Lucy could hear the rumble of Finn’s voice as he spoke to Cleo, then the sound of the front door closing. Geoffrey, looking anxious, dashed over to the garden gate and waited while Finn came around to let him out. He shot out of the garden and away down the valley.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” Cleo came back out into the sunshine. “So gruff but so capable.”

“Geoffrey?” Lucy deliberately misunderstood her. “Yes, he’s supercute.” She watched as Finn and Geoffrey strolled away down the path, past the orchards and over a little wooden bridge that crossed the stream. At the bottom of the hill the land opened up again with pasture on one side and the tumbled walls of the Victorian kitchen garden on the other. Lucy saw Finn open his notebook and grope in his pocket for a pencil. The bright sunlight burnished his bent head as he started to draw.

Cleo sighed. She slid back into her seat, but her silence was charged with the weight of words unsaid. Birdsong swept back in to fill the silence. Lucy looked at her sister and shook her head slightly.

“Go on then,” she said. “Spit it out.”

“Where to start?” Cleo said, raising her brows. “What on earth is going on between you and Finn?”

“What do you mean?” Lucy fidgeted with her hair.

“The whole Lady Chatterley and the gardener act,” Cleo said. “You being haughty with the hired hand.”

“I don’t think Lady Chatterley is quite the comparison you’re looking for,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry if I sounded a bit abrupt with him—and with you as well.” She looked at Cleo’s stubborn face and sighed. “I know you were only trying to help, Cleo, by suggesting I should join the dig. I know you don’t want me to be sitting around moping.” She pulled a face. “But give me a bit of time. I haven’t got my head around the fact that I won’t be playing professionally ever again. I feel like a failure, to be honest, and as though I’ve let you all down.”

“Oh, Lucy!” Cleo leaped up, sending her chair clanging backward, and grabbed her sister in a tight hug. “Why didn’t you say? You haven’t let anyone down! It’s not your fault!”

“I know.” Lucy inhaled more patchouli as Cleo held her so close that she couldn’t breathe. “But you gave up so much so that I could be a professional musician. I want you to know that if you ever want those riding lessons or ballet classes now, I’ll take a job to pay for them—”

Cleo gave a snort of laughter and let her go. “I’m not bendy enough to do ballet anymore,” she said regretfully, “but I appreciate the offer.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.” Lucy felt comforted—until she remembered how summarily she had dismissed Finn’s request for help.

“Oh God, I suppose I’ll have to apologize to Finn for pouring cold water on his idea of help with the research,” she said, “but I’m not a historian. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”