“Mrs. Hodges has observed that very same thing, Your Grace, and witness her kindness toward Ivy. She is also of the opinion that funds available to me for the Lord’s work in Australia might go twice as far here in England if devoted to a girls’ school. The north hasn’t many, and thus our girls must travel all the way to the Midlands or farther.”

Rothhaven—who had provided the funds under discussion—made encouraging noises, served up pear torte, and generally acted as a competent host while Constance knew a joy too magnificent for tears.

Ivy was not to go away, she wanted to visit at the Hall, and nothing, nothing on earth, could be better news than that.

A tap on the door suggested the kitchen had sensed when more torte was needed, but the maid Harris again announced guests.

“Their Graces of Walden,” she said. “Her Grace forgot her gloves.”

Well, no. Jane had doubtless spotted Reverend Shaw’s coach drawing around to the carriage house, and promptly decided to investigate, towing Quinn, Althea, and Nathaniel with her.

Rothhaven made the introductions, presenting Mrs. Hodges and the reverend to Jane, Quinn, Althea, and Nathaniel in turn. Through the endless bowing and curtsying, Ivy sidled closer and closer to Constance’s side.

“And this,” Rothhaven said, turning to Ivy, “is our dear Ivy. She has expressed a desire to visit at the Hall, and we are negotiating that happy prospect with her uncle. Should we perhaps move into the garden on such a fine day?”

The familial herd decamped to the walled garden, which was approaching its peak glory. Constance found Ivy walking on her left, Rothhaven on her right, and, without asking permission, she joined hands with them both.

“I am so happy at this moment, I am at risk for bursting into song.”

“Please don’t, Mama Constance—I mean Your Grace—or Uncle will suggest we sing hymns, and his braying is the epitome of a joyful noise.”

“I like the other better,” Constance said, daring to loop an arm around Ivy’s shoulders.

“Mama Constance?”

“Yes, that. I like it very well indeed.” She gave in to temptation and hugged Ivy, a quick squeeze that the girl tolerated good-naturedly.

Ivy was as properly awed by Rothhaven’s flowers as any visitor would be when surrounded by so much fragrance, color, and beauty. She skipped ahead and began investigating the plantings in each bed.

Constance stood on the steps beside her husband, letting joy wash through her as Althea and Mrs. Hodges discussed the best way to dry meadow mint, Jane and the reverend took the bench near Saint Valentine’s statue, and Quinn and Ivy took turns flicking pebbles into the birdbaths. Nathaniel was picking a bouquet of tulips, probably for his wife, and Monteverdi chased a butterfly among the rosebushes.

“You will paint this,” Rothhaven said, “and we will hang it in the family parlor.”

“Is that a request?”

“A prediction.”