"I think so. Tonight or tomorrow."
"May I stay?"
He hesitated. He was not a man who thought often of propriety, but he was a man who thought carefully about consequences, and he was uneasily aware that this was not wise. But she looked at the plant with such naked hope, and he had seen her work every morning for four months for a man who did not know it, that he heard himself say, "I shall fetch the second chair."
They sat together in the warm dark.
For a long time neither of them spoke. The pipes ticked. Somewhere in the roof a drop of condensation gathered and fell. Cecilia drew her cloak around her and said, in a small voice, "Mr. Hale, may I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"When you said you would ask Miss Cole on Sunday. Were you afraid?"
"Terrified, my lady."
"And what did you say?"
"I said she had a face like the first morning of spring, and that I was only a gardener, and that I could offer her nothing but a cottage and a great many cuttings." He smiled, a little crookedly. "She said she had always wanted a great many cuttings."
Cecilia laughed softly, and her eyes were wet.
"I wish I could be that brave."
"With his lordship, you mean."
She looked at him sharply.
"I am not blind, my lady," Samuel said gently. "Nor deaf. He comes to the window every morning. He thinks no one sees."
"He…" Her voice shook. "He comes to the window?"
"Every day since he came home. He stands there for an hour. I believe he is looking at you."
She put both hands over her face. "He does not even speak to me," she said, through her fingers. "He is polite. He is so terribly, terribly polite. I thought he did not care for me at all."
"It has been my experience," said Samuel slowly, "that a man who stands at a window for an hour every morning cares for a great deal. He may simply not know the word for it."