It had to be said that resting did not come easily to either of us. In the end Weatherly had to set Samuel—who was back to his ebullient self—the task of cleaning the smaller silver just to get him to sit down. Julia insisted I convalesce with Lady Hester and amuse her with games rather than pace the house waiting for The Times to arrive.

It transpired that Lady Hester particularly enjoyed piquet, and so for the next two afternoons we sat for as long as she could manage at the small table in her bedchamber and played hand after hand under the watchful eyes of Miss Grant. In the three weeks or so since we had rescued Hester from the asylum, she had gained some weight and strength on her tall frame. The ominous gray cast to her skin had receded and her high Belford cheekbones were no longer just stark bones. Even so, she remained weak and able to move around for only a short time before fatigue laid her low.

Occasionally she talked of her eldest brother, her voice still heartbreakingly hoarse from months of fugue silence. I admit I encouraged any stories of Lord Evan. It seemed he had always been generous to his little sister, or perhaps it was the glamouring of memory—or my own bias—that made him seem so kind. She did not mention Lord Deele at all, an understandable omission.

Every now and then as we played, I saw a glimpse of Evan in Hester’s face and it clenched my heart: her smile, so like his, and the mischief in her blue eyes when she held a winning hand. At other times, the specters of the asylum would drain her features into a gaunt otherworldly mask. Then the sound of a door closed too heavily or the clatter of a dropped pan would shudder through her body and leave her shaking for minutes after. At those times, Miss Grant would hold her, murmuring soothing words and drawing Hester’s head upon her shoulder. At those times, I would leave them, unnoticed, and carefully close the door behind me.

During one game, she paused before placing her card and asked, “Do you think my brother will communicate soon, Lady Augusta? I so wish to see him again.”

“I do not know,” I said, which was more or less true, since there was every possibility that Evan would not see the notice. Still, her words brought a pang of guilt.

“We must speak to him at the earliest opportunity,” Miss Grant said from her own chair. She stood and walked across the room, her steps too purposeful for the space. I recognized the impulse to walk out a frustration—I did it myself, often enough. She looked out the window, then swung around to face me again. “I believe we must leave in the next week or so, and Lord Evan may know the best way to proceed.”