!”

“Mawkish Marlowe!”

Joan ran out of the room, shrieking with laughter, and Viola chased after her, trying to hit her with the folded letter.

Lavinia watched them leave. “What are you going to do about the vicar, Aunt Knowe?”

“I’m not sure. My instincts say that sending him to the country would be a mistake. Absence makes the heart, etcetera. He’s a very good man, and an excellent vicar, but not the right husband for Viola.”

“Ophelia will be here soon to discuss a new morning dress; perhaps she will have an idea,” Lavinia suggested.

Barty woke up and squawked irritably, realizing Viola had left the room.

“Viola cannot marry a vicar,” Lavinia stated, scooping up Barty and putting him on her shoulder. He settled down, stroking her hair with his beak.

“I wouldn’t stand in her way if it was the right vicar,” Lady Knowe said. “Marlowe is a good man with excellent ideas for improving parish life.”

“But he wouldn’t fit in with the men in the family,” Lavinia said. “If you don’t mind a bit of unasked-for advice . . .”

“From you, always,” Lady Knowe said.

“Parth’s courtship of me advanced at a snail’s pace compared to some others in the Wilde family, partly because we had a history of disliking each other, but also because our relationship was not conducted under the same roof,” Lavinia said. “Whereas Willa and Alaric . . .”

She cleared her throat. “Intimacy is easier to establish in close quarters. In this case, letters could easily lead to more clandestine meetings—even if only to discuss clerical arrangements.”

“North and Diana were living together in the castle,” Lady Knowe said, eyes narrowing. “Hell’s bells, it was my idea to bring Marlowe to London.”

“Send him back to Cheshire,” Lavinia suggested. “Viola may have a bruised heart, but her virtue will remain intact. Either that, or invite Miss Pettigrew to stay here.”