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can choose something to take as a present.”
    Her valuable jewelry was in the safe, so she let him look through her box, which amused him for quite some time, as she wrote instructions for Mrs. Moorside.
    In the end, he chose a pretty rose pin that her mother would like. It had been a gift from Charlotte Ball, she remembered. For her eighteenth birthday. Stephen had remarked that pink roses were a strange choice.
    From the depths of memory came a clear recollection.
    She’d asked what flowers would suit her.
    He’d said, “Poppies.”
    “Poppies? Weeds of the field?”
    “Vibrant, beautiful, and a great deal more resilient than they appear. And then, of course, there’s the type that provides a powerful drug that turns men mad.”
    She’d been startled and unsure whether she was being teased, flattered, or insulted. His gift, she remembered with a snort, had been a copy of William Wordsworth’s “Ode: Intimations of Immortality.”
    “Mama?”
    She started and looked down at a worried Harry. “Yes, dear. I was just thinking about when I received that brooch. Grandmama will be very pleased with it. Come along and we’ll wrap it up prettily and tie it with a ribbon.”
    Where, she wondered, had that slim volume gone? It was a reminder, however, that Stephen had disapproved of her even then, before Hal Gardeyne had visited the area and changed everything.

Chapter 5
    Harry chattered about his grandparents, his uncles and aunts and cousins. He seemed to remember them all remarkably well, when it had been six months since their last short visit. Laura couldn’t help thinking that he could have a happier, healthier childhood at Merrymead but she was powerless to change his home.
    Powerless.
    In a right and just world, a mother should have more power, but in this one, Lord Caldfort was Harry’s guardian. When he died, the power would transfer to Jack.
    She stilled in the midst of tying a pink ribbon. She truly wished Lord Caldfort a long life.
    She managed to eat enough lunch that Harry didn’t notice anything wrong, then took him into the flower garden, which was not much cherished. He chose some Michaelmas daisies and stocks and some delicate grayish foliage. Laura gazed around, thinking that perhaps she should dedicate her life to gardening. But surely if that had been her calling, she would have felt it before now.
    Her mood was certainly suitable for a visit to her husband’s grave, but she didn’t want Harry to be sad, so as they walked to the stables, she started a song he enjoyed. By the time she lifted him into the one-horse gig, her heart was lighter, which proved her belief that people could mostly be as happy as they tried to be. To have Harry to herself was certainly a delight, and soon she’d have him to herself for a whole month.
    She never took Nan to Merrymead. There wasn’t much free space there, and there were always plenty of people happy to look after a child. She didn’t take her maid, either, for the same reason.
    “Just you and me, Harry,” she said as they rolled along the lane toward the village, the bells on Nutmeg’s harness jingling.
    “Just you and me!” he echoed, bouncing on his seat.
    He was so excited—and at tomorrow’s journey, not this one—that Laura drove slowly. They were in no hurry and she didn’t want him to fall out. In truth, she’d rather not spoil his or her bright spirits by this visit to Hal’s grave, but that was an unworthy thought. Poor Hal deserved to be remembered.
    Harry pointed to cows, horses, sheep, and trees. They paused by Figgers Farm to watch some ducks. When she lifted him out by the churchyard, he beamed at her. Was there anything so magical as an excited, happy child? She planted a big kiss on his cheek before putting him down.
    When the horse was securely tethered, she took Harry’s hand. “Come along, Minnow. Hold tight to those flowers.”
    They walked through the gate and up the path.
    “Church?” he asked, pulling toward the