She was not reading it. She watched a pair of sparrows land on the low garden wall, and paid no attention to the conversation until the conversation required her. Eleanor began with the London season. She spoke of which families had returned from the continent, which hostesses were planning musicals, and which marriages had already been whispered about in drawing rooms.
Her voice was pleasant, and her opinions were careful. She disliked nothing too strongly, approved of nothing too boldly, and turned every subject towards stability. Arthur answered as he should. He asked where she preferred to spend the season.
He allowed her to praise the balance between town and country. He listened while she described a new arrangement of the gardens at Townsend Hall, where old shrubs had been removed and the paths made more symmetrical. "It is vastly improved," Eleanor said, setting down the teapot. "There is something reassuring about order, do you not think? A garden should show the hand of the person responsible for it." Lady Danvers smiled. "Eleanor has always had a fine eye for household management." Arthur looked into his tea.
The surface trembled slightly where his fingers held the cup. "I suppose a garden can reveal a great deal about the person who governs it, he said. Eleanor brightened. Exactly. Without discipline, even beauty becomes untidy. It was the kind of statement he might once have admired. It matched the life expected of him. A great estate required discipline. Tenants, land, accounts, servants, family name, political obligations, all of it required a hand steady enough to keep disorder from spreading. Yet, as Eleanor spoke, Arthur found himself thinking of the conservatory, of rain on glass, and Clara saying that the ballroom was not honest. He turned his head toward the terrace. Clara was watching the sparrows. One had hopped closer to a crumb near the door. She looked entirely at ease in her chair, her shoulders loose, her attention unclaimed by the need to please him. Lady Clara, Arthur said. The room shifted. It was a small thing, using her name, but it cut across the careful design of the afternoon. Eleanor's smile remained, though her fingers stilled on the edge of her saucer. Lady Danvers looked up. Clara turned from the terrace. Yes, Your Grace? Do you agree with your sister? About Townsend Hall? About gardens, he said. Should beauty be disciplined before it is allowed to be admired? Eleanor gave a light laugh. Clara would let half the county disappear under weeds if she thought a bird might nest there. It was not cruel, not exactly. It was sisterly, polished, and dismissive enough to pass as affection. Clara did not react, but Arthur felt something tighten in him.