Clara sent up a silent prayer that Mrs. Bainbridge would resolve to stay on this side of the Channel. It would save Clara from having to seek another position. She couldn’t remove to France, not at present. And she had no wish to embark on another round of answering employment advertisements and submitting to intrusive interviews.

“Nevertheless, it all sounds very exciting.” Lady Helena returned the teapot to the tea tray. She was garbed in a loose-fitting cashmere jacket and skirt, and had a soft glow to her gently rounded features. A result of her pregnancy, Clara guessed. The condition did nothing to detract from her ladyship’s beauty. Though it was surely the impetus for Mr. Thornhill to hover at his wife’s side, standing over her so protectively.

Clara felt a pang of envy for ladies who were fortunate enough to have a life and a home of their own. Perhaps that was why she’d been so stubborn about Bertie. It was a terrible thing to be alone in the world. To be dismissed and discarded. To never belong anywhere. What was a dog to do in his old age if no one wanted him?

More to the point, what was a woman to do?

“When do you plan on leaving for Grasse?” Mr. Thornhill asked.

“Early March, at the latest,” Mr. Archer said from his place on the settee. He was a roguishly handsome gentleman. A newly married one, too.

His wife, Laura, was Mrs. Bainbridge’s niece. She sat close at his side. So close that the hem of her voluminous skirts pooled over his booted feet. She was a lovely lady, though not in the doe-eyed, aristocratic manner of Lady Helena. Laura Archer’s beauty lay more in the confidence with which she carried herself. The intelligence in her slate-blue gaze and the compassion in her smile.

She seemed a level-headed lady with a genuine affection for her family. She was also plainly in love with her new husband, and he with her. One could see it in the way they looked at each other. The way they touched.

“We’ve found a house near to our perfumery.” Mr. Archer took his wife’s hand. “A grand old place atop a hill, with windows overlooking the lavender fields.”

Mrs. Archer smiled. “We hope to be settled in before the first harvest.”

“You must be looking forward to it,” Lady Helena said. “And you, Mr. Hayes. I imagine that, for an artist, the French Riviera will provide a wealth of ready subjects.”

“One hopes,” Mr. Hayes replied. Like his sister, he was dark haired and blue eyed. But there was a wry humor to Mr. Hayes’s expression that Mrs. Archer lacked—a sharpness which Clara suspected could cut as easily as it could amuse. “The new house is but ten miles from the sea.”

“Do you prefer painting seascapes?” Mr. Thornhill asked.

“Of late I do.”

Mr. Archer grinned. “I’ve challenged him to tackle the Devon coast.”

“I intend to,” Mr. Hayes said. “If the rain ever stops.”