Major Godfrey avoided Cecelia for all of a fortnight. He did not come by her box at the opera, he did not call at her house, he did not drive in the Park at their usual hour, and, when they met unexpectedly at a dinner party, he gave her only a polite bow and a smile before devoting his attention to his host's spinster aunt for the rest of the night. When Cecelia was just starting to think he had gone off her for good, he turned up again, calling on her not five minutes after Sebastian had gone for a walk. Cecelia wondered if the major had been waiting to see Sebastian leave.

"I thought it might be time for the daffodils," Major Godfrey said as he eased himself into a chair. "If we don't go soon, they'll wilt away, Lady Cecelia."

"As I told you, it's not daffodils I like."

"But you won't tell me what you do like. If you did, you know, I'd go to the ends of the earth to get it for you." He leaned forward, not touching her hand but close enough to do so if he so pleased. He often did that. So far, he had never pleased. "Is it azaleas?"

"It is nothing you could get me."

"Ah. The flower of heaven then. Fitting, for a lady such as yourself."

"Don't be frivolous," Cecelia said sharply.

"I'm being poetic, not frivolous. Oh, perhaps it was both. There's something dreadfully earthly about you, Cecelia. You're no creature of heaven, merely a human woman, and grateful I am for it. A sprite would never suit me. I prefer you of blood and flesh."

He lingered uncomfortably on the last word, drifting closer through the eddy. Had it been Sebastian's return which altered the current between them? Cecelia drew back.

"Major Godfrey, I think we ought to stop this... this whatever it is that we've been doing, the past year."

His eyes widened with surprise. "What is it that we've been doing, Lady Cecelia? We've been very good friends, have we not?"

"I'm not sure we have. I've always had the impression one of us is a cat and the other a mouse, and I'm not sure who is which. Cats and mice do not good friends make."

A one-sided smile stretched across the major's face. "I had the impression we were taking it in turns. Right now, my dear, you're the mouse."

"And where does this end? Does one of us get caught?"

"Do you wish me to catch you?" For the first time, Major Godfrey took her hand in his, playing with her fingers. "It's the chase I like. I'd let you go after I caught you so we could play the game again."

Cecelia shook his hand off. "I'm married."

"And you were married before your husband returned. A little gentle flirtation never hurt anyone, my lady. I doubt Mr Price's flirtations in Paris have hurt you. And they may not have been so gentle."

It had never occurred to Cecelia to wonder if Sebastian had met any women in Paris. Her shock must have shown in her face. Major Godfrey took up her hand again and this time kissed it.

"Sir William took a wife last year, little slip of a thing, pretty, English, twenty years younger than himself. The same age as Mr Price, in fact. And they must be thrown together so often. She must want for English company, over there in Paris."

"My husband isn't like that." Cecelia wrenched her hand from Major Godfrey's. "I'm sorry if I encouraged you. If! We both know I did. I was wrong to do so. But now I'm asking you to be a gentleman and withdraw before... before any more damage is done."

"Then the game is over. And the mouse has escaped." Major Godfrey stood and went to the door. There, he paused. "If your husband is not like that, Lady Cecelia, then for what reason did the ambassador send him home?"

"He was ill — injured."

"Ah. Injured." Major Godfrey smiled. "And how? I have heard tales of gunshots sounding at dawn near the ambassador's residence in Paris. Is it true?"

A duel? Between Sebastian and Sir William? It was impossible — surely it was impossible. Cecelia stared wide-eyed at the major, hoping he would say more, wishing he had said nothing at all.

"I see," Major Godfrey said softly. "He hasn't told you."

He left on that note, leaving Cecelia stricken behind him.

Cecelia had never before considered what Sebastian might be doing in Paris alone without her. At least, she had sometimes envisioned him working late in a garret at night, bending over books by the light of a single candle, or scurrying about cobblestoned Paris streets carrying coded messages for dark-haired French men with long moustaches. She knew very little of Paris, and even less of the work of an ambassador's secretary.

She had never imagined him with another woman. It occupied her mind — poisoned it, in fact — in the hours until he came home. And when he did, she could not help herself wondering where he had been. He did not tell her. He merely nodded to acknowledge her presence and went upstairs to change for dinner. When he came back down, she asked, with the affectation of utmost casualness, "Where did you go today?"

"Bond Street," Sebastian said shortly. "Looking for letter paper."

"I've got letter paper."

"Yes, and it's English. It's the damnedest thing — when I got to France, I walked half of Paris looking for English-made paper — ours is thinner than theirs. I couldn't bear to write on it. And today I turned Bond Street upside down looking for French-made paper. I didn't find it either."

That could not be a lie. Cecelia felt stupid. They went into dinner together — a silent dinner, and not the silence of companionship. She wanted to ask him how he had been injured. She wanted to know if the ambassador had done it. If it had been because of the ambassador's wife. If it had been a duel. It was very odd that he hadn't told her, almost secretive. If she asked now, he would wonder what had brought it on. He might suspect. On the other hand, he would only suspect if her own suspicions were true. She would know, even if he lied.

When the servants brought dessert, he excused himself — a letter he needed to write.

"Wait a moment, Seb."

He stopped and looked at her inquiringly.

"On Friday night my parents are holding a ball at their house in Richmond," she said — not what she had intended to say. "Will you attend it with me?"

"Your parents won't object?"

"My mother suggested it. She said it would look good if we came together. And there will be too many people there for you to have to talk to her or my father alone."

"Oh. Your mother asked." He sounded irritated. "I'll go, of course. I'll even dance with any woman who sets her cap at me, if it pleases Lady Hatherington."

It did not please Cecelia, but he was gone before she could say so.

────

Sebastian had first kissed her the day before he left for Cambridge. They walked the garden that summer evening talking about Cambridge, about his future, about his plans, all but the one involving herself. Of late their meetings had mostly been in the garden where they could be alone, though they did nothing — yet — that warranted being alone.

"And after Cambridge it's to London then?" Cecelia asked, thinking that London was not so far away and one day she would probably live there, at least for the spring months of the year.

"Yes, the Inns of Court. I'll miss the country though. London air tastes like soot by comparison."

"Will you miss nothing but the air here?"

"And what else would I miss?"

"Oh, the grounds, I suppose. The house."

"The meals," Sebastian conceded. "I am very well fed here."

"But it must be more than that. Your father, you will surely miss him."

"He has promised to visit me once a season," Sebastian said. "I don't think three months is long enough for a boy — a man — to miss his father very much. But you are right," he added softly. "There is someone here I will miss."

"It must be my brother Paul," Cecelia said breathlessly. "I never thought you really enjoyed all that cricket."

"I loathe cricket. I will do my best to forget all the cricket and those who play it the moment I pass through the gates tomorrow."

Cecelia could not help but laugh. "I always wondered..."

"Wondered what?"

"...Sometimes, you see, when you do hit the ball it travels an awfully long way. So I have been wondering just a little if all those times you missed... were not by mistake."

"Ah." Sebastian looked away, but his cheek muscles were twitching. "But a gentleman must naturally be better in all arts and sports than a commoner. Paul is the superior athlete, my lady."

"Didn't I ask you not to call me that? You're laughing! I knew it. Paul will be furious when—"

Sebastian took her wrist in his hand and she was silenced as abruptly as if it had been her tongue. Neither wore gloves, and his bare touch made the blood quicken all the way up her arm.

"You mustn't tell Paul," Sebastian said. "My father has to teach him another four years yet."

"I won't tell him. Of course I won't."

Sebastian let her wrist drop. She thought his cheeks were a little pink. They turned into a narrow passage between two yew hedges and walked its length. They were hidden from the house here, and by unspoken accord when they reached the end of the passage, rather than emerge into the more open shrubbery, they turned back and retraced their steps.

"It will be Edmund you miss," Cecelia said. "If it is not Paul, it must be Edmund. And I know Edmund is very fond of you. He has no higher ambition, he tells me, than to one day make you laugh at one of his jokes."

Sebastian shook his head. "I am afraid he has picked an ambition beyond his talent. I have no sense of humour, I am sure I must not, because I never laugh at his jokes."

He was suppressing a smile now. Sometimes Cecelia tried to push those suppressed smiles into one of Sebastian's rare, joyous laughs, but it didn't seem the right time for laughter.

"Is it Westhart you will miss?" she asked lightly.

"As he has given me no permission to do so, I do not think I will dare," Sebastian said. "No, no, I will miss none of your brothers, Cecelia. It someone else altogether."

Their conversation faltered and with it their footsteps. Sebastian turned to face her, the amusement in his eyes fading to a hopeful sadness.

"It's you."

"I know." Cecelia's voice trembled. "I, too... I'm going to miss you too."

He touched her wrist again, then linked his fingers with hers. "Just once," he said. "To remember you by."

It was once, soft and chaste on her closed lips. Afterwards, Cecelia hid her blushing cheeks by looking down and Sebastian kept his fingers linked with hers.

"Twice," she said. "I need to remember you too."

The second was not quite so chaste, but Sebastian's fingers were still linked with hers at the end of it. Their fingers remained linked until they emerged into view of the house.

The next day he left for Cambridge. They had not written; Cecelia knew that if her parents discovered any correspondence between them it would mean a scolding for her and a great deal worse for Sebastian. There was perhaps even something thrilling in being unable to exchange letters or see him. She was in love, in love with the boundless passion of a fifteen-year-old who knew nothing more of love than two kisses, in love with a man she could never have for her own. It was tragedy and joy all in one, and the tragedy only made the joy all the deeper.

Once, shortly before he fell ill, Mr Price mentioned Sebastian at dinner and made Cecelia's heart come alive: Sebastian had sent a letter, he was doing well, he was working very hard. Lord Hatherington replied that there was nothing preventing the boy from being someone one day. Lady Hatherington gloated that she had no reason to regret bringing Sebastian into the classroom with her boys. Westhart sniggered and quietly suggested that Sebastian must be enjoying the petticoat lane. Edmund laughed. Paul asked what that meant, and Lord Hatherington heard, lost his temper, and sent all the boys from the table. As they left, Cecelia traced her lips with her finger and felt the bittersweet pain of imagined jealousy. She could not seriously believe Sebastian to be capable of base lust; he loved her, even if they were parted.

*