They lingered at the pond’s edge, sipping the lemonades.
August looked over at Albert, who was laughing with Dorothy and holding court for an audience of local farmers.
He looked at Eliza, who was absentmindedly spinning the painted duck by its string.
He looked at himself, or rather, inward, and found that he did not miss the city or the parties or even the sense of constant purpose.
What he felt was worse: contentment.
It should have made him uneasy.
He was unprepared for the sudden, insistent want that came with the thought of more days like this—more fairs, more laughter, more Eliza. It was the sort of desire that did not announce itself but simply settled in, solid and unyielding.
He wanted to stay here, in this exact spot, forever. It was a thoroughly unducal sentiment.
He turned to Eliza, only to find her watching him, a question in her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked, voice quiet.
He tried to assemble a joke, but nothing would come. “Nothing,” he said and shook his head. “Only that I am glad you are here.”
She smiled at him, and the world tipped just a fraction.
For the first time in his life, he wondered if he was not so much the master of his fate as its most eager victim.
He would have to think about that later.
For now, there was another wheelbarrow race about to start, and Eliza had already taken his hand, pulling him along toward the noise and the crowd.
He went, willingly, and the feeling stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon and well into the night.
Eliza relished the quiet as she settled in her private sitting room with her slippers kicked off and a stack of novels arranged on the end table. The day’s laughter still clung to her, a pleasant ache in her cheeks and arms. She was sun-tired, jam-stained, and for once, entirely at peace.
She allowed herself the luxury of collapsing into the overstuffed armchair by the hearth. Dorothy had insisted on lighting every available candle, so the room glowed with an improbable, golden warmth. Eliza propped a foot on the low table, surveying the battered row of books.
She selected the oldest, its spine cracked and patched with glue, and was halfway through the first page when the door creaked open.
August filled the threshold, his coat off and hair a little disordered, an object draped across his arm.
“You seem determined to leave a trail of possessions across the county,” he said, holding up her shawl.
Eliza felt the now-familiar flutter at the base of her throat. “Oh, it is my shawl. I was wondering where it had gone.”
“It was last seen attempting to strangle a turnip at the fair,” he replied, entering the room and shutting the door behind him.
She snorted. “That turnip started it.”
He leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, the shawl dangling in accusation. “Would you mind leaving a slipper next? Tradition demands it.”
She tried not to smile. “Will you search for the owner?”
He looked her over—slippers abandoned, hair undone, the smallest hint of flour at her cuff. “I would scour the kingdom to find you.”
For one improbable second, the air in the room changed. Eliza was keenly aware of her bare foot on the table, the way the candlelight softened every surface, and the distance (not much) between her and the man who had spent the afternoon making her laugh.
August’s eyes did something strange then: they dropped to her mouth then back up, as if rehearsing a question he did not intend to ask.
“Would you like your shawl?” he said, softer.