“Nothing. It was only … I smell lemons. I must be tired.”

But he knew that wasn’t it. In fact, Lord Jasper looked as if he’d have dearly liked to press for more details but restrained himself. Why on earth had I prattled on about his dead wife?

“The books on the shelf by the window might be of particular interest to you.”

I nodded, knowing I would have stammered if I’d tried to speak. I felt as if I’d dipped a toe in a narrow river only to find myself swept out to sea. Something else was happening here, but I didn’t know what it was. Only that the undercurrents were strong, dangerous. A person could drown in this particular sea.

When Lord Jasper left, I distracted myself by trailing my fingers over the leather bindings, skimming over the embossed titles. It would take a large dose of control for me not to lug a great big heavy pile of books upstairs to my room. Here was Jane Austen, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Lord Byron. Here was Alice in Wonderland, Frankenstein, King Arthur—friends, every one of them.

I didn’t realize I was no longer alone until there was the sound of a throat being cleared. Xavier stood not three steps away in a new coat, with the chain of his pocket watch hanging just so.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but Lord Jasper said I might find you here.”

“You know very well it is for me to apologize,” I said, returning his smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I had a ghastly headache and, well, I don’t quite know what happened.”

I knew exactly what had happened: wretched Tabitha.

“Think nothing of it,” he said graciously. “I trust you are quite recovered?”

“Yes, thank you.” There was a small silence. I wasn’t certain how to fill it. Elizabeth would have made a jest of some sort and Colin would have made teasing remarks. Xavier, however, probably thought I had delicate and cultivated sensibilities.

“The gardens are lovely this morning,” he said finally, glancing out the window. The roses were fat and still damp with dew. A butterfly floated past. “Would you like to take a stroll?”

His smile was sincere, his blond hair brushed back from a handsome brow. A walk would be lovely, uncomplicated. And it was kind of him to ask me, even after he’d had to wash jam out of his ear. My stomach tingled nervously, pleasantly, when he held out his arm to me. I laid my gloved hand over his cuff, just above his wrist. He smelled of soap and, faintly, strawberry jam. I could get used to the way he looked at me, with admiration.

“Thank you, Mr. Trethewey, a turn about the garden should be lovely.” And he wasn’t likely to slip earthworms down the back of my dress, as Colin had. True, that had been six years ago, but still.

It wasn’t until we passed the window that I noticed the books Lord Jasper had recommended: The Yearbook of Spiritualism for 1871, Spirit Drawings by William M. Wilkinson, History of the Supernatural by William Howitt, as well as pamphlets from numerous psychical and Spiritualist societies.

It made perfect sense. He would assume, given my mother’s interests and his own, that I might be interested as well.

And yet I couldn’t account for the barest of shivers that skittered like a nervous cat over my spine.

Xavier didn’t notice, only led me outside where the swallows were dipping and diving over the hedges. It smelled like roses and rain and we meandered slowly along the path, as if I hadn’t thrown toast at him less than an hour before. I felt a little shy and couldn’t think of anything to say, but his company was pleasant. He guided me carefully around a puddle. We stopped at a stone bench under a hedge of lilac bushes. There was a large fountain with rabbits and herons dipping their stone feet in the cold water. Lily pads drifted in the basin.

Xavier didn’t sit too near or try to kiss me—that would have been terribly ungentlemanly, and he was nothing if not polite. But his hand on the bench was near mine, his gloved finger nearly pressing against mine. The ruffles of my hem waved in the breeze, touching his leg.

“Miss Willoughby, say you’ll join my parents and me for tea,” he finally blurted out. “I’ve told them all about you.”

I licked my lips, my mouth feeling suddenly dry. I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. “Of course.”

His hand closed over mine, gently. I turned my palm up under his. He smiled down at me. I tried to smile back.

“Xavier … that is, Mr. Trethewey …” It was horribly awkward to have to discuss this, but I had no father to do it for me and Mother would lie. And asking Colin was just too mortifying even to contemplate.

“Yes, Violet?”

“I feel I ought to … that is …” I sighed, irritated with myself. There was no sense in having a fit of the vapors over simple facts. “I don’t have a dowry.”

He looked briefly taken aback, but I couldn’t be sure if it was due to what I’d just told him or merely the blunt delivery of it.

“Perhaps you no longer wish for me to take tea with your mother?” I pressed, my spine very straight, my expression as bland and amiable as I could make it, despite the uncomfortable burning beneath my breastbone.

“Oh, Violet!” He clasped my hand to his chest, startling me. “You are quite ten times more beautiful than any other girl in England. Let that be your dowry!”

I felt sure there was a compliment in there somewhere. I couldn’t say why it made me want to do something shocking, like slide down the banister or take off my shoes and itchy stockings and frolic in the fountain under the stone rabbits. I might be the one wearing the stifling corset, but Xavier would be the one to swoon if I did any such thing. He misunderstood my silence and picked a handful of roses for me with an eager smile.