“And of course,” Muriel said, grasping Catherine’s hands and kissing her warmly, “my most pressing need is to admire our latest great-nephew.”

“Of course!” Catherine was all sunny smiles, concealing any irritation at having to deal with unexpected guests. Once again, I reflected that either she was a mistress of dissimulation or the sweetest-natured girl ever born. I was not sure which, but I suspected the latter. There was no artifice in her. Muriel on the other hand, could never lay claim to a sweet nature. I knew why she was here. She had told me in her letters that she resented Thomas’s frequent trips to see Robert at Chastleton, his advice on the library and the development of the gardens, all the visits and the plans that excluded her. This time, she had evidently insisted on accompanying him. Her annoyance at Thomas’s role in Robert’s life was one of the few things that she and I had in common, though for different reasons.

The baggage was unloaded, refreshments provided, the guests washed the travel stains from their persons and, somewhat predictably, Robert bore Sir Thomas away to the library. Meanwhile little Robbie was brought from the nursery to be admired. He had been asleep and was still drowsy as the nurse placed him in my sister’s arms.

“He is a handsome little fellow,” Muriel said, “with a strong grip.” Robbie was holding a carved wooden soldier that we had given to him as a teething present.

The baby opened his eyes then and smiled at her, a bright, benign smile that tugged at the strings of my heart. “Oh!” Muriel’s tone changed. “But he has odd eyes!” She sounded shrill, accusing. “One green, one blue. How singular.”

I saw Catherine turn pink. “There is nothing wrong with Robbie or his eyes,” she said, and it was the first time I had ever heard her sound ruffled. I knew then that the servants had been talking; repeating silly superstitions about changeling children and witchcraft, simply because Robbie was different.

“My dear,” I said, ignoring Muriel and addressing Catherine directly, “no one believes any of the stories that fools tell about children with different color eyes!” I gave Muriel a vicious look. “Besides, we all know that babies eye color is forever changing and a babe with blue eyes at birth may develop brown ones as they grow. It is nothing to be alarmed about.”

The tension in Catherine’s frame relaxed a little and she gave me a grateful smile although I could see she was still trembling on the verge of tears. As a new mother, her emotions were in flux and she was understandably upset at any perceived criticism of her child. I felt infuriated that Muriel could not see that—could not remember how vulnerable one could feel after the birth of a baby—and that she had caused this distress with her thoughtless comment.

Muriel, however, became more tense even as I tried to smooth things over.

“You misunderstand me,” she said tightly. Her sharp gaze pinned Catherine to her seat. “Those are Tresham eyes. Only the Treshams have one green eye and one blue. It is a family trait down the generations.”