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Naked.

“I’d swim to the other side,” said Georgina, the patience in her voice drawing attention to the length of the pause. “But my clothing is on that log.”

Clothing was indeed piled on a nearby log. A white muslin gown. A blue spencer. A chemise. Stockings.

“Here’s a solution,” said Georgina, her voice slightly less patient. “I swim to the other side, and you carry over my clothing, depositing it somewhere in the vicinity. You return to the willow and read to your heart’s content. I dress and leave without disturbing you. Agreed?”

Words emerged, finally, from Elfreda’s throat. Not the intended words. “How do you know? About the willow?”

She’d been slipping inside its great green cavern of trailing branches to read since long before Georgina’s final departure to London made it entirely safe. If Georgina had known, it meant she’d said nothing, done nothing, left her in peace. But that indicated restraint and consideration. Georgina possessed neither.

“I see you don’t have a book.” Georgina bobbed, weary perhaps of the relentless motion required to keep her chin above the surface. “Why are you here, if not to read?”

She’d avoided answering the question. It was unsettling, irking, and goaded Elfreda to respond in kind.

“Why are you here?” She folded her arms. “Are you really looking for my amulet?”

“Anne.” Georgina tilted back her head and skimmed her hand over the water, sending up an arc of spray. “Anne Chatterbox Poskitt. Anne told you. It’s always Anne. How did it come about? She’s been hoping for a tour of Marsden Hall, but I discouraged her from calling. She didn’t attempt to climb the tower?”

“I went to your house.”

Georgina laughed, then sputtered as her chin dipped. “You went to my house? The abhorrent house of your abhorrent neighbor whom you abhor? How droll. Elf, for the love of God. I can’t feel my toes. Either move my clothing or move yourself. I’m getting out.”

Elfreda had failed to cause her own expiry, and now she failed to budge her body an inch. She was trapped by the enormity of another problem some part of her mind had been days at solving without success.

Something interests you. Georgina had made that inscrutable claim in the orchard, after Elfreda had gone lightheaded at her touch, looked Georgina up and down, lost her breath, lost her bearings. And not an hour ago, she’d witnessed girls beneath a pergola clinging lip to lip, and the tingles she’d felt then were back now, a confused awareness of her own skin, the fast hot blood beneath.

It was all related, connected by a missing piece.

But no. How could it be?

She wanted to kiss Georgina Redmayne.

“I’m counting to ten!”

At Georgina’s shout, she whirled, and the world lagged, as though she’d spun herself out of time and space. She was facing away from the pond, but she could still see Georgina coming toward her, rising from the water.

A moment later, the willow caught up. She was looking at the willow, a mercy. The willow made her heart rate slow. The wind riffled its leaflets and a few showered down. Beautiful willow. A melody of shade played by the sun’s green harp. That’s how Grandmama had described it in a poem.

Kiss Georgina? The desire seemed more distant, more impossible, by the second.

“You do have to tell me why you’re here.” Georgina had reached the log. Elfreda could hear the whisper of fabric as she dressed. “I have a right. This is my land.”

The arrogance in Georgina’s tone had the same irritating effect as always, and that was a relief. Kiss Georgina? Preposterous.

She succumbed to the irritation, gratefully.

“The land is your brother’s. Only he has the right.”

It occurred to her that she should write to the Major, beg permission of him. He could command Georgina’s compliance.

“False,” said Georgina. “My father practiced share and share alike. Harry inherited London, and Kent. I inherited Derbyshire.”

Elfreda’s surprise carried her one hundred and eighty degrees. Thank God Georgina had managed to make herself decent. She was buttoning her spencer, pointed locks of water-darkened hair hanging over her eyes.

“How can he keep you here if you have independent means?” Elfreda glanced at the pond, the ferns, the surrounding trees. She loved this tranquil clearing, and Grandmama had loved it too, and written poems under the willow, back when it wasn’t an act of trespass. “You should sell a few acres and settle yourself back in London.”

She wondered at the price of a few acres. Could Georgina be persuaded to sell the land back to Papa, piece by piece? Did Papa have the money to buy?