Preparations moved faster after the trip to Cambon.
The banquet was a week away, and the estate had begun to receive it accordingly—supplies arriving in steady procession, rooms being assessed and reassessed, lists consulted and revised. The dishes had been fully replaced two years prior, which was fortunate, though even among those newer pieces a number had arrived cracked or chipped. Those had been catalogued last year and the replacements ordered in winter; they came safely, as ordered, and were checked off.
The carpets and curtains had been inspected. Starting tomorrow, additional hired maids would arrive for a thorough cleaning of the entire house, which meant their rooms needed to be prepared first, which meant—
Eloise stepped out onto the rear balcony and let the list rest for a moment.
Below, in the courtyard, a considerable portion of the estate's male workforce had their sleeves rolled up and their attention fixed on a stump.
The old tree had been struck by lightning in winter and taken down, but its roots had refused to follow. They'd been at it since morning—ropes, horses from the stable, a dozen men pulling in coordinated effort—and the stump had not meaningfully moved.
Eventually, the entire household had been drawn in. Including Ryan.
The workers had protested, with some embarrassment, that this sort of work wasn't appropriate for a gentleman. Ryan had not listened to them.
"You seem to underestimate soldiers."
He shed his vest, unbuttoned his shirt to the forearms, and took his place on the rope.
Among men accustomed to heavy labor, he was still noticeable—the height, the breadth of shoulder, the forearms that suggested the muscles were not decorative. The stump, which had resisted everything, began—fractionally, then more—to give.
"Excellent! We'll have him today!"
At Ryan's shout, the workers answered with a collective roar and threw their weight into it. An hour later the stump was halfway free of the ground.
"They're actually going to do it," Mrs. Parker murmured admiringly from beside her wheelbarrow. "I thought we'd be looking at that thing for another week."
The stump had not required more hands, exactly. It had required someone who knew how to manage a group effort—when to push, when to rest, how to keep twenty people pulling in the same direction. Ryan was doing that now, apparently without thinking about it.
Mrs. Parker unloaded a basket and several jugs of cold water.
"My lady, could you help me carry these down? The maids are all occupied with the linens."
"Of course—I'll take the heavy ones."
Mrs. Parker had aged without Eloise quite noticing the accumulation of it. She used to carry blankets in stacks. Lately her hands had begun to tremble at certain tasks, and when she consulted recipes in the kitchen she held them further from her face and narrowed her eyes.
Eloise thought of her father, who had gone to spend his remaining time with his godmother.
*When I first came to Blissbury, I thought everything would simply stay as it was. Father managing the estate, Mrs. Parker in the kitchen, Mr. Palmer at the door.*
"My lady?"
"Coming."
She picked up the basket and the jugs and didn't look back when Mrs. Parker asked to take at least one of the heavy things.
---
The workers received Mrs. Parker's sandwiches and half-chickens with the gratitude of people who have been pulling on a rope for four hours. They lined up with the eager orderliness of children at a sweet stall.
Ryan took the water jug Eloise brought him and drained it in what was nearly a single motion, then used the remainder to wash his face.
He looked at her standing beside him.
"I probably smell of sweat. You should move back."
Eloise did not move back. There was nothing offensive about it, and she had a question.
"Sergeant—might any of your friends come to the ball?"
*Friends.* He held the word for a moment and thought, briefly, of the faces he'd left at Headquarters.
"No."
Philip would be fine—he was quiet, kept to himself, would probably find Blissbury's countryside genuinely restorative. But Philip and Richard were a set. You couldn't invite one without the other appearing.
And Richard...
How many times had Ryan watched women arrive weeping at the Headquarters gates because of Richard? Declarations of love were the manageable version. The management had actually suspended Richard's leave privileges at one point. He'd then managed to begin something with one of the women working at Headquarters itself, which had produced a different but equally comprehensive set of reprimands.
Inviting Richard Cameron to a summer ball in a small country estate was not hospitality. It was a natural disaster with better manners.
"Though someone might pass through on their way somewhere," Eloise said.
"No."
She accepted this with a small shrug that communicated, fairly clearly, *if you say so—you probably don't have any friends anyway.*
Ryan did not bother to correct this impression.
---
A voice from the entrance called for Eloise, and she went to investigate.
William the postman stood in the hall, looking pleased with himself.
"The maid said you were here, so I came straight." He produced a letter from his bag. "From Mr. Severton." Then two more items. "Another from Mr. Severton—for Sergeant Thornton. And the newspapers and magazines from the Cambon bookstore."
The weekly delivery: everything that had arrived from Newcastle, bundled and sent on. William looked particularly cheerful about his own day.
"No more deliveries to Feltham after this—straight to Cambon for me. Two hours saved. Good afternoon!"
He departed at a noticeably lighter pace than he'd arrived.
Eloise sorted the mail and unfolded the newspaper.
The headlines were largely indistinguishable from any week in recent memory.
*Peace Treaty Compensation Continues to Be Delayed...*
*The 40th Anniversary of Her Majesty's Accession: Official Celebrations Announced.*
*This Season's Essential at Royal Ascot!*
*Military Budget Strained as Retired Personnel Numbers Rise—Parliament to Debate...*
She was beginning to wonder if she'd been sent last month's edition by mistake when she turned the page and found an unfamiliar advertisement, which settled the question. She continued scanning—and stopped.
A small article, tucked into the corner of an inside page.
*Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave. Current whereabouts unknown... Army Headquarters declined to comment on his location, citing confidentiality. Speculation is divided between those who believe he has fled in anticipation of disciplinary proceedings and those who maintain he may be engaged in a covert assignment...*
"Ha."
She exhaled slowly.
He had been largely absent from the newspapers since taking leave in the spring, and she had been grateful for it—the journalists had been vicious, and the silence had felt like a reprieve. But she'd known it wouldn't last. They would circle back eventually.
*...It is expected that no later than the start of winter, when the disciplinary council reconvenes, Lieutenant Colonel Wilgrave will be compelled to appear.*
*The start of winter.*
Eloise looked at the paper for a long moment.
Then she raised her eyes toward the courtyard.
Sergeant Thornton was visible in the distance, sitting with the workers over their lunch, still in his shirtsleeves, saying something that made the man beside him laugh.
*He'll be back in the capital by then as well.*
Once he left Blissbury, that would simply be the end of it. Their paths had crossed because of circumstance—her father's absence, Baron Stanford's timing, a series of small accidents—and when those circumstances resolved themselves, so would this.
*But if I went to the capital someday—would I encounter him there?*
She folded the newspaper and set it with the rest of the mail, and did not pursue the thought any further than that.