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“It is essential—especially with you heading into the jaws of danger—that you fully understand your worth to us. You seem convinced we prize one son over the other. This is simply not true. You are not alike, certainly. But that is a matter of personality, not value. We love you equally, William. However, we do worry for you more, and perhaps I have erred by expressing that with some frustration. For that, I am sorry.”

William did not know what to say. He was spared an uncomfortable silence when his mother grabbed his hands, pulled them to her cheek, and shed warm tears onto them.

“Oh, William, our dear, sweet boy. You must come back to us safely. I do not care if it is with a bride or not. Only come home all in one piece.”

William smiled gently. “I haven’t left yet, Mother. And there will be several weeks—possibly months—of training before I do. Perhaps the war will be done before I set sail, and I will be obliged to fritter away my time attending dances and picnics with eligible ladies in good old England.”

“I should like that.” She sniffed. She fished a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it delicately beneath her nose. Her husband, who had regained his composure, patted their son on the back.

“I shall write to your uncle today,” Mr. Cole said, a measure of his businesslike self returning. “It will take some time for the request to go through the proper channels. The sooner we begin the process, the sooner we will know whether this endeavor can succeed.”

Something of a grin spread across his face. It was not an expression he had often had cause to display. William was mildly taken aback by the sight of it, until his father’s speech followed with equal warmth.

“That should give your mother ample opportunity to fuss over you and spoil you. You will be home for at least another month. Let us make the most of it as a family. What do you say?”

William basked in the new mood of optimism that had sprung up between them.

“I could not ask for more,” he replied.

“Hmm, I expect you will get more, whether you ask for it or not. Your mother will likely have you fattened up on all your favorite dishes. Cook is going to have her hands full.”

With good relations restored, they parted amicably for the afternoon. William’s father returned to his desk to begin the promised letter, and his mother—no doubt inspired by her husband’s teasing comment—went to speak to Cook.

William, free for the first time to do exactly as he pleased, fetched his horse.

It wasn’t long before they were galloping across the meadow, the grass a blur beneath them.

Exhilaration flooded through his entire body, and his horse sensed it, pulsing its hooves on the turf, its stride lengthening as it reached for more speed.

On and on they raced, released from all care.

After two wonderful, invigorating miles, the animal slowed, and William led it to a stream for a refreshing drink. He swung down from the saddle and stooped to splash a cupped handful of the icy water onto his face.

“ Ribbit ,” said a frog, disturbed by his presence.

“And a good afternoon to you too, my fine fellow,” William replied, tipping his hat to the amphibian. “Shouldn’t you be off taking your winter’s rest?”

As if reminded of this very idea by his visitor, the frog slowly hopped toward a patch of damp, fallen leaves.

The horse nickered. William looked up briefly, saw all was well, and returned his focus to the patch of leaves. The frog was gone.

Or was it?

William stared hard. The tiniest shifting motion alerted him that the little creature was exactly where he had last seen it, its outline barely visible against the shading of the background that masked it. Mottled browns and greens blended perfectly with the decaying vegetation.

“Well, aren’t you clever!” he marveled. “I’m certain Miss Lockhart would love to paint you.”

He pulled up, scowling. Now why had he thought of her? He had seen any number of frogs in his life. They had certainly never made him think of a woman before. And he particularly did not want to think of her . But there she was, edging in on his subconscious.

This would not do. Already, Ellena haunted him. He did not need another piece of his heart twisted with regret.

A nagging voice reminded him that Miss Lockhart could still be his, if he but persisted. He pushed it away. He did not want her. She was too strange. Too hard to figure out. Those piercing-blue eyes saw too much, demanded too much.

Even now, he felt them reaching, reaching, into his soul. They called to him. He could see her, dripping from the pond, not a care in the world, blue eyes focused on a tansy beetle. She had shared her most secret self with him, cried with joy to have someone truly know her.

But he didn’t, did he? He had missed some critical element that made all the difference.

No, she was better off turning her deep gaze upon someone else.

That gaze that cut right through him, peeled back the layers, made him feel exposed.

And yet at the same time, it was oddly comforting to be seen like that. No pretense. No games.

No, no. It was too hard. He needed the games, the chase. Her honesty was too brutal. He needed masking, like the frog. He wasn’t ready to be vulnerable again.

Time. He needed time.

With a surge of irritability, he leaped onto his horse, urging it once more into a canter, then a gallop.

It was a frenzied flight. Away from her.

Away from Ellena. Away from himself. But he outran none of his accusers.

And when he returned to the stables, it was without the triumph and satisfaction he had known when he had left.

He ate his dinner without enthusiasm, retiring early to his room. The bed held no hope of relief, and he imagined himself tossing about, the sheets wrapping about his legs like weeds in a pond.

He sat, trying to read, then stood and paced and sat again. Eventually, he donned his coat and hat and strode agitatedly to the stables, where he saddled his horse himself. Within minutes, he was riding down the lane in the deepening night.

Within the heart of the village, music filtered from the carriage inn. There would be several men willing for a game of cards, ready to drink and laugh and not talk of feelings. Or failures. Already, William felt the pressure lift from his chest.

Ah, this is more like it.

He handed his horse to the ready hands of a servant boy and stepped inside the bright room. The door closed behind him. It shut out all thoughts of hair like moonlight, or clever hands that painted frogs.

The noise of laughter and conversation was deafening compared to the silent night beyond the doors. The numbness of his ears spread to his heart.

William pulled up a chair. And exhaled.