Helena came in alone before the course had truly settled. She shut the door on the laughter until it became a rumor.
"Show me," she said.
Mara opened the muslin. The duchess held it to the candle, not the river-light. The seam was true. Both of them knew it. Helena's thumb followed the line and found no complaint.
"You can work," she said.
"Yes, your grace."
"Do not say yes to me in that voice. I have learned what it costs." She lowered the cloth but did not return it. "He will try to be honorable tonight and also try not to wound that girl in the middle of her soup. He will fail at one of the two. I would like to know which failure you are praying for."
"I am not praying for his performance," Mara said. "I am praying for nothing. I am waiting to see whether the man who left Heston still exists, or whether only the duke came back. You wanted me to stand here so you could watch my face while you listen at the door. Watch it, then. I will not help you interpret him."
A flush of anger touched the duchess's throat above the lace. "You are very brave in a parlor."
"I am very finished," Mara said. "There is a difference."
A chair moved in the dining room. Edmund's voice rose enough to come through the wood, not as a shout, as a man refusing to let a sentence be completed for him.
"Sir Walter, I cannot let that stand as it was said," he was saying. "You have been told that I am free to offer for your daughter. I have not made that offer. I will not make it tonight. The fault in the delay is mine, and the kindness of your coming is not repaid by more delay. I am asking you to consider the understanding at an end."