By the time the first leaves at the top of the oaks began to think of turning, the question of London could no longer be treated as hypothetical.
It had been hovering all summer, like heat lightning on the horizon. Present, but distant. An idea to be spoken of when grief had softened, when coughs had quieted, when leaks had been patched.
Now, as September approached, the practicalities marched in.
Miriam would be thirteen in March. Too young for a formal Season, by the most rigid standards. Old enough, by the looser ones of a society that loved a scandal, to be paraded as a curiosity: *The Wild Corbyn Girl from the Country.* Richard had no intention of allowing that.
But he also understood, with growing, uncomfortable clarity, the truth in his solicitor’s letter.
He could not hide them forever.
One afternoon, he sat at his desk, staring at two pieces of paper.
One was a list, in Martha’s neat hand, of things the girls would need before setting foot in any remotely fashionable drawing room.
> — Proper gowns (x3 each) > — Gloves (white & coloured) > — Slippers (for dancing) > — Cloaks (suitable for London soot) > — New underthings (Agnes has outgrown marginal decency) > — Books suitable for travel (to prevent idiocy in post-chaises) > — Ribbons (more than you think; trust me)
The other was a letter from Willoughby.
> If you intend to be in town at all next Season, it would be wise to secure lodgings now. Your own house in Grosvenor Square is still under lease to Lady Wetherell until March. After that, it will be available. I recommend you consider whether to reclaim it or remain in lesser, rented quarters.
The very idea of returning to the Grosvenor Square house—of walking into rooms where Elizabeth had laughed, had danced, had flung her shawl over the back of the sofa—made Richard’s skin crawl.
He could, of course, rent some smaller, quieter place. But that would be read, by those inclined to read, as an admission of defeat. The marquess who could not bear his own house.
Martha found him thus, pen hovering uselessly over the blank page where his response ought to be.
“You are frowning,” she said, setting a stack of battered arithmetic texts on the table. “Even by your elevated standards.”
“I am deciding,” he said, “between a house I own and despise and houses I do not own and despise.”
“Ah,” she said. “Lodgings.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Reclaim it,” she said at once.
He stared. “You said that without hesitation.”
“Yes,” she said. “Hesitation is for hemming dresses, not for addresses.”
He huffed. “You are very cavalier with my… ghosts.”
She came to the desk, glancing at the letter.
“Grosvenor Square,” she said. “Fashionable. Convenient. Full of carriages and opinions.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And full of memories,” she added. “Some… painful. Some… perhaps not.”
He scoffed. “My good memories of that house are… sparse.”
“Your daughters’ will be nonexistent,” she said, “if you do not make any. Do you wish that?”
He frowned.
“You suggest,” he said, “that I should… overwrite the past with… present.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “You cannot erase Elizabeth from those walls. But you can… add to them. With other laughter. Other arguments. Other… dinners more tolerable than those you recall.”
“I cannot… imagine,” he said slowly, “those rooms without her shadow.”
“Then imagine them with *your* light,” she said.
He glanced at her, startled by the phrase.
“You make it sound… achievable,” he said.
“It will hurt,” she said. “At first. Perhaps for a long time. But staying away hurts too. You must choose which pain is… more productive.”
He stared at the letter.
“You are very… ruthless,” he observed.
“Yes,” she said. “It is one of my charms.”
He smiled, despite himself.
“Very well,” he said. “We shall… reclaim it. After Lady Wetherell’s lease ends.”
“Good,” she said. “You may require her cook’s recipes as compensation.”
“Wetherell will faint,” he murmured. “The idea that her cook might be induced to part with secrets for a Corbyn.”
“Fainting,” Martha said, “is fashionable. You will be doing her a favour.”
He laughed softly.
The sound faded as reality settled.
“London,” he said. “Rooms. Balls. People. Ashcombe. Elizabeth.”
“Yes,” she said. “And bookshops. And Italian painters. And lecture halls. And perhaps,” she added, gently, “some small pleasures that do not end in ruin.”
He looked at her.
“You would… like it?” he asked.
“To visit,” she said. “Not to live. I have had my fill of parishes. I am not eager to exchange hedgerows for hacking coughs in Soho. But to see… things. To show the girls. To stand in a museum and tell Mabel that statues are not for climbing.” Her eyes lit, briefly. “Yes. I would… like that.”
He stored that spark away.
“You will come,” he said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” she said easily. “Unless you dismiss me first.”
“I have had… ample opportunity,” he said. “I have not done so.”
“You may yet,” she replied. “If I suggest something truly outrageous. Such as giving Miriam a copy of Mary Shelley.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Never mind,” she said. “You will meet her book in time.”
He shook his head, bemused.
“You are… frighteningly ahead,” he said.
“I read quickly,” she said. “It is my only vice.”
He opened his mouth to list several others—impertinence, tendency to leap into ponds, habit of reorganizing other people’s libraries—then closed it.
“Miss Harrow,” he said instead. “Martha.”
Her name hung zwischen them.
She stilled.
“Yes,” she said.
He hesitated. Then:
“In London,” he said slowly, “things will be… different. There will be… eyes. More than here. Many more. They will… look. At you. At me. At… us.”
“Yes,” she said. “They will.”
He drew a breath.
“We must… decide now,” he said, “how… we will be. So that we are not… caught… improvising under chandeliers.”
Her heart stuttered.
“How we will be,” she repeated. “In London. In public.”
“Yes,” he said. “At balls. At dinners. At… the opera.”
“You will take me to the opera?” she asked, startled.
“Yes,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Else you will steal tickets from someone else and cause a scandal.”
She laughed, despite the heat in her chest.
“We will say,” he went on, more seriously, “that you are… indispensable to the girls’ education. Which is true. We will present you as… a valued member of the household.”
“Not as… an afterthought,” she said quietly.
“Never,” he said, fierce.
She swallowed.
“And privately?” she asked before she could stop herself. “How will we… be?”
He looked away.
There. The precipice.
“We… continue,” he said, voice low. “As we are. Careful. Honest. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” she asked, though she knew.
“For… change,” he said. “In law. In lives. In… whatever must move before we are… free to move as well.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“And if nothing changes?” she asked. “If Elizabeth never… dies. If Parliament never… yields. If you remain… bound.”
“Then,” he said quietly, “we remain… as we are. Bound also. Differently.”
It hurt.
It hurt in a way she could not quite name. A sharp, bright pain that felt like loss of something she had never possessed.
And yet, beneath it, there was… something like relief.
He was not promising what he could not deliver. He was not asking her to stake her life on maybes. He was… standing with her on the knife-edge of what they knew and what they feared.
She opened her eyes.
“Very well,” she said. “We will be… as we are. In London. In Hertfordshire. In chapels at midnight. Until some external force… alters the equation.”
He huffed. “You make us sound… scientific.”
“Habit,” she said. “It is easier to bear unrequited… mathematics… than anything else.”
He smiled, fleeting.
“Unrequited mathematics,” he repeated. “You are singular.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is very inconvenient.”
She turned to go, then paused.
“Richard,” she said, soft.
He stilled.
“Yes?” he asked.
“In London,” she said, “you will… dance?”
He blinked.
“Yes,” he said. “If I must.”
“With… others,” she clarified. “Ladies. Widows. Debutantes.”
“Yes,” he said slowly.
“And with… me?” she asked, barely audible.
His breath hitched.
“Yes,” he said. “If you will.”
She smiled, small and bright.
“Good,” she said. “I should not like to have to trip you publicly to remind you of your obligations.”
He laughed.
“You are terrifying,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said. “Remember that. It may… keep us both from foolishness.”
***
The girls, when informed of the plan to spend part of the next Season in London, reacted predictably.
Mabel screamed.
“Theatre!” she shrieked. “Gin shops! Gambling dens!”
“You will see none of those,” Martha said. “Intentionally.”
“Covent Garden!” Mabel persisted. “They say there are fights.”
“You will see none of those either,” Martha said. “Unless you brawl with your sisters.”
“That is inevitable,” Miriam muttered.
Agnes’s eyes shone.
“Will there be… music?” she asked. “Real music. With more than one violin.”
“Yes,” Martha said. “If we are lucky. And careful.”
“And Mama?” Agnes whispered.
Silence.
Martha knelt, took her small hands.
“We do not know,” she said. “Whether she will… appear. Or not.”
“I do not want… to see her,” Agnes said. “And I do.”
“Yes,” Martha said softly. “That is… allowed.”
Miriam, arms folded, frown deep, finally spoke.
“We will… not be paraded,” she said flatly. “As curiosities.”
“No,” Richard said.
“We will not be… sent to her,” Miriam continued.
“No,” he said again.
“She will not… choose balls and leave us again,” Miriam said, voice suddenly sharp.
“No,” he said a third time, more fiercely.
Martha watched his jaw tighten, the muscles working.
“We go,” he said, “on our own terms. For *us*. Not for her. Not for Ashcombe. Not for gossip. For… you. To show you a world larger than Hertfordshire. To let you see what you may choose *not* to be.”
Miriam’s expression softened, fractionally.
“You mean,” she said, “we may watch everyone else be absurd and feel superior.”
“Yes,” he said. “That, too.”
She considered.
“Very well,” she said. “I will come. To London. To observe.”
“And to dance,” Martha added lightly.
Miriam made a face. “I will not… simper,” she said.
“No one is asking you to,” Richard said. “Only to avoid stepping on toes.”
“You step on toes all the time,” Mabel pointed out. “Metaphorically.”
“That is the only way to get anywhere,” he replied.
Martha sighed.
“Do not encourage them,” she said.
“Oh, I intend to encourage them,” he murmured. “Just not… exclusively in my own vices.”
***
As autumn deepened, preparations took on a more concrete air.
A dressmaker from the nearest town came twice, pins bristling, mouth full of muttered measurements.
“Too thin,” she said of Martha, poking her side. “Too tall,” of Miriam. “Too wiggly,” of Mabel. “Too delicate,” of Agnes. “Men,” she added, glancing at Richard, “think gowns appear by magic.”
He raised his brows. “We are… educated,” he said. “We know there are bills.”
She snorted.
Martha endured being measured with a stoicism she did not feel.
“I do not require a *nice* gown,” she protested, when the dressmaker spoke of silk.
“You do,” the woman retorted. “Not for balls. For *existing* in a room without looking like the furniture.”
“I like my grey,” Martha said.
“Of course you do,” the dressmaker replied. “But London will not. We will give you something that does not scream ‘governess’ before you open your mouth.”
“Impossible,” Martha muttered.
The woman’s hand stilled at her shoulder.
“Have you ever,” she asked, “seen yourself in a mirror that was not cracked?”
Martha blinked.
“Yes,” she said. “Occasionally.”
“Then look properly, next time,” the dressmaker said briskly. “You are not a chair. Stop dressing like one.”
Martha did not quite know whether to be offended or grateful.
Later, when she recounted this to Richard in the library, he nearly choked on his wine.
“She is… formidable,” he said.
“She is… my mother reborn,” Martha replied.
“Then I am doubly glad you are in her hands,” he said. “Between her and Pritchard, London will be no match.”
***
One evening in late October, as the light failed earlier and the first true chill crept under the doors, Richard sat in the small salon with a notebook open.
Not a ledger. Not a philosophical tract. Just blank pages.
He dipped his pen, hesitated, then began.
> Terms.
He paused, staring at the word.
It had governed so much of his adult life. Marriage terms. Estate terms. Legal terms. The terms of scandal.
Now he was attempting to write his own.
> In London: > > > 1. The girls will attend no ball I have not personally vetted. (No Vauxhall. No houses where Ashcombe is known to prowl.) > 2. Miss Harrow will be treated by all as under my protection. (If any man presumes, I will ensure he regrets it.) > 3. I will not drink beyond measure when obliged to share a room with Elizabeth. > 4. I will not speak her ill in public. (No matter how richly she deserves it.) > 5. I will not allow her to charm the girls with tales of pleasure without also showing them the cost. > 6. I will not hide.
He stared at the last line.
It had taken him five years to write it.
He tapped the pen against the page, then added, almost on a sigh:
> 7. I will not ask of Martha what I cannot, in honour, give.
His chest tightened.
He could not, at present, ask her to be his wife. He could not offer her a name in any way that would not involve public humiliation, private pain, and legal quagmires.
He could, however, ask her to continue as she had. To walk beside him. To speak truth. To bear the awkwardness. To share the burdens.
He did not write that.
It felt, somehow, more binding than anything on paper.
He closed the notebook as a knock sounded.
“Come,” he said.
Martha entered, hands full of paper.
“Timetable,” she announced. “For the next three months. Before we uproot them and throw them into Babylon.”
He smiled faintly.
“You make London sound… exotic,” he said.
“It is,” she said. “Compared to this place, everything is exotic. Even puddles.”
She laid the papers on the table.
He glanced at them. Columns. Days. Subjects. Walks. Conversations.
“You have planned… when to tell Agnes about the existence of dukes,” he observed.
“Yes,” she said. “If we do it too early, she will obsess. Too late, and she will think them myths. It is a delicate balance.”
He laughed.
Her gaze drifted to the closed notebook near his elbow.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said too quickly.
She lifted a brow.
“You are a poor liar,” she murmured.
He huffed, gave in, pushed it toward her.
She opened.
Read.
Her face, as she took in each line, shifted in small ways. Amusement at number one. Approval at two. Pain at three and four. A soft, rueful understanding at five. A long, steady look at six.
At seven, she swallowed.
“You… are very hard on yourself,” she said quietly.
“I have had practice,” he replied.
She looked up.
“And on me,” she added. “No asking. No… offering. No… foolishness.”
“Yes,” he said. “We agreed.”
She closed the notebook gently.
“We did,” she said. “We agree again.”
He nodded.
She took a breath.
“Then perhaps,” she said, “we might also make terms… in the other direction.”
He frowned. “The other…?”
She sat, facing him.
“Richard,” she said. “You must not… make me your conscience.”
He blinked. “I—what?”
“You rely,” she said, “so heavily on my disapproval. On my reminders. On my scolding. It has become… your compass. That is… too much weight for any one woman to bear. I cannot… be… your only brake.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then stopped.
He thought of all the times he had looked to her when uncertain. The way he had waited, sometimes unconsciously, for the lift of her brow, the narrowing of her eyes. He thought of Ashcombe in the drawing room, of the chapel, of the pond.
“You are… not wrong,” he said slowly.
“You must… cultivate,” she said, “some inner voice that is not… me. Else, if anything happens—if I am sick, or gone, or… foolish—you will… crash.”
He made a strangled sound. “You speak,” he said, “of your own absence as if it were a minor inconvenience to my schedule.”
“It would not be minor,” she said softly. “For any of us. That is precisely why we must… prepare for lives that are not built entirely on single pillars.”
He swallowed.
“You are… asking me,” he said, “to grow a spine that is not borrowed.”
“Yes,” she said. “And I… must do the same. My mother is gone. I cannot keep listening only for her scolding in my head. I must… scold myself. Kindly. Or not at all.”
He smiled, faint.
“I cannot imagine,” he said, “a world in which you do not scold.”
“Nor can I,” she admitted. “But perhaps… less. At least… inwardly.”
They sat, mirror images in their confessions.
He reached, almost without thinking, and laid his hand over hers on the table.
“Terms,” he said. “We… grow our own consciences. Independently. Together.”
She looked at their joined hands.
“Yes,” she said. “That… sounds… possible.”
He tightened his fingers, briefly, then let go.
They did not call it an engagement.
They did not call it anything at all.
But something, quietly, had been agreed.
Not in front of a rector. Not before witnesses.
In a small salon, over ink and paper and the shared acknowledgement that grief had made children of them and that they had, somehow, to raise themselves anew.
***