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pool.”
    “Why would anyone want a rainwater pool at the centre of their house?” Percival asked.
    Mr. Everett pressed his lips together with mirth at the question. “Well, I suppose it’s a folly here in England, but, well—I suppose you’ve had the opportunity to visit Italy?”
    It was instantly clear that Mr. Everett was assuming that Percival, like most gentleman of good birth, had completed his Grand Tour of the continent.
    “I’m afraid I have not,” he confessed.
    Immediately realising his mistake and the unintentional insult he had given, Mr. Everett blanched. “Forgive me. Italian summers get very hot, and the shady courtyard with the pool aids in cooling the house.”
    “I understand.” Percival bit at his lip, feeling provincial next to such a fine London gentleman, and stared glumly down into the grass.
    “Shall we return to the others?” Mr. Everett proposed. His voice was gentler than it had been.
    “Yes.” Percival got to his feet, glad of the opportunity to return to the social buffer of the Boltons. When he was alone with Mr. Everett, everything felt more intense, and somehow they both managed to keep making fools of themselves.
    They went quickly, and spoke along the way only of bland topics regarding the management and health of the farms in the district.
    The Boltons and Mr. Humphrey were engaged in conversation on the front steps of the church. Mr. Bolton first caught sight of them approaching and waved. “Ho, there!”
    Miss Bolton turned to see them and waved likewise. “Mr. Valentine, Mr. Everett. Did you have a pleasant excursion?”
    “We did indeed,” Mr. Everett answered, his good humour returned as he greeted his friends.
    Percival felt forgotten the moment that Mr. Everett’s full attention turned away from him. As much as he had wished to return to the company of the Boltons and escape the embarrassment of the revelation that Percival was a very country gentleman who had not even the benefit of a Grand Tour, he worried that he may have lost Mr. Everett’s interest and friendship. Surely Percival was nothing more than any other aspect of Linston: charmingly provincial, but not the sort of person that a gentleman of London society ought ever to take as a friend.
    Or to kiss, for that matter.
    “Mr. Valentine,” Miss Bolton said. “Mr. Humphrey has been telling me that you intend to engage a teacher for your school.”
    She had her hand hooked around Mr. Humphrey’s arm as if they were already very dear friends, and Percival felt a prickle of indignation at himself regarding what a poor job he was doing of courting the lady’s affections.
    “Yes, indeed,” Percival agreed, pushing his indignation aside so that he could focus on his delight in Miss Bolton’s interest in yet another topic about Linston. “As soon as the renovations for the schoolhouse are complete. It had been out of commission for years, and …” It occurred to him that Mr. Humphrey had just concluded giving the Boltons a tour on this topic. Percival reddened and cleared his throat. “And it seems to me that the children of Linston ought to have a proper school.”
    “That is very good of you,” Miss Bolton said.
    “Shall we continue our tour?” Mr. Everett proposed. “I would very much like to see Linston Manor, if Mr. Valentine is willing.”
    “Oh, certainly!” Percival said, glad to have the group back together and to resume his discourse on his favourite topic. “It would be my pleasure.”
    “Oh!” said Miss Bolton, and frowned. She looked between Mr. Everett and Percival, then shook her head. “No, I fear you must go on without me! I fear I am developing the headache.”
    “My dear Miss Bolton!” Percival exclaimed. “We shall return you home at once.”
    “Nonsense!” she said. “I’ll hear none of it. Horatio may escort me home. Mr. Everett did so want to see the manor. I am certain you will have us as guests on some other day, and I am less in need of history lessons and