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“That soon? Less than a fortnight?” Winter pushed a hand through his hair, standing it on end.
“Yes. And they’re to have full use of the courtyard.”
“What about the expense? Do they, do they have the … funds?”
“I doubt it. Spend whatever you think reasonable. It’s on me.” Gray put down the ammonite.
Winter frowned. “And Mr. Higson’s project? The pallets of stone? The scaffolding?”
“Have there been any more accidents?”
“None since we hired the two men Sir Roger recommended.”
“Good. We’ll put the work on hold for a fortnight. See that Higson’s men are paid for their time.”
Winter looked at the papers on his desk. “So, money is no object for this ball?”
“None.”
Gray turned for the door. He could count on Winter to help the Staveleys. Gray would not take any part in ball planning. He would return to his building project. He would turn Delamere into the house of his father’s vision. The only problem he faced now was the four remaining swims of their wager. There would be no scissors, no need for standing close, little need for conversation. Once the ball happened, they would go their separate ways.
*
Viola led the way into the lodge as they returned from Lady Frome’s. From the warm sunshine, they stepped into the cool, dark hall. Viola flung off her bonnet and slipped out of her spencer jacket. Alice scrambled to collect them. Roz came down the stairs.
“Where’s Mir?” she asked.
“She’s coming along.” Cordelia shed her own bonnet and jacket and handed them to Alice. “She’s picking wildflowers on the way.”
“And how was Lady Frome? Relieved that we don’t need her house?”
“You are so right, Roz,” Viola said. “Not that she didn’t complain, mind you. She feels obliged to send a second round of letters to all of her London friends, explaining that we have no need of their intervention on our behalf with Graymont. As if we had imposed an enormous burden on her when writing those letters was all her own doing.”
“Viola,” Cordelia warned. “We are relying on our dear neighbor for a great deal of help.”
“Oh yes, chairs, tables, potted shrubs, and unsolicited advice.”
“And an offer to take Roz to London,” Cordelia added.
“Of course, Lady Frome is helping,” Viola said. “But some people make it really hard to be grateful when they make such a production of their help as if we could not manage on our own. Is there lemonade, Alice?”
“Yes, Miss Viola.”
“Thank you, Alice,” said Cordelia. “We’ll have some in the drawing room.” As she turned to close the lodge door, Hector’s familiar bark sounded from the road. The dog came bounding toward Cordelia, paws and belly wet and mud-blackened, tongue hanging out. He’d clearly had a good romp.
Behind him, striding purposefully forward, came Mr. Winter, carrying Miranda. He’d lost his hat somewhere. Miranda’s bonnet was askew on her head, and her skirts bore the wet, black marks of an encounter with the dog. Her face was tear-streaked, and a smear of mud marked one flushed cheek. She clutched a sprig of wildflowers in one hand.
Cordelia called the dog and settled him panting at her feet.
“Miranda, what’s happened?” Cordelia asked.
“Mr. Winter …” Miranda began. “Oh, Cordelia, I’ve ruined my dress, I’ve done something to my … knee … my hands …” Her voice caught in a hiccup of distress.
“I’m afraid the dog greeted your sister with too much enthusiasm,” Mr. Winter said. “I found her knocked down on the edge of the road just now. I thought it easiest to bring her to you.”
He set Miranda on her feet, and she reached for Cordelia. Cordelia gathered her sister to herself and held on. Miranda sobbed quietly in Cordelia’s arms. “Thank you, Mr. Winter. We’ll see to her.”
“Do you mind if I wait … to see that she’s unharmed?” he asked, his expression full of grave concern.
