“No doubt you’re right about that.” They’d come to a gate, and he pulled the horse to a stop. “But you’re wrong on one other thing.”

“What is that?”

He tied the reins and stood in preparation to swing down from the gig. “I never disliked you, my lady.”

THE KEY TO A SUCCESSFUL alfresco picnic was in the packing. George peered into the wicker basket and hummed in approval. Squishy foods, like cream cakes, for instance, were bound to come to grief no matter how carefully the hamper was handled. She lifted out some smoked ham and placed it on a cutting board next to the cheese and crusty bread. If one forgot important utensils, one was likely to end up having to tear things apart with one’s bare hands. She handed the corkscrew to Mr. Pye. It was also most imperative that the foods not spoil during the day. A pear tart followed. And the little details should not be forgotten in order to have a really splendid picnic. She took out a small jar of pickled gherkins and sighed in satisfaction.

“I just adore picnics.”

Mr. Pye, wrestling with the cork in a bottle of white wine, looked up and smiled at her. “So I see, my lady.”

For a moment, George felt lost in that smile, the first full one she’d ever seen on his face.

The cork let go with a soft pop. Mr. Pye poured a glass of the translucent liquid and handed it to her. She took a sip, savoring the tart bite on her tongue, and then set the glass down on the throw where they sat. A white butterfly that had been resting on the throw took off.

“Look.” George gestured to the insect. “I wonder what kind it is?”

“It’s a cabbage butterfly, my lady.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “What an awful name for such a pretty thing.”

“Yes, my lady.” His tone was grave. Was he laughing at her?

The last farmer they’d visited hadn’t been home, and as they’d driven away from the lonely cottage, she’d insisted that they stop for luncheon. Mr. Pye had found a grassy hill beside the road. The view from the top of the hill was glorious. Even on a cloudy day like this one they could see for miles, maybe all the way into the next county.

“How did you know of this place?” she asked as she fished for pickles with a fork.

“I used to come here as a boy.”

“All alone?”

“Sometimes. I had a little pony as a lad, and I used to go wandering. Packed a picnic, not as grand as this one, of course, but enough to satisfy a boy for the day.”

George listened with her pickle, speared on a fork, held in midair. “That sounds lovely.”

“It was.” He looked away.