“That is not a question a gentleman answers, Anne.”
“You are not answering, which means yes.” Anne nodded, satisfied with her own logic. Darcy made a note to never underestimate this child. She was six and already cross-examining him with more skill than most barristers of his acquaintance.
She pressed Muffin to her chin. “Will she be my friend and play with me, Papa?”
His throat closed. The question was so simple. It was artless, built from nothing but want—and it cut him open.
“I believe she will, sweetheart.”
“Miss Burrow was my friend. She was nice to me. She read me stories with the voices.” Anne’s tone was matter-of-fact, the way children delivered grief—without ceremony, without self-pity, as a simple accounting of what had been and was no longer. “She told me she was going to marry a nice man and live with him. I was sad, but she said I should be happy for her, so I was. Mostly.”
“That was very generous of you.”
“I know.” No false modesty. Darcy bit the inside of his cheek.
“Will the new lady do voices too?”
“I expect you will have to train her.”
Anne brightened at this, the prospect of authority appealing to her in a way that Darcy found both charming and mildly alarming. She wriggled out of his arms and landed on her feet with graceless confidence.
“Papa, come and see.” She seized his hand. Her small fingers wrapped around his index and middle finger, because his whole hand was too large for her grip. She towed himacross the room to the table where Alice had set out paper and chalk.
“I drawed Muffin.”
“Drew.”
“IdrewMuffin.”
The drawing was, by any objective measure, a brown oval with four lines protruding from the bottom and two dots near the top. It bore no resemblance to a horse or to any living creature. It was, however, presented with such fierce pride that Darcy nodded gravely.
“An excellent likeness.”
“Alice said it was a potato.”
He shot Alice a glance. She was suddenly very occupied with the blocks.
“Alice is mistaken. The ears are particularly fine.”
“Those are not ears, Papa. Those are eyes.”
“Ah. Naturally. My error.”
Anne patted his hand with the benevolence of a queen forgiving a minor courtier. She returned to her chalk to add what she informed him would be a tail. It was, when completed, a straight line emerging from the middle of the oval’s back. Muffin the drawing now resembled a potato with a fork stabbed into it. Muffin the wooden horse observed the portrait from his position on the table with dignified silence.
Darcy pulled a chair beside her and sat, watching Anne draw. For a few minutes there was nothing urgent, nothing broken, nothing burning.
Just his daughter and a potato.
He spent two full hours with her in the nursery before he made his way downstairs. He found Georgiana in the drawing room, buried in fabric swatches.
She had colonised the settee, the side table, and most of the carpet with squares of silk, muslin, and something that appeared to be cloth-of-gold. Correspondence was stacked on the arm of the chair. A fashion plate fromLa Belle Assembléewas propped against a teacup, and beside it lay a list in Georgiana’s careful hand, so long it curled over the edge of the table and brushed the floor.
His sister was getting married in June. The household had been informed of this fact repeatedly, in detail, and at volume.
“Brother.” She glanced up from a square of cream damask. Her face changed. The brightness dimmed, replaced by something sharper, more attentive. She set the fabric down. “What has happened?”
He lowered himself into the chair opposite and stretched his legs out. His body was finally registering the morning—the agency, the tea shop, the punishing stride home—and every joint protested.