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“What of that one?” Thomas pointed his thumb over his shoulder, to where Lydia and Harriet were in the middle of an odd quarrel.

“I do not wish to speak of this, Lydia.”

“Are you certain, Harriet?”

“Absolutely. It is my belief that all gossip is noxious and rude by its very nature.”

“In that case, I’d better not share the news about the Duke of Worthington and his decision to designate his illegitimate son as his heir.”

Harriet sat up straighter. “What?! Where did you hear about this?”

“No, no, Harriet, you are right—it is most uncouth to share others’ woes.”

“Well, now that you have, it would be uncouth tonotshare all the titillating details,” Harriet insisted, perched eagerly on the edge of her chair.

Lydia took a deep breath and leaned in. “You see, around twenty-seven years back, young Lord Worthington found a beautiful mistress on?—”

Oh, thank goodness, they finally found common ground.

Sophia sipped her tea while Thomas subtly closed the doors to the balcony so the ladies’ gossip would not reach their serenity.

In that peaceful place, Thomas put his arm around his wife, and together they stood in contented silence and gazed out at their slowly changing world.

Presently, Sophia could see with full clarity what they had all worked so hard for—Samuel and William arguing while on horseback, Gregory and Charles already laughing and clinking their whiskey glasses, their mothers sharing tea and gossip.

“Would you look at that,” Thomas said suddenly, in the same gossipy tone favored by his mother-in-law.

Sophia frowned. “What is it?”

Only a few dozen meters away from them, below the balcony, they saw an even more unlikely sight and heard an even more unlikely sound.

James and Emily were standing together beneath the shade of a tree and talking in hushed voices. He was smiling, and she?—

“She’s laughing? Emily is laughing?” Thomas blinked in astonishment. “I thought you said that was impossible. Something about it snowing in Hell before she so much as chuckled.”

Sophia nodded. “Believe me, I am as shocked as you are.”

They both stood and stared for a little bit. Then they realized that was probably rude and moved on. They walked back inside and made their way out into the gardens, away from their families and any whiskey drunkards or horse racing rivals they might cross paths with.

Finally, at the farthest end of the garden, where a sandstone wall marked the boundary and roses burst forth from every flowerbed and trellis and archway, they were alone with their thoughts and each other.

“Thomas…” Sophia stroked the velvety petals of a huge red rose.

Thomas came up behind her, sliding his arms around her. “Hm?”

“If I was a flower, what kind of flower do you think I’d be?”

He seemed to think about it for a little bit. “A thistle.”

“Excuse me?” She turned, giving him one of those scowls he’d probably thought he would never see again.

“Well, you see, you don’t?—”

“You would call your wife a thistle?”

“Will you let me speak?” He remained obnoxiously calm, still holding her close.

“Go ahead…” She tried to cross her arms but settled for pressing her palms to his chest.