She did not expect to turn a corner between the orchid house and the fernery and find the Duke of Ashworth standing in front of a Nepenthes pitcher plant with his hands behind his back, studying it the way men usually studied maps before battle. He looked up when she appeared. She looked at him. A full 3 seconds passed in which neither of them acknowledged that this was strange. "Miss Calloway," he said. "Your Grace," she said. She walked in the opposite direction.
That was Tuesday. On Thursday, Rosie asked with elaborate casualness whether Eleanor had enjoyed the gardens. Eleanor put down her tea, looked at her sister across the breakfast table. Rosie was eating toast with the focused innocence of someone who had absolutely orchestrated something. "How did you know I went to the gardens?" Eleanor asked. "I didn't," Rosie said. "Did something happen at the gardens?" Eleanor picked up her tea again. "Nothing," she said.
The second time was Mrs. Hartwell's Thursday lecture on medicinal herbalism, which Eleanor attended every month and had attended for 3 years without incident. It was a small gathering, 12 women, sometimes 14, in Mrs. Hartwell's narrow Bloomsbury parlor, with decent sherry and very good conversation about plants that most of London society would have found dull beyond endurance. Eleanor loved it unreservedly.
She arrived to find the parlor rearranged. Mrs. Hartwell was flushed with excitement in the particular way she reserved for distinguished guests. And at the far end of the room, standing beside the bookcase with a glass of sherry he had not touched, was the Duke of Ashworth. He saw her the moment she entered. She was certain of it. She took a seat on the opposite side of the room.
Mrs. Hartwell made the introduction. The Duke, it transpired, had funded the acquisition of three rare botanical manuscripts for the Hartwell collection. He was here, Mrs. Hartwell announced, to present them in person. He had particularly requested a private gathering rather than any public ceremony. He was apparently very generous with money and very uncomfortable with applause. Eleanor found this unexpectedly difficult to dislike.
The lecture began. She kept her eyes on her notebook. She wrote things she did not need to write. At one point, she noted down the Latin name of a plant she already knew by heart, in handwriting slightly worse than her own. She was aware the entire time of where he was in the room. Not looking, just aware. The way you are aware of a window in winter, even with your back turned to it.
Afterward, when the conversation broke into smaller groups and the sherry began moving more freely, he crossed the room and stood beside her. "You're annotating," he said, looking at her notebook. "I annotate." "You wrote Valeriana officinalis twice." She looked down. He was correct. She closed the notebook. "Were you following me?" she asked. She kept her voice pleasant. Academic even. The way she spoke to students who had made errors in identification.