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said at that ugly meeting last week. That Aunt Sophie’s mind was not entirely with them anymore.
    Cassandra’s chest grew heavy again with the worry his words had planted. She hated that her brother had turned his cruelty on Sophie. Not only worry saddened her, however. Guilt did too, and not only for being the cause of trouble for her aunt.
    Ever since Gerald had raised the question, she found herself wondering if he were correct. Little things not noticed before—distant, vacant expressions such as Sophie wore now, loomed larger. Moments of forgetfulness carried more weight. Even Sophie’s choice to retire from society—Cassandra had never questioned the reasons in the past, but Gerald had her wondering about them now.
    She paced forward with determination. She would not allow Gerald to do this to her. To both of them. There was nothing wrong with Aunt Sophie’s mind or judgments. Gerald would be grateful to be so sharp when he was past sixty years in age.
    Turning around the roses, she found her aunt bending to pull out a vine that had assaulted the bed. Cassandra doubted a male gardener could have displayed more energy. Sophie’s work gloves grasped and entwined that long, green invader while one booted foot braced her weight into the effort. The roots gave way just as Cassandra arrived. Sophie nearly fell from the sudden surrender that burst through the soil.
    Sophie threw the vine into a basket, picked up her shears, and began eyeing the rosebushes.
    “Late summer is the best time for flowers,” she said, asif Cassandra had been by her side all morning. “I think I will ravish these bushes and fill the house with roses today. Autumn’s sad fading will be here all too soon.”
    “I will help. You cut, and I will put them in the basket.”
    Sophie began her snipping. A fussy woman when it came to objects of beauty, she did not take just any bloom. She considered and debated for a few moments before each cut.
    Cassandra laid each fragrant rose in the basket. The pile began growing.
    “I need your advice, Aunt Sophie,” she said. “I have done something on impulse that I regret.”
    Sophie eyed the bush, choosing her next trophy. “I hope you found pleasure in it at least. I have always thought impulsive pleasure was the best kind.”
    Cassandra glanced askance at her aunt. It was advice of this nature from Sophie that made her mother and brother want her to come home.
    “The impulse had nothing to do with—this is not about pleasure. Not in any way. I wrote a letter to someone that was indiscreet.”
    “Did I not tell you that letters can cause trouble? Words, once written, cannot be retracted. It is hard for them to even be forgotten. I warned you many times to never, ever, write when your emotions are stirred.”
    “You warned me, but you were speaking about affairs of the heart.”
    “If you want to call them that, I will not shock you by calling them something else. Please tell me that you did not either in this letter. I believe that a woman should be forward when necessary if she wants a man, but not on paper.”
    “I did not write to a man and declare my lust, let alone my love. Nor did I write to a lover already conquered and allude to our pleasure. I hope that I learned something from you all these years.”
    That made Sophie happier. She began to snip the next rose, but stopped. She suddenly appeared more substantialand alert. More
there
. “What was this letter you wrote, if not indiscretions to a lover?”
    “I had some business with a man, and he was slow to conclude it. In a fit of pique, I wrote to him and demanded just that.”
    Sophie dropped her shears into the basket. She pulled the gloves off her snowy white hands. “I suppose having a solicitor write would have been more delicate, but I do not think you need to feel you behaved badly.”
    “I made accusations that in hindsight were rash. I suggested the delay was no accident. I used words that he might consider insulting. It