Robin met with Milton in his study at home. The man was middle-aged and gravel-voiced and all shades of brown and green, like a tree uneasily transplanted into the city. The late Sir Robert had dismissed Milton in favour of a steward less prone to shouting about agricultural mismanagement and the poor conditions of the tenants—a steward who would cheerfully squeeze every last pennyworth of profit from the lands and send it on to the coffers of London’s philanthropic darlings, where it would be spent on parties and dazzle and whatever noble cause would allow the Blyths to convert it to the currency they truly cared for. Praise.
Robin had, in turn, let this man know that his services were no longer required, and contacted Milton in order to do his first stint of grovelling. Thankfully not much was needed. It took ten minutes of suspicious squinting for Milton to decide that the new Sir Robert was cut from different cloth than the old one, and a further five minutes for him to clearly decide that while Robin was an idiot on matters of estate management, he was at least a benign one, and willing to be led by experts.
“Can we turn it around?” Robin asked, once Milton had shuffled through the records and accounts.
Yes, was the short answer. The long answer was that Robin could have a very slow turnaround of the estate’s income-generating potential, or he could take out another loan in order to throw some money at the problem, and thereby have a faster and riskier one. A slow musing on the mathematical pros and cons of these options got a headache going like bells in Robin’s temples, and all the fidgety energy he’d managed to expend in the boxing ring began to gather again.
When Milton left, Robin rang for a pot of tea—he needed something to revive him before lunch—then collapsed in his armchair and felt sorry for himself. He wished Edwin were here. He wished Edwin would rap his knuckles on the door and not wait to be asked inside, but lean against the desk and sort out all of Robin’s problems in his cool, exact, intelligent voice.
No. That was one of the things he Wasn’t Thinking About. Robin was arranging his future like a man sorting out three generations’ worth of junk from an attic; he didn’t need to clear a space within it for someone who was willing to lie to him and use him. Someone who, even after all the two of them had been through, couldn’t dredge up the courage to admit that they might be allowed to matter to each other, and to show it.
Tell me to stay.
Robin had never said anything like that to a man. And Edwin had said nothing in return. All the warmth of him that Robin now knew existed had stayed buried beneath the ice, as though Robin weren’t worth cracking for.
Robin exhaled in a sigh and gazed at the framed sketch on the study wall: sweeping black ink on paper, Thornley Hill seen from a nearby peak, done as a gift to the Blyths from one of the artists caught gratefully in their coattails as they ascended the charity scene.
The foresight, for once, might have been waiting in the wings for a convenient time. Robin closed his eyes as the awareness settled in, and was practically comfortable when it hit.
Outdoors. A day with the soft brightness of real heat, the sky baked a dark blue, and a picnic rug laid out in front of a rose garden. Books splashed across the rug as though a stack of them had been kicked over. Edwin and a young blond woman were balancing one of the books across both of their knees as they sat companionably close and cross-legged. For a long time there was nothing more exciting than the fingers of the breeze in the ends of their hair, and the occasional turn of a page. The woman was following the text with her finger, frowning, when Edwin leaned back on his hands and craned up to exchange words with—Lord Hawthorn, the sun finding pieces of ruddy colour in his dark hair, brandishing an apple in his hand. He took a bite from it and kept talking down at Edwin with his mouth half-full, then glanced up—Edwin did as well—as though listening to a comment by someone unseen.
Movement at the sides of the vision. Robin remembered what he’d almost managed once before, and strained to swing the frame of the vision. More movement—birds cutting across the sky—and Robin saw the outlines of two more figures for only an instant, like a photograph poorly taken, before the vision collapsed.
He’d held it for longer than usual. It had felt like the difference between the season’s first morning on the river and the morning before race week: an expansion of the lungs, a feeling of sturdiness to the arms, the result of hard training.
Robin opened his eyes to the curl of steam rising from a golden arc of pouring tea. Maud, perched on the ottoman and busy with the tea tray, mixed in Robin’s sugar and milk and handed him the cup.
“Ellen said you were asleep when she came in with the tray,” said Maud. “Were you asleep?”
“No,” said Robin.
She clasped her hands together on her knees. Excitement and worry were warring for control of her expression. “What did you see?”
Robin told her; there seemed no reason not to. “That blond woman,” he added. “I’ve seen her a few times now.”
Maud smiled. “Is she pretty?”
“She is,” said Robin. He reached out and poked Maud’s sudden dimple with one finger. “Don’t you get any ideas. She may not have anything to do with me. I’m seeing the futures of people I’ve been—spending time with. That’s probably how it works. Give it another month and I’m sure I’ll start seeing you tossing your cap on the lawns of Newnham.”
Maud’s dimple danced, but to Robin’s surprise this wasn’t enough to divert her down the lane of planning her academic career. “Are you really planning to give it all up, Robin? Pretend it didn’t happen? It’s magic.”
Lord Hawthorn sidled into Robin’s mind. Not the relaxed, unreal version of him from the vision, but the version that Robin had met: even more full of sharp edges than Edwin, renouncing with drawling cruelty the world he’d been born into and which had taken both his sister and his own magic from him. I’m done with all of that.
“Ask me again next week,” Robin said. “Maudie, how would you feel if we moved into a smaller house?”
Maud adjusted the angle of her teacup handle. “And sold this place?”
Robin nodded.
“It’s been in the family a long time,” she said, but didn’t sound disapproving.
“It’s old,” Robin agreed. “Which means it’s going to need more repairs, and tradesmen are going to charge more to do them. And it’s far too large. We’ve got more servants than we need, keeping up rooms we’re never going to use.”
“Oh, goodness.” Maud, the sole mistress of the house, sat up straighter. “I’m going to have to dismiss people, aren’t I? I hate the idea. Most of them have been with us for years.”
“It can’t be helped. We’re not rich enough to be universally adored,” Robin said. “We can’t be philanthropists to that extent.”
“No, I know,” said Maud. “I’d far rather be known as the most selfish girl in London than have society start expecting us to behave like them.”
Robin beckoned her closer and dropped a kiss in her hair, grateful for how quickly she’d come on board. “You’re not that selfish, Maudie.”
“I could break another vase in the new place, to christen it. Like Champagne.”
“That’s for ships.”
Maud giggled and retrieved her tea, and the conversation moved on to where in London they should start the hunt for a smaller house.
After lunch Maud left for a nebulous social event with her friend Lizzie Sinclair. The chaperonage of Lizzie’s thoroughly bluestockinged mother meant that the event was likely to be a suffragette meeting or something of that nature, but Robin knew that any expression of concern on his behalf would only push Maud to further heights. Instead of coming home talking excitedly about the rights of women and workers, she’d end up chaining herself to something.