She had spent 3 hours pressing wildflowers between parchment when Rosie went missing. Eleanor Calloway did not panic immediately. Rosie had a habit of disappearing into gardens, beneath staircases, behind the curtains of drawing rooms where she did not belong. At 6 years old, she operated with the quiet confidence of someone who had never once been told that the world was not built for her. But they were at Lord Pemwick's summer garden party, and Lord Pemwick's summer garden party had hedgerows and fountains and the sort of crowd that paid far too much attention to a motherless girl alone in a white pinafore.
Eleanor set down her pressing board, pushed back her spectacles, and went looking. The afternoon was the color of warm amber, the kind of light that flatters everyone and means nothing. Around her, London's finest drifted across trimmed lawns in silks and linen, laughter floating upward like smoke. Eleanor moved through them the way she always did, purposefully, practically, with her hair not quite cooperating and her gloves one shade too sensible for the occasion. She was not unhappy here. She simply did not belong here, and she had long made peace with the difference.
Rosie. Not loud. Not yet. She passed Lady Fenwick near the rose arch, who smiled with her eyes closed in that particular way that meant your sister has done something again. Eleanor's stomach dropped. She found her near the east hedge. Rosie was standing in front of a man. Not just any man. The kind of man who made other people step slightly to the side when he entered a room. Not because he demanded it, but because something in his bearing suggested that the space around him had already been reorganized to accommodate him.
He was tall in the way old money makes you tall. Unhurried. Dark coat. Silver watch chain catching the light. A jaw that had clearly never been arranged into a comfortable expression. He was looking down at Rosie with an expression somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement, which was, Eleanor had to admit, the correct response to Rosie Calloway. Rosie was holding his coat. Not tugging it. Holding it. With both small hands and the absolute seriousness of a barrister presenting evidence.
"And she knows the names of flowers in Latin," Rosie was saying with the gravity of someone listing credentials. "Which I think is very impressive even if she says it is just her job. And she makes very good tea. And she does not cry at parties even when she wants to." Eleanor stopped walking. "Rosie." This time her voice came out wrong. Higher than intended and slightly strangled.
Rosie turned. Her face was luminous with satisfaction. "Ellie." "I found him." "You found" Eleanor looked at the man. He was looking at her now. His eyes were the particular gray of a sky that had not yet decided whether to rain. "I am so sorry," she said immediately. "Whatever she has said to you, I want you to know that she is six and she speaks with a great deal of confidence about things she does not fully understand."
"She was remarkably articulate," the man said. His voice was lower than she expected. Unhurried like the rest of him. "She is always articulate." "That is precisely the problem." Eleanor reached Rosie and took her firmly by the shoulder. "What did you say to this gentleman?" Rosie blinked. Entirely unrepentant. "I told him he should marry you."
The silence that followed was the specific kind that hums. Eleanor felt the heat arrive at the back of her neck and travel forward with startling efficiency. She did not look at the man. She could not quite yet. She focused instead on Rosie's face, which was wearing the expression of someone who had done a very good deed and was waiting to be thanked for it. "Rosie Calloway," Eleanor said quietly, "we are going to have a very serious conversation."
"After he agrees," Rosie said. "He is not going to." Eleanor stopped. Pressed her lips together. Looked up. The man, and she still did not know his name, which felt suddenly like a disadvantage, was watching her with an expression she could not categorize. Not mocking. Not precisely amused, either. Something more careful than both.
"She mentioned you study botany," he said. "I do," Eleanor said, because it was the safest sentence available to her. "She said you would argue with me." Eleanor's chin lifted just slightly. "I have not yet had reason to." Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the possibility of one, considered and set aside for later.
He bowed. Brief. Proper. "James Aldrich Vane, Duke of Ashworth." Eleanor stared at him for one unguarded moment. Long enough to be embarrassing, she was sure. She had heard of him. Everyone had. Widower. 34. Famously uninterested in society and twice as uninterested in remarrying. The sort of man that matchmaking mothers mentioned with longing and then grief in the same breath, because wanting him was practical and hoping for him was foolish.
She curtsied. "Eleanor Calloway." "I know," he said. "Your sister told me." Rosie beamed. Eleanor looked down at her small, self-satisfied, catastrophic little sister and thought, you made a terrible mistake today and I love you beyond all reason, and I am going to return you to Mrs. Partridge immediately.
"Thank you for your patience with her," Eleanor said to the Duke, and meant it to sound dismissive, the way a door sounds when it closes gently but firmly. Final. Finished. She took Rosie's hand. They walked away across the lawn, Rosie skipping slightly, Eleanor staring straight ahead with her spine very straight and her heart behaving in a way she found deeply unprofessional. She did not look back, but she felt it the exact moment his gaze left her. The way the afternoon light felt different after, less watched, less warm.
She told herself it meant nothing. She was in this matter entirely wrong.
Toot-a-doo. Eleanor told herself it was coincidence. The first time, perhaps it was. Kew Gardens on a Tuesday morning was not unusual for her. She had a standing arrangement with the head groundskeeper, Mr. Aldous Fitch, to document the new specimen arrivals before the public hours began. She came every fortnight. She had her notebook. She had her pressed linen satchel and her spectacles and her complete intention of speaking to no one but Mr. Fitch and the plants.