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kindly to Mrs. Dillon and watching as that woman relaxed ever so slightly. “Now, where would you like to begin? You mentioned the menus?”
    â€œOh yes!” Mrs. Dillon cried as she reached for the tea service and offered to pour. Leticia graciously allowed her. “When Cook heard the news, she practically wept with joy! It’s been ever so long since she’s had any direction, and cooking four out of every five meals with pork was about to drive her mad. Although it is Sir Barty’s favorite, you know.”
    â€œDo you mean there’s been no direction at all since the late Lady Babcock’s death? Not from Margaret?”
    Mrs. Dillon shook her head. “Miss Margaret hasn’t had an easy time of it since her mother passed,” she said. “She has tried, truly. But she only really has a head for her plants and flowers. Her mother, God rest her soul, tried to give her a lady’s knowledge, and Miss Margaret tried to learn it, but . . . once Lady Babcock passed, I suppose she gave up trying.”
    â€œI take it Miss Babcock and her mother were close,” Leticia surmised.
    â€œOh yes, my lady. They seemed to speak a language only they knew.” The housekeeper began to fidget with her apron again, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. Then Mrs. Dillon clammed up again, her face turning a red Leticia would guess was rather uncommon for the housekeeper.
    â€œMrs. Dillon—do not fret about speaking of your late mistress,” Leticia said, trying to set the housekeeper at ease. “Sir Barty told me all about her. He loved her very much. They were very good together.”
    â€œThey were a very happy little family,” Mrs. Dillon said, letting her eyes drift to the window—where, some ways down the field the greenhouse was framed against the rolling lawn. “But now that you are here, hopefully we will find a way back to that happiness again.”
    For the first time since emerging from the greenhouse, Leticia felt for Miss Babcock. It was very hard to lose a mother—and at an age when one is meant to embark upon the world, perhaps needing their guidance most . . . no wonder the girl retreated into her greenhouse.
    No wonder Sir Barty did not write! He would want to delay the shock of a new bride as long as possible. It was a fumble on his part, but an understandable one.
    A warm spot of pity began to soften her heart toward the girl. Perhaps . . . yes, perhaps she could see the bright side in a young lady of nineteen instead of a little girl. A girl of nineteen, looking for guidance through adulthood’s murky waters, whose interests in horticulture could not prepare her for the world the way a friend like Leticia could.
    Yes, she could work with nineteen.
    Unfortunately, that warm spot of pity did not last through supper.
    After tea, Mrs. Dillon walked her through the house, showing her the living rooms, the breakfast room, the dining room, the little glass-enclosed terrace room that “was ever so pleasant in summer”—all to buy as much time as possible while maids scrambled to get Leticia’s bedchamber ready.
    Once the curtains were beaten out and the linens refreshed, Leticia was escorted to a lovely room, done up in heavy green silks. A number of pressed flowers hung in frames on the wall, all lined perfectly, all with their Latin names written underneath in an elegant hand.
    Finally, flowers she could enjoy without sneezing.
    But there was no time to dawdle. She washed and dressed quickly and made her way downstairs, to wait for supper.
    Sir Barty joined her presently. Mrs. Dillon popped her head in to make sure they were comfortable and that Leticia was pleased with her rooms. Jameson came in, asking if they would like a glass of wine or port before the meal. And the clock on the mantel ticked away time.
    Of course, during all this, Miss Margaret Babcock did not make an appearance.
    â€œIt’s a