Chapter 27
“You need not fuss with the napkins, My Lady. His Grace does not notice such things,” Mrs. Woods chuckled as she fussed with the napkins herself.
She hovered at the edge of the blanket with a covered basket in one hand and a suspiciously maternal expression on her face. “But the jam tartlets are a point of pride, so do make certain they are on display.”
Lavinia, who was on her knees arranging a pair of willow plates, spared the housekeeper a wry glance. “If he does not notice, then it hardly matters whether they are present at all, does it?”
Mrs. Woods wagged a finger in the sort of gesture usually reserved for recalcitrant footmen.
“A proper picnic is a matter of pride in this household. Besides, Lady Sophia has been a cloud of nerves since breakfast. If you can distract her for even an hour, you will have done a world of good. More than her father ever manages, I dare say.”
Lavinia hid her smile by straightening the edge of the blanket, ensuring not a single blade of grass peeked over the tartan. “You must let me know if I am to add picnic impresario to my duties. I should like to update my references accordingly.”
Mrs. Woods laughed, then ducked her head and hurried away, leaving Lavinia alone beneath the vast oak and its summer-gold canopy.
The breeze was gentle, the morning warm and golden. If it were always like this, she thought, life would be bearable. She brushed a speck from her dress and reached for the basket, arranging the contents with the sort of care that would have made her own mother proud.
Stop it. It’s only a picnic. You are not arranging the terms of the Treaty of Paris.
She had just finished pouring lemonade into the glasses when footsteps announced the approach of Sophia and, a few yards behind, His Grace. Lavinia’s cheeks prickled with warmth. She rose, curtsied, and hoped the flush did not betray her.
“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan said. Today, he wore his usual black, but his cravat was not so fiercely knotted.
The sight of him so unadorned sent a quick, inexplicable pang through her.
His eyes scanned the blanket, the food, the basket, and finally landed on her, registering the effort with a barely perceptible nod. “You appear to have outdone yourself.”
“It is only a meal,” Lavinia replied, refusing to betray the nervous flutter in her stomach. “But Mrs. Woods assures me the tartlets are epochal.”
Tristan allowed the smallest of smiles, the sort that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. “I suppose we must all aspire to greatness.”
Sophia, meanwhile, had abandoned protocol entirely and dashed to the blanket. “Is that lemonade?” She kneeled, her hands braced on the fabric, and peered into every dish as if a treasure might be hidden inside.
“Do you see anything else you recognize?” Lavinia prompted, letting her tone conspire with the girl’s excitement.
Sophia’s eyes grew huge. “You brought Whisper!” The kitten, having been hidden in a pocket of the basket, poked his head out and promptly attempted to scale the rim. Sophia scooped him up and cradled him with the intensity of one rescuing an orphan from certain peril.
Tristan’s mouth twitched. “I was under the impression animals were not allowed at table.”
“Picnics are exempt from such rules,” Lavinia replied. “Provided the animal in question promises not to upend the lemonade.”
“Whisper would never,” Sophia declared, rubbing her cheek against the kitten’s downy head.
They all settled, Lavinia at one end of the blanket, Sophia in the middle with Whisper, and Tristan at the other. The seating was not so much arranged as negotiated, with each of them pretending it was the natural order of things.
As they began to eat, Lavinia’s mind was a jumble of misbehaving thoughts. This picnic was creating a moment so intimate that she did not anticipate it. The effect was both thrilling and unnerving.
Sophia, face flushed, immediately set about feeding Whisper small morsels of cheese, cooing nonsense the whole while.
Tristan took a scone, examining it as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe, and bit in.
Lavinia watched him out of the corner of her eye, determined not to be caught staring.
He glanced over. “You are not eating.”
She started, then reached for a tartlet. “I was merely ensuring Sophia did not overfeed the cat.”
“Whisper has a constitution stronger than most of the House of Lords,” Sophia declared, already reaching for a second cube of cheese. “Lady Lavinia says cats are built for adversity.”
“Lady Lavinia is frequently correct,” Tristan said, his attention focusing on her.
Lavinia colored and busied herself with the plate.
For a few minutes, the world shrank to the gentle business of eating, with Sophia providing a running commentary on every flavor and texture, and Tristan consuming his food in disciplined silence.
It was not until Sophia had worn herself out with the kitten and begun making daisy chains in the grass that the real conversation began.
“You are very quiet today,” Tristan observed, low enough that Sophia could not overhear. “It is unusual.”
Lavinia did not look at him, but instead concentrated on slicing an apple. “It is said that ladies ought to speak only when spoken to. I am merely practicing.”
He raised a brow. “I thought you had no patience for empty convention.”
“Then you are not paying attention,” she said, biting the tip of her tongue before the rest could escape.
He did not press, but the silence between them felt charged, as if an argument might break out at any moment—or something else, equally impossible.
Sophia returned, arms filled with wildflowers. “Look! I made a crown for Whisper.” She plopped the daisy chain onto the kitten’s head, to the cat’s obvious displeasure.
“Fit for a prince,” Lavinia said.
Sophia wriggled closer, her shoulder pressed warm against Lavinia’s. “I wish you would make one, too. Then we could both be queens and Whisper would be our prince.”
“I would have made you a queen long ago if I had thought you wished it,” Lavinia replied, picking up a handful of daisies and beginning to braid.
Tristan watched, and for a second, Lavinia caught the expression on his face: something wistful, something lonely, something so raw it nearly broke her heart.
The moment passed as quickly as it arrived.
After the remains of the meal were tidied, Lavinia produced a small set of painted wooden rings from her basket. “Perhaps, now that we are all sated, a game?” She set the rings and the little peg in the grass.
Sophia squealed. “Ring toss! I have not played since I was very little.”
“Neither have I,” Lavinia replied. “But I have read the instructions, so we are all on even ground.”
Tristan eyed the rings with skepticism. “I am not convinced this is dignified.”
“Dignity is not required at a picnic,” Lavinia replied, meeting his gaze. “Only competitive spirit. Are you willing to risk your reputation for the chance at glory?”
He considered. “I am a duke. My reputation is immune.”
Sophia giggled, and even Lavinia allowed herself a small laugh.
“Shall we begin?” she said, dividing the rings with the gravitas of a magistrate.
They took turns, Sophia going first. Her ring landed wide of the mark, but she laughed and tried again. Lavinia demonstrated, missing spectacularly, which sent Sophia into spasms of mirth.
When it was Tristan’s turn, he examined the ring, then tossed it without much enthusiasm. The ring landed, with a soft thump, squarely over the peg.
Sophia clapped. “Father! You did it!”
He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
Lavinia pursed her lips. “Beginner’s luck.”
Tristan cocked a brow. “Would you care to make a wager?”
“Wagering is a sin,” Lavinia replied, “but if I lose, I will compose a poem in your honor and recite it at supper.”
Sophia grinned. “What if Lady Lavinia wins?”
Tristan’s eyes met hers, daring and unblinking. “Then I will permit Whisper to join us at dinner. On the table.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open in delight. “Agreed!”
They played three rounds, the tension mounting as each ring landed—or didn’t—with increasingly wild results. Lavinia’s second throw landed on the peg, but her third skidded past by a foot. Tristan matched her, then surpassed her, earning the win on the final toss.
“A poem,” he reminded her, “at supper.”
Lavinia groaned. “I have been undone by my own pride.”
Sophia was beside herself with glee. “Lady Lavinia is very good at poems. She once wrote a whole play about a hedgehog.”
“I will look forward to it,” Tristan said, a challenge behind the words.
They cleaned up the game, Sophia and Whisper chasing each other across the grass while Lavinia gathered the last of the plates. She glanced at Tristan, who watched his daughter with a look so open, so gentle, it startled her.
He caught her looking.
“What is it?” he said.
She shook her head, smiling. “I never thought to see you laugh, Your Grace.”
“I do not laugh,” he replied, but the denial rang hollow. “You are a very bad influence.”
“I pride myself on it,” she shot back.
He came to stand beside her, so near she could see the faint shadow along his jaw, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “You are different when you are not at war with the world,” he said.
She swallowed. “So are you.”
They stood like that, the world narrowed to a single point of tension, until Sophia’s voice interrupted: “Whisper is tired. May I put her in your lap, Lady Lavinia?”
Lavinia dropped her eyes. “Of course.”
They sat together, Sophia between them, Whisper curled up in a warm, contented heap. Lavinia stroked the cat, but her gaze kept drifting to Tristan, who had resumed his watchful silence.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if they could be like this always. If she could be part of this world, not just its temporary caretaker.
Sophia, nearly asleep, leaned her head against Lavinia’s shoulder. “You are the nicest lady I ever met,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.
Lavinia blinked hard. “Thank you, darling.”
Sophia’s voice, muffled by drowsiness, said, “I wish you were my mama.”
There was a silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Sophia’s hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes grew huge with horror. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Tristan’s entire body seemed to go rigid, his jaw clenched, his eyes shuttered.
“Sophia,” he said, and his voice was so cold it could have frozen the sun, “Lady Lavinia is not and will never be your mother. Do you understand?”
Nodding, Sophia shrank into herself, clutching Whisper as if the cat might shield her from the storm.
Lavinia sat perfectly still, the folded blanket in her lap pressed tight against her chest. She could not look at either of them. She could only stare at the grass, willing herself not to feel.
Tristan stood abruptly, casting a long shadow across the blanket.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said. “We should go inside. The air is turning cold.”
Sophia scrambled up, clutching Whisper, her eyes on the ground. Lavinia rose, but her legs felt hollow.
They walked back in silence, the warmth and laughter of the picnic erased as if it had never been.
At the door, Tristan paused. He did not look at her, but his voice was softer. “I apologize. That was unkind.”
Lavinia nodded, but the words did not come.
She watched them go inside, Sophia’s small form hunched, Tristan’s shoulders rigid. She waited until the door closed behind them, then sank onto the stone step.
You will never be her mother. You will never be anything more in their lives.
She wrapped her arms around herself, blinking up at the leaves overhead.
The truth stabbed at her chest; she wanted the impossible. She wanted this family.