Lady Catherine's season in London was so busy, that Mabel had to tone down her excitement in the letters to Hazel. Her sister was with child and her mood was fragile. Mabel scoured every missive for a hint if Everett was the father, but Hazel left nothing between the lines. She didn't know, or she would have slipped. It was impossible for it to be otherwise with her mean streak. And so Mabel stewed like Hazel stewed.

On her part, she never mentioned Everett, her discovery of his calf-love or that she had stuffed his notebook with the poems behind a loose board in her wardrobe, hopefully never to be found again. If he wanted it, he'd have taken it with him, wouldn't he?

She made light of the winter festivities and trips to the Opera, which Lady Catherine attended at least once a week. More, if the opera had tragic lovers, which nearly all of them inexplicably had. Tragic lovers drew crowds more than the happy ones, as if there wasn't enough heartbreak to go around. Perhaps misery does love company.

As winter retreated before the joyous charge of spring, Mabel wrote mostly of the garden and of Radcliffe. Both safe, wholesome topics, no matter what Everett implied.

In February, the fragile cups of the snowdrops defied the sleet. Lord Chesterton spent most of his evenings at home, rather than joining his Mother's capers. He had a soothing effect on her nerves, marvelously soothing.

The crocuses pushed forth and burst open in a fan of skinny long leaves; how she had missed the colours amidst the greys of the winter. Lord Chesterton was the soul of courtesy no matter how tired he was. The other day he had commented, "What need do we have of the inconveniences of the public gatherings, if Miss Walton sings twice as good as any diva?"

Mabel blushed as the words dropped from her pen upon the paper, fixed in ink, then crumpled it with a merciless hand. Such a pricey waste, and she had to start over again, yet she couldn't include this. She absolutely couldn't. Not for fear of upsetting Hazel's sensibilities or being mocked for fawning over Radcliffe, but because the sweet words were hers. How she blushed to the tips of her ears was also hers.

Then the jonquils' anointed themselves with golden crowns, the fresh lords of spring. Lord Chesterton's habit of reading the choice bits from the newspapers to Lady Catherine and herself was growing on her.

"Imagine, dearest Hazel, asking me if the spirit of Napoleon was quite extinguished in the nations or similar political things." Mabel wrote. "But, my dearest, I found having opinions and voicing them to be quite infectious. I'm afraid I cannot be stopped now."

The first rose to break through the loving embrace of its green bud wasn't far off either. The emotion that grew between Lord Chesterton and her, now truly resembled the thick friendship he'd sought. His trust strengthened her armour of civility during Everett's visits.

'Perhaps,' she thought, rocking slightly on her stool by the pianoforte, 'perhaps, I should only mention the roses.'

Her nimble fingers run through one of Mozart's whimsies. At the low table, Lady Catherine's cards produced soft rustling sounds as she laid out her game of patience. A log crackled in the fireplace, burning low. On her first day, so long ago, she nearly died of embarrassment by barging into Radcliffe's study, but now she was accustomed to whiling evenings in its coziest corner, because Lady Cathrine often wanted her to play music.

From behind the door of what used to be old Lord Chesterton's smoking room, and now became a kunstkamera where Radcliffe kept collections in a merry disarray, male voices droned, then picked up in intensity. It was almost impossible to tell Radcliffe from Everett if she didn't hear what was said. Breaking like waves, the incomprehensible conversation weaved into her music.

The sound of the door flung open, banging against the wall, exploded worse than a thunderclap out of the blue.

Her hands flew up into the air. Fifi and Peppe flew straight into the air from their cozy snooze by Lady Catherine's feet. Their tiny fangs bared, roars too deep for their size starting up in their throats to show the disturber of peace that their mistress was staunchly guarded.

Everett shouldered his way into the study. His beautiful head whipped back. "Do not confuse me with Father. You cannot undermine me with constant lies about my competence."

"This is not at all what I had said." Radcliffe's response was so quiet, Mabel could barely overhear it even without the music. "Only that the supplier came with excellent recommendations."

"From other thieves, no doubt. I had opened the barrels, Radcliffe, and not the ones on the top row. Tack was maggoty, and the salt pork would spoil."

Still quietly, and very coldly, Radcliffe started to reply: "I will write—"

"Damme, Radcliffe. Your expedition would have suffered disease and death at sea, and you want to pen polite inquiries? Fire the swindler's arse!"

The cards that Lady Catherine pressed to her chest fell on the table with a thud, pushing the ones already arranged into neat rows to slip from the polished wood to the floor. Waves of delight rolled through the dogs, undulating them from their noses to the tips of their tails.

"I beg your pardon for being vulgar, Mother," Everett muttered, then his eyes swept to her and he cleared his throat. "And yours, Miss Walton."

Did he actually redden? She had no time to confirm her suspicion, because Everett valiantly charged into the miniature hurrikane created by the wagging tails. His pent up energy found an outlet as he stooped and danced away to pick the cards ahead of the dogs.

Barking filled the room.

Lady Catherine massaged her temples delicately, her eyes flung open in disbelief. "Fifi, Peppe! I am so disappointed in you. Yes, disappointed."

Fifi and Peppe ignored the admonition, their leathery noses pointing to Everett. Their cute faces with button-eyes practically screamed that they had not had this much fun since they were pups a decade ago. The silky haunches quaked so much that Mabel wondered if she should call for Jenny preemptively since another 'faux pas' was surely in the cards.

Everett's face squelched into a grimace of self-restraint so comical, holding back a cuss or two, that Mabel nearly laughed at the absurdity of the scene.

"Perdition! Shush, Fifi. Shush, Peppe!" Lady Catherine cried out, but her voice was drowned out.

"Shush Everett," Mabel whispered under her breath.

Everett, still crouching, turned his head a little, with a lopsided grin and a flash of blue in his eyes. She nearly fell off her stool. He snatched the last card from Fifi and straightened to carry the bounty to his mother. With his hair ruffled in the chase he transformed into a boy, both chastised and unaccountably pleased with himself.

Tenderness filled her chest. How could one not love that!

Radcliffe loomed in the doorway, catching his breath. Oh, yes, one could, the crease between his brows said.

Everett's back stiffened, even though Radcliffe didn't utter a word. Without looking his way, he leaned to their mother and picked up the thread of their abandoned conversation, "Unless, of course, you wanted such a disaster to pass, should I have agreed to take command of your poppycock enterprise."

A heavier, unhappy silence settled over the room. Even the dogs didn't dare to bark, settling on their hind legs, short necks outstretched to their favorite as much as possible.

Radcliffe cleared his throat. The more agitated Everett became, the calmer he appeared, as if he somehow stole the restraint from his younger brother and used it as his.

"Everett. I don't question the results of your inspection of our stores."

"Poppycock!"

Radcliffe bent his head forward as much as he could, looking from under the brow. "The world of business is not a deck of a privateer's ship."

"Are you calling me a privateer?" Everett asked incredulously.

The whitening around Radcliffe's lips was the only sign he was even a trifle upset. "I apologize for that unfortunate turn of phrase."

"Unfortunate..." Everett mouthed, but Radcliffe kept talking over him. "We don't toss the suppliers overboard. Connexions must be respected and the benefit of doubt offered."

Everett's twisted lips parted to offer another rebuke, but Lady Catherine waved her hands in the air, as if the argument was smoke from a burning pot. "Enough, enough of this dull business talk."

Dull was the last word Mabel would have used to describe it; moreover, Lady Catherine took keen interest in the family affairs, often reading through papers to provide Radcliffe with an opinion.

"Come here, Radcliffe. Both of you, sit down and enjoy the lovely music dear Mabel found for us."

'Or else,' Mabel finished in her mind. Lady Catherine's body and gaze made a clear line between Radcliffe and the armchair next to her. Everett's face darkened, but he lowered himself into the remaining seat at the far side of the oval table. He gathered the cards into a deck and shuffled it, while Radcliffe made the crossing.