After Mr. Wilson stepped out, Eloise turned her attention to the glass jar he'd left behind.
It was filled to the brim with the flower-bud tea—each small, tightly twisted ball visible through the clear glass, pale and perfect as something decorative rather than something meant to be drunk.
"May I really take this?"
Neither Ryan nor Mr. Wilson had mentioned a price during their exchange, which she'd taken at the time to mean they were discussing it privately. Judging by the smile that had not once left Mr. Wilson's face since Ryan spoke, the jar represented a sum that would have made the smile entirely understandable.
*The tea we order for Blissbury is already expensive.* And this, transported from considerably further away, with an aroma that was richer and stranger than anything she'd tasted before, would be several times more so.
She had been thinking about it as she drank—thinking that her mother would love it, that it would be wonderful at the banquet, that she would have liked to watch her mother's face when the bud opened in the cup.
She'd been staring at the empty cup with this thought when Mr. Wilson returned and set the jar in front of her.
"Why would I need this?"
"What do you mean, why? Sergeant Thornton asked for it."
Eloise looked at him.
"The tea is good," Ryan said. "I thought Mrs. Severton might enjoy it as well."
Her face went warm.
She had been so certain the gesture was meant for her—had felt something stir when he'd smiled and looked across at her, and had taken it entirely, embarrassingly personally.
*It was for my mother.*
*Why did I assume otherwise?*
She felt foolish in a specific way that was worse than ordinary foolishness—the kind that arrives when you discover you've been quietly hoping for something you hadn't quite admitted to yourself.
When Mr. Wilson left again, she gathered herself and said, in a businesslike tone:
"I think we should consider moving most of our orders to Mr. Wilson's shop. The quality is better than it was, the selection has improved considerably, and most importantly—"
"Cleanliness."
"Yes, exactly."
She almost clapped her hands. Mr. Keynes's shop had smelled unpleasant from the threshold, and dust had settled on every surface. For a place selling perishable food—meat, especially—that kind of carelessness was not a minor failing.
The meat itself had been acceptable, but the quality had slipped since last year, and there was no particular reason to expect the trend to reverse.
Ryan took a sip of tea and said, without looking up:
"When Mr. Severton returns, you should tell him yourself, Miss Eloise."
He said it as though the matter had nothing further to do with him.
"Oh—right." She caught herself. "You won't be here next year."
She hadn't realized, until she said it, how naturally she'd been assuming he would be. The thought had simply arranged itself in the background without her noticing.
"What will you do when you return?"
"Rejoin my unit first. After that..." A pause. "I don't know yet."
The ease left his face entirely. What replaced it was not quite coldness—more the absence of anything, a blankness so complete it seemed to belong to a different man than the one who had been smiling over his teacup ten minutes ago.
Eloise did not press further. She sat with the silence and tried to think of some way to shift the atmosphere back to where it had been—
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
She expected Mr. Wilson.
Instead, the door opened to admit Lady Amber Greenwood—known throughout Cambon society simply as its undisputed center of gravity—moving with the unhurried confidence of a woman who has never once needed to wonder whether a room would accommodate her.
"Miss Eloise Severton. What a pleasure."
"Lady Greenwood." Eloise was on her feet immediately, her surprise producing a curtsy rather more reflexive than considered. "What a—yes, how lovely."
*What is she doing here?*
Lady Greenwood and Eloise had maintained, for some years, a relationship of careful mutual tolerance. The lady was the living embodiment of every rule of decorum ever committed to print, and she found Eloise—unmarried, opinionated, and apparently content with both—a troubling influence on the younger women of Cambon. This view had, at some point, caused sufficient friction with Mrs. Severton that Eloise's visits to Cambon had quietly grown less frequent.
They were not enemies. They were simply people who had learned not to spend more time in each other's company than necessary.
Then Eloise's gaze drifted past the open door.
More than ten young women stood in the corridor, their expressions uniformly luminous.
*Ah.*
Everything became clear at once. Lady Greenwood had not happened upon them by accident. She had come, with characteristic efficiency, to introduce the eligible young women of Cambon to the new manager of Blissbury—and had assembled them in advance.
"We always look forward to your visits," Lady Greenwood said warmly. "Cambon society is so much livelier when you're among us."
*She has never once thought that, and she knows that I know it.*
"You're very kind," Eloise said, maintaining her smile with practiced effort. "I've been kept busy with Blissbury business, but I'll make every effort to attend your next gathering as soon as I'm able."
Lady Greenwood's attention had already moved.
"And this gentleman...?"
Ryan had risen with Eloise. Lady Greenwood regarded him with a smile of genuine approval—rare enough to be remarkable.
"This is Blissbury's new manager, Sergeant Ryan Thornton. Sergeant, Lady Amber Greenwood."
Ryan crossed to her and bowed. Lady Greenwood extended her hand with a movement that had been refined over decades into something very close to art, and Ryan took it correctly—a light brush of his lips to the back of her glove, the precise greeting owed to a woman of her age and standing.
The corners of Lady Greenwood's mouth curved.
*Good.* She had been prepared to find him rough—most men brought in from outside were—but his manners were sound. She had also assessed the room the moment she entered it: he had looked displeased when she arrived, which she attributed without hesitation to Eloise, and Eloise had greeted her with more cordiality than usual, which meant the atmosphere between them had recently been difficult. All perfectly legible.
She had learned about him through her maid, originally from Feltham, whom she'd sent home for a week with a specific commission. The report had been thorough: he showed no interest in the village girls. Which meant that a proper introduction to the young women of Cambon—women with rather more polish than Feltham generally produced—was not only appropriate but arguably overdue.
The moment she'd heard he had come to Cambon with Eloise, she'd come directly.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Thornton. I hope you'll allow me to introduce you to Cambon society."
He agreed, after the briefest of pauses—hesitation that Lady Greenwood elected to overlook, given the circumstances visible through the doorway.
"Wonderful. Come in, everyone."
She had barely finished the sentence before the corridor emptied itself into the sitting room with considerable enthusiasm. The space, which had been perfectly comfortable for three, rapidly became something else entirely. Eloise found herself displaced one step, then two, then—between one moment and the next—discovered she was standing outside the door entirely.
She looked back through the crowded room at Ryan, who was visible in glimpses between silk-covered shoulders, and murmured:
"Manage the introductions yourself. I have errands to finish—I'll be back shortly."
She didn't wait to confirm he'd heard her. She turned and made her way back through the shop floor, told Mr. Wilson she'd be visiting the other merchants and would return, and stepped out into the street.
Near the cart, two unfamiliar gentlemen stood watching the sitting room window with expressions she couldn't quite classify.
She glanced at them, looked away, and went on about her business.
Philip and Richard, for their part, watched a young woman in a practical dress walk briskly past them—and, not knowing what they were looking at, let her go.