It was Rosie's fault. It was entirely, completely, catastrophically Rosie's fault. She would address this in the morning. She did not address it in the morning. On Saturday, Rosie asked whether Eleanor had seen the Duke again. Eleanor said no. Rosie nodded slowly in the manner of someone who already knew the answer and was simply verifying. "He seems interesting," Rosie said. "He is," Eleanor said before she could stop herself. Rosie's smile was small and devastating. Eleanor left the room.
It rained on the morning of Lady Pemwick's conservatory tour the way London rain always did in late July. Not dramatically, not honestly, but with a quiet persistence that made you feel the sky had simply given up pretending otherwise. Eleanor came anyway. She came because Lady Pemwick had a Stanhopea orchid in the east wing of her conservatory that had not bloomed in 11 years and was, according to Mr. Fitch, showing signs of finally opening. She came because plants did not care about rain and neither did she and because staying home would have felt uncomfortably like hiding.
She did not come because she had thought twice about whether he might also be invited. She had not thought that. She was specific about this. The conservatory was warm and close. The glass walls silvered with rain on the outside. The inside thick with green and the particular sweetness of things growing in enclosed spaces. Six or seven guests moved between the rows of specimen tables. Eleanor found the Stanhopea immediately. South corner against the brick wall. Its buds pale and swollen and absolutely on the edge of something.
She stood before it for a long time. She was making a note about the bract formation when she heard the door. She did not turn around. She knew without turning the way you know a storm is coming before the first sound of it. Something in the air changes. The quality of the silence shifts. She knew it was him. He appeared at the edge of her vision. Stopped beside her. Looked at the orchid. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
"The lateral sepals are asymmetric," he said finally. "They're supposed to be," she said. "It's characteristic of the genus." "I know," he said. "I wasn't criticizing. I was noticing." Eleanor looked at him sideways. He was watching the orchid with genuine attention, not the polite performance of interest that most people offered plants before moving on to things they found more important. He was actually looking. It did something to her argument.
"You know Stanhopea," she said. Not a question exactly. "My wife kept an orchid house," he said. Simple. Offered without performance. Eleanor was quiet. Outside the rain pressed its palms against the glass. Inside the air was warm and still and suddenly more delicate than it had been a moment ago. She had heard about the wife. Everyone had. Lady Vane, dead four years. A fever that took her in autumn. No children. The Duke had closed the London house for a year afterward and returned to society only because the rumor went the alternative was worse.