“I did meet Mrs. Kingsley with the younger Miss Westcott at one of Mrs. Dance’s literature evenings,” he said, “and she was complimentary about the miniatures I had taken with me. She made mention of two granddaughters she had living with her and was clearly thinking about the possibilities. I wrote to you about this, Anna, did I not? But I have not heard from her since, and I have not knocked upon her door, easel in hand. Sometimes these things take time and patience and a little maneuvering.”

Anna smiled in understanding. “Avery and I called there today,” she said. “They are in good hands with Mrs. Kingsley, Joel, and I never intended you to do more than locate them for me and assure me, if you could, that they were settled here.”

Cunningham also volunteered his time to teach art at the orphanage a few afternoons a week. Avery asked him how well he worked with the new teacher, and he grimaced.

“She is a nincompoop,” he said. “But a dangerous nincompoop, for she seems highly respectable, the sort of person who must know all about teaching and the needs of growing children. She knows worse than nothing. She resents the fact that I teach art and keeps alluding to the fact that she is an accomplished watercolorist and has won acclaim from all sorts of dusty people. She has taken to listening in on my lessons and occasionally openly contradicting me. In the Gospel according to Miss Nunce, good art has nothing whatsoever to do with talent or the imagination or—heaven forbid—an artist’s individual vision, and everything to do with correctly learned and meticulously applied craftsmanship. When one of my boys painted a sky full of light and color and life and glory, she refused to have it displayed in the schoolroom because the sky was not a uniform blue and there was no yellow ball in the top right-hand corner with yellow rays of equal length coming from it. I thanked her, in front of the children, with awful courtesy—you would have loved it, Anna—for making it possible for me to take the painting to display in my studio.”

Oh,” Anna said, her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, “if I could just have been a fly on the wall.”

“She is trying to make it impossible for me to stay,” Joel said. “But I am too stubborn to go, and I care for the children too much to oblige her. I hope I am making it impossible for her to stay. You ought to see how I allow the children to stuff all the art supplies into the cupboard, Anna. You would have scolded me for a week. Miss Nunce merely looks grim and martyred and complains to Miss Ford.”

Anna laughed and Avery began to like the man.

“You are a fortunate man, Netherby,” Cunningham told him not long before he took his leave. “I made Anna a marriage proposal a couple of years or so ago, but she refused me. Has she told you? She informed me that I was just lonely after leaving the orphanage. She told me I would live to regret it if she said yes. She was undoubtedly right—she often is. I envy you, but she remains my friend.”

He was sending a distinct message, Avery realized. He was in Anna’s life to stay, but since she had married Avery, there would be no resentment, no jealousy. There would be no reason for continued hostility.

“I envy me too,” Avery said while Anna looked between them again, as she had earlier, aware of the undercurrents. “My wife has been very fortunate to grow up with someone who will remain a lifelong friend. Not many people can make the same claim. I hope we will meet again.”

He meant it too—almost. But he did not for a moment believe that Anna was no more to Cunningham than a friend. He rather suspected that Anna did not even realize the true nature of the man’s feelings for her.

Soon after that they all shook hands and Cunningham set off home.

“Oh, Avery,” Anna said, turning to him when they were alone, “it feels so strange to be back here with everything the same yet altogether different.”

“You are sad?” he asked.

“No.” She frowned in thought. “Not sad. How could I be? Just—” She laughed softly. “Just sad.”

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “We will leave here tomorrow,” he said. “But we will return. We can never go back, my duchess, but we can always revisit the past.”

“Yes.” Her eyes were swimming with tears. “Oh, what a strange and emotional couple of weeks these have been. But I am ready to leave.”

A couple of weeks ago they had not even been married. He could not imagine himself now without Anna—a slightly alarming thought.

“Come to bed,” he said. “Let me make love to you.”

“Yes,” she said, leaning into him.

But she still looked sad.

Twenty-three

Falling in love had been easy. In fact, it had not even been that. It had just happened. Avery had neither planned nor expected nor particularly wanted it. He had fallen in love anyway. Deciding to marry and make an offer had also been easy. It had been done without forethought, entirely on the spur of the moment, largely because—he winced slightly at the thought—it had seemed altogether possible she might be persuaded and persuade herself into marrying Riverdale. Getting married had been easy. There had been no trouble or delay in acquiring the license or in finding a clergyman willing and able to marry them that very morning—or in persuading Anna to go with him.

The following two weeks had been blissful. Yes, that was a suitable word and not at all exaggerated. He had relaxed into the wonder of his marriage—and yes, even that word wonder was appropriate. He had allowed himself to enjoy companionship, friendship, and sex with his wife. He had fallen half in love with her grandparents and their way of life. He had felt a bit like a child in a playhouse during that week at the vicarage, with not a care in the world and without self-consciousness. He had even enjoyed Bath. Camille and Abigail were very obviously still suffering, but they were in safe hands and they would work things out. He was confident of that. They had not taken their half sister to their bosoms, but they had made an effort to be civil. He had marveled at the orphanage, which had not been the grim institution he had half expected, but which had nevertheless been his wife’s very spartan home for twenty-one years. She was loved there, and she was deeply fond of everyone, staff and children alike. He had even rather enjoyed the evening they had spent with Cunningham, whom he had been prepared to dislike and despise. But the man was intelligent, interesting, and honorable. It was clear he had feelings for Anna, but he had chosen, apparently a few years ago, to be her friend if he could be nothing more.