“You would be doing me a great favor,” Patrick said. “I am away from the house a great deal of the time and, as my wife has explained, she grows lonely. You could be her—her aide-de-camp when I am gone.”

Henri chewed on his lip.

“You cannot return to France,” Sophie pointed out, “and you cannot stay here in this monastery forever.”

The boy still looked unconvinced, so Patrick intervened. “Your father would have wished it,” he stated firmly.

“I don’t remember my father,” Henri replied.

Damme, but the boy was as obstinate as a mule! “Then you will have to accept that I am right,” Patrick announced, in the most stiff-rumped tone he could summon. “Your father would want you to live in a gentleman’s house, not in a Welsh monastery, and certainly not in the stables.”

Sophie stood up and shook out her skirts. “There, that’s settled,” she said briskly. “Henri, will you find Simone and Floret and inform them that we are ready to return to the Lark?”

As Henri trotted off to the kitchens, John Hankford stepped forward. He had been listening silently. “I was that sorry when your servant said you had to take shelter here,” he said. “I thought as Lunnonfolk would certainly have black hearts. But I’m happy to say, and say I will, that it’s not the case. All Lunnonfolk do na’ have black hearts.”

Sophie began to respond, but John broke in. “An’ another thing … I never thought you’d be so well to speak, either, ma’am. Not in our tongue. I’m mov’d, that’s what I am, mov’d. And so I’ll tell m’friends at the pub tonight. Lunnoners who speak Welsh! It’s enough to make one believe that the English aren’t all bad.”

Sophie cast Patrick a nervous glance. He was clearly lost by the turn in the conversation.

Oh well. The jig was up, so why not be polite? Ignoring Patrick, she smoothly switched into rolling Welsh and said a proper good-bye to John’s mother. Then she turned to her husband, giving him a sweet smile.

“Shall we return to the Lark?” Her heart was pounding. Was Patrick angry? He didn’t look angry. If anything he looked mildly bemused.

The minute they were out in the corridor, Patrick said, “Welsh? Welsh? Is your mother Welsh-French, if there is such a combination?”

“Oh no,” Sophie replied. “It was the laundry woman who was Welsh.”

“The laundry woman!” Her husband was clearly astounded. “What contact had you with the laundry or the person who washed it?”

“Her name was Mary. I used to spend a good deal of time with the maids,” Sophie explained, “because my governesses kept leaving—or being dismissed. Finally, Mary taught me Welsh.”

Patrick looked at her speculatively. “What were you doing to drive off governesses, hiding mice in their beds?”