Mr. Granville’s gaze dropped to Harry Pye’s mutilated right hand resting on his knee. George followed his eyes and felt a cold wave wash over her body when she saw Harry flex the remaining fingers.

“And if I don’t leave?” Mr. Pye replied in a deadly calm voice, as if he were inquiring the time.

“You don’t have a choice.” Mr. Granville looked to George, apparently for support.

She raised her eyebrows.

He turned back to Mr. Pye. “It’s for the best, Harry. I can’t answer for what will happen if you don’t.”

Harry Pye didn’t reply. His green eyes had grown stony.

Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable period of time.

Mr. Granville suddenly slapped his hand on the throw. “Disgusting things.” He lifted his hand, and George saw that he’d squashed the cabbage butterfly.

She must’ve made a sound.

Both men looked at her, but it was Mr. Granville who spoke. “The butterfly. They come from worms that devour leafy crops. Nasty things. All farmers hate them.”

She and Mr. Pye were silent.

Mr. Granville’s face reddened. “Well. I must be going.

Thank you for the repast.” He stood and clambered back down the hill to his horse.

Harry Pye watched him go, eyes narrowed.

George looked down at the pickle jar beside her hand. She hadn’t the appetite for them anymore. She sighed mournfully. A perfect picnic ruined.

“YOU DON’T LIKE HIM.” Lady Georgina frowned, looking down at the picnic blanket. She was trying to fold it, but it was turning into a tangled mess.

“Who?” Harry took it from her and shook out the fabric, then handed her the corners on one end.

“Thomas Granville, of course.” She held her end of the blanket limply as if she didn’t know what to do. Hadn’t she ever folded a sheet before? “You swore when you saw him, you weren’t going to invite him to join us, and when he did, you were barely civil to him.”

“No, I don’t like Thomas Granville.” He backed up to draw the fabric taut, then brought his corners together so that a rectangle hung between them. She caught on. They folded the blanket once more, and then he walked toward her to take her corners from her. He met her eyes.

They were narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with Mr. Granville?”

He’s his father’s son. “I don’t trust him.”

“He knew you.” Her head was cocked to the side, as if she were a curious thrush. “You knew each other.”

“Aye.”