She flashed a parting smile at Bessie over her shoulder as she made her way down the front steps to the drive. Mr. Entwhistle had a small cottage on the estate. It wasn’t too far of a walk. Not if one knew the landscape of the park.

And no one knew it better than Maggie did.

She cut across the wide expanse of manicured lawn and down through a thicket of trees. Wildflowers were blooming, and bees buzzing about in the sun to drink their nectar.

Her half-boots crunched on the grass as she followed the winding path that ran along the edge of the stream that flowed through the grounds. Ahead, the gently sloping banks were covered in a familiar wash of blue.

Years ago, she’d lain there with Nicholas Seaton, upon a bed of forget-me-nots. She’d held his hand, her young heart so in love with him it was fit to burst.

She’d heard nothing from him since leaving London. She hadn’t entirely expected to.

But no matter. She didn’t have time to pine. Her guests had kept her busy.

Too busy, frankly.

With any luck, the Beresfords would soon grow tired of their stay in the country and head back to town, taking their equally nosy servants along with them. None of them appeared to be enjoying themselves, Mr. Beresford least of all. He wasn’t much for shooting or other country pursuits, not as far as Maggie could tell. She’d rarely seen a man so out of his element.

“Miss Honeywell!” Mr. Entwhistle hailed her from the garden gate of his stone cottage. A thin, balding gentleman with a stooped figure, he’d been the steward of Beasley Park for as long as Maggie could remember.

She smiled at him in greeting. “Good afternoon, Mr. Entwhistle.”

“A pleasure to see you, ma’am. But what’s this? I expected you’d come in the carriage.”

Her smile dimmed. Goodness, the way he looked at her, one would think she was on her last prayers. “I’m quite well enough to walk. The fresh air has done me a world of good.”

His bushy white brows lowered. “Best come in and sit down. I’ll have Mrs. Square fetch you a cup of tea. Nothing better to revive a body.”

Maggie followed him inside. The cottage was clean and cool, scented with the fragrance of lemon oil furniture polish and freshly baked bread.

Mr. Entwhistle’s elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Square, awaited them in the modest entry hall. Gray-haired and plump, with a pair of half-moon spectacles perched upon her nose, she was another familiar face from childhood.

Maggie recalled accompanying her father to see Mr. Entwhistle when she was just a little girl, barely out of leading strings. While Papa had talked with his steward, Mrs. Square had plied Maggie with candied fruit and sugared biscuits.