“Oh! How beautiful!” Miss Dunkirk dashed to the nearest rosebush and inhaled the subtle perfume. “One imagines lovers from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels walking through these flowers and declaring their love and undying passion.”

“It is hard for me to imagine that! My memories are of hiding from our governess here.”

“Did you truly hide? I would have imagined that you were a dutiful pupil.”

“I was, for the most part, but for a period of several months our governess was quite taken with dosing us with the vilest tonic you can imagine. I hid whenever it was time for the tonic, hoping that this time, I would get away, but she always found me in the end. So now, every turn makes me think of the secret passages and running from tonics.”

Miss Dunkirk’s face lit with delight. “Are there secret passages?”

“Not formally, but there were places where a shrub is missing and tree branches were trained to cover the gap.” Jane laughed as old memories came trooping back. “I had quite forgotten how I used to frustrate Henry—Captain Livingston, now—when he stayed with his aunt. Lady FitzCameron would let him come to play with us, but his idea of playing involved chasing us with snakes or toads.”

“Did he! I cannot imagine him being so awful.” Miss Dunkirk clapped her hands and leaned closer, her face shining with merriment. “Oh, do tell me. What was he like as a boy?”

“A scoundrel. I suppose all little boys are, but he was the only one close to our age at the time. Nothing delighted him more than making us shriek. So I would run into the maze and hide while he looked everywhere for me. It was easy, for a small girl could slip through the gaps. The hardest thing was controlling my laughter as he ran past me. I have not thought to cut through the hedge in years, and it is likely that I am no longer small enough to do so.” She touched the petals of a rose, thinking of her father’s request that she wear roses, and then of the ball, where she would gladly have slipped through the walls. “I think I prefer your imaginings to my memories. This should be a place for lovers.”

“Mr. Vincent would like it, I think. It is so hard to tell what he likes and does not like, but I think that he is fond of seclusion, so a hidden garden would appeal to him. Do you not think so?”

“Perhaps. I know very little of him.” Jane winced, remembering the tableau vivant on the hill. “I am afraid that he does not care for me.”

“Oh, but that’s not true! He likes you very much.”

Surprized, Jane said, “Does he? It does not seem so to me. What has he said to make you think that he does?”

“I said that you were very talented, and he didn’t say that you weren’t—which might not seem like much to you, but to one who knows him, it is clear that he agreed, or he would have said otherwise. Oh, he is very droll like that. A look or a glance will be all he will allow of his thoughts, but to one who knows him, it is as if he had said a volume.”