er father’s body lay in repose in the drawing room of the town house for two days. On the third day, a black hearse, big as a rail carriage, drew up before the house and bore him to his funeral.

Women were often discouraged from attending the funeral, for fear that, overwhelmed by grief, they would cause a scene by breaking down in sobs or even fainting from a surfeit of feelings. But both Bryony and Callista chose to be present, to accompany their father on the last leg of his journey on this earth.

The service was solemn and moving. But Bryony spent it thinking more of the living than the dead. There was nothing more she could do for or about her father, but there was much she could do for Callista, for Mrs. Asquith, and for her stepbrothers. When she resumed work, she ought to try to be less of an automaton—a bit of compassion for her patients wouldn’t hurt. And as for her future students at the medical college, she could smile once in a while so that they would not be too intimidated to ask questions.

The organist played “Now the Laborer’s Task Is O’er.” On the shoulders of his friends, her father’s casket traveled slowly toward the door of the church, followed by his daughters.

Abruptly Callista poked Bryony in the side. Bryony turned toward her. Callista pointed with her chin. Bryony looked in the general direction her sister indicated and saw nothing but rows upon rows of mourners, some of whom looked vaguely recognizable, others she could not identify if her scalpel arm depended on it.

And then she saw them: Will Marsden, Matthew Marsden, and their eldest brother Jeremy, the Earl of Wyden. They were a striking trio, all blond curls and archangel faces. Only when she was about to look away did she see their taller, darker-haired baby brother, who actually stood closest to the nave of the church—closest to her.

Their time in India could roughly be divided between malaria and war, with Leo laid low on one end by the toxicity of quinine and on the other by his wounds and the fatigue of continuous battle. His clothes, by the time they’d met, had seen much service on the frontier, and were frayed and tired if not actually threadbare.

But there inside the church, surrounded by sunlight streaming in from the stained-glass windows, in perfect health and an immaculately tailored frock coat, he was something else altogether.

This was the young man who had felled her with one smile. He did not look like an archangel—if archangels looked as he did, there would be no women of virtue left in Paradise. Instead, he was an old-fashioned Adonis, fully human, yet so ravishing goddesses fell in love with him.

God, he was beautiful. And for the life of her, she did not know how she managed to keep walking.

She didn’t register the black crape armband he wore until she’d walked past him.

He’d come in mourning, as a son of the family.

The interment was private. Bryony and Callista each tossed in a handful of white rose petals on their father’s casket. Then Callista tossed in another handful for Mrs. Asquith, who had not felt equal to the funeral—it was understood that the bereaved sometimes preferred to grieve alone, rather than fall apart in public. Angus, the younger of their stepbrothers, dropped a handful of earth for himself, and another for Paul, whose withered limbs, as a result of his childhood poliomyelitis, made it difficult for him to leave the house.

As they made their way out of the cemetery, Callista was again the first person to spot Leo: He and Matthew waited for them by the Asquith carriage, poor Matthew practically invisible against Leo’s luminosity.

of emotions spilled over in Bryony. Tenderness. Longing. Pure bedazzled admiration. And happiness enough to float the entire Royal Navy.

Callista embraced both Leo and Matthew. “Leo, you ugly stoat, welcome home. Matthew, my goodness, you are more gorgeous every time I see you. And when are you going to offer for me? I’m not getting any younger.”

Matthew chuckled softly.

“Soon, Callista, soon. Just now on the Channel crossing Matthew was moaning your name when he thought we were going down,” said Leo, smiling. He shook hands with her stepbrother. “Angus, good to see you.”

For Bryony, probably out of consideration of her elderly knees, he spared her a full smile, which would have sent her pitching forward into the side of the carriage. “Mrs. Marsden.”

He really should have addressed her as Miss Asquith. An annulment meant that they’d never been legally married. But the way he said Mrs. Marsden, as if they were alone and he had every intention of stripping her naked, made her heart pound. As did the signal he sent via his mourning attire—besides the crape armband, he also wore a black hatband. She could already hear the gossips: He came to the funeral dressed as if the deceased were still his father-in-law, as if he were still married to Bryony Asquith.

“Messieurs Marsden,” she answered. “Thank you for coming.”

“We were wondering if you wouldn’t care to come to our house for tea,” said Matthew.

“I think that is a lovely idea,” said Callista.

“I’m not sure,” said Bryony. “We are not supposed to be moving in society so soon after our father’s passing.”

“You are not moving in society,” Leo said firmly. “It’s just family.”

The only family connection the Asquiths and Marsdens had between them was Leo and Bryony’s annulled marriage.

“You are absolutely right, Leo,” said Callista. “Shall we?”

“What about Mrs. Asquith?” Bryony asked. “Only Paul is there with her and Paul took Father’s passing rather hard himself.”

“I will keep them company,” Angus volunteered. “The two of you go.”

“Still …”

“It’s all right,” said Callista. “We won’t stay long.”

Angus took the Asquith carriage home. Everyone else piled into the Wyden carriage. During the ride, Bryony learned that Matthew had left his holiday in Biarritz to meet Leo in Paris. And when he couldn’t persuade Leo to go to Biarritz with him, had decided to accompany Leo to London instead.

They’d literally just detrained at Victoria Station when they learned that Geoffrey Asquith’s funeral was being held that very afternoon. They had barely enough time to buy Leo his mourning crape and rush home to change out of their traveling clothes before driving to the service.

“Leo robbed me of my coat,” said Matthew. “He had to look good.”

“Liar.” Leo smiled. “Matthew insisted that I take his coat, since I couldn’t go to my father-in-law’s funeral in a lounge suit, which was all I had at that point.”

My father-in-law. Flustered, Bryony kept her face turned toward the window, so that she did not have to deal with the rampant curiosity in the carriage.

Callista pulled Bryony aside after they alit, before they entered the Wyden house. “Did the two of you marry again? Please tell me yes. If he is my brother-in-law again, he is less likely to kill me for what I did.”

Bryony looked at her a moment, then leaned in and whispered in her ear. “He won’t kill you. He just wants you committed to an asylum.”

The Wyden house was full of men. Jeremy and Will had come up from Oxfordshire without their spouses and children: Matthew and Leo would shortly go down to the family seat to meet everyone.

“I can’t tell you how glad we are you ladies could join us,” said Will. “Jeremy was born mute, I am so quiet and retiring, Matthew never knows any good gossip, and Leo is the most boring person in the world.”

“Just you wait,” said Leo. “My wife never stops talking once she starts.”

Jeremy choked on his whiskey and coughed. Leo slapped him between the shoulder blades. Bryony was glad she hadn’t started on her tea yet. Or she would have joined Jeremy in the choking.

My wife.

“So, Callista, I understand you managed to pull off a fairly substantial confidence trick despite Leo’s vigilance,” said Matthew. “How did you do that?”

“No, Callista, don’t confess. You know what will happen afterward.” Will imitated firing a gun. “Have you ever seen Leo with a firearm?”

“More to the point, have you ever seen my wife with a scalpel?” asked Leo. There was just enough menace in his voice to make Bryony feel like the veriest medical assassin.

Callista had the grace to blush. “My father was in on it. I figured Leo would check any claims I made, so Father stayed home for a week or so and we let it be known that he was not feeling well.”

“How did you know I’d left Leh?” asked Bryony. She’d forgotten about that part.

“That was pure accident. Someone I knew turned out to be Mrs. Braeburn’s niece. When she received a letter Mrs. Braeburn wrote her saying that they were departing Leh for the Kalash Valleys with a Mrs. Marsden who was a physician, she came to me and asked if that wasn’t Bryony. I told her to say nothing to Mrs. Braeburn about it.”

“So you knew she was in the Chitral region and you made me go all the way to Leh first?”

“Well, if I told you I knew where she was you’d have just told me to cable her myself and leave you alone. And please don’t kill me. Are you glad you have your wife back?”

“Jeremy, do you still keep a pistol in the library?”

Leo was standing by Bryony’s chair. She placed her hand on his sleeve. “We are all safe now. And Callista is very sorry.”

Leo looked at Bryony a long moment. His hand touched hers briefly and he smiled. “There is never a pistol in this house.”

Bryony was uncomfortable with public displays of intimacy. But she let her hand remain under Leo’s for another two seconds before pulling it back to her lap.

“Sorry, Leo,” Callista said, shamefaced.

“Now what I want to know is what happened when you found Bryony, Leo,” said Will. “Did you just say your sister sent me, pack up everything and come with me this moment?”

“More or less.”

“And she came away with you?”

“More or less.” Leo tossed Bryony a mischievous look. “Although there might have been laudanum, drugging, and a midnight abduction involved.”

“Now that’s a much better story,” said Matthew. “I would pay to read that one.”

“And for his knavery, Leo lost one of his—more important parts,” said Bryony.

“No!” Matthew and Will shouted in unison.

“Bryony!” Callista squeaked.

“Kidney,” Leo cried. “It was just a kidney. A man can live a perfectly vigorous life with one kidney.”

“You can call it a kidney if you want,” said Bryony.

Will hooted. Callista covered her eyes. Leo covered his entire face, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Bryony couldn’t help it—she laughed, laughed so much that she had to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.

This was what she’d once imagined marriage to him would be like, this festive normalcy, this sense of warmth and ease and belonging.

“So what really happened?” asked Jeremy.

Jeremy had the seriousness and authority of one who’d been groomed since birth for responsibilities. When he asked questions, people answered.

“Ah, the dreaded what-really-happened question,” said Leo, still smiling. “Tell him, Bryony.”

Now she knew what it had felt like for him when she asked him to tell the Braeburns why they had to leave right away. But she had not his talent for shaping words into a separate reality. She swallowed. “It was very simple, really. When Leo came, I wanted to go with him. I was—I was never so happy to see anyone in my life.”

Leo leaned back in his chair, his head tilted. For a moment she thought he would mock her. He’d told such a beautiful—and ultimately true—version of their story to the Braeburns, and all she had to say to his brothers was these two plain lines. And then she noticed the shimmer of tears in his eyes.

He did not cry. But she almost did. It was a while before she was sufficiently herself again to rejoin the conversation.

And after that she could not stop smiling.

She glowed. There was no other word for it, as if the walls around her heart had at last crumpled enough to reveal her hidden capacity for joy, for life. And what a radiant thing it was. Even her silence beamed softly, a mere absence of words rather than the dark void it had so often been.

They were asked about their ride to Chakdarra and the consequent siege. There was talk of Charlie and Charlie’s motherless children. Callista flirted outrageously with Matthew. And throughout it all, Leo, drunk on hope, watched Bryony.

With every one of her smiles their past receded a little further; their future became not only more possible, but more secure. Suddenly he could think of such prosaic things as the size of writing desks, the weight of service china, the color of wallpapers and curtains—his head was full of them, the lovely, minute details of a new life together.

Bryony and Callista stayed for over an hour, until Callista rose and said that they must go home to check on Mrs. Asquith. Bryony came to her feet rather slowly, as if she was having too much fun to wish to leave yet.

Matthew elbowed Leo. “Leo, why is your wife leaving with her sister?”

“Because our marriage is a secret, that’s why,” said Leo. He turned to Bryony. “Before you go, may I have a word, Mrs. Marsden?”

He only meant to give her Toddy’s old letter, but as soon as they were out in the hall she grabbed him by the lapel and kissed him. He crushed her fiercely against himself.

“When will you ask for your post back?” he whispered in her ear. “I miss the smell of industrial-strength solvents.”

She laughed softly. “Soon. And when will you have papers read at the mathematical society again? I rather like having my husband called a genius for reasons that are not clear to me.”

My husband. The words rolled off her tongue, easy and beautiful. He kissed her fervently. “Soon. My brilliance quite overflowed on the way home. I have four notebooks to show for it.”

“Good. We don’t want people to think I love you for your looks alone.”

“In that case we should also put you in some rather revealing gowns once in a while, so that people don’t think I married you for your accomplishments alone.”

She laughed again—she probably had no idea how beautiful she was when she laughed, like the dawn of a new day. Her laughter quieted after a few seconds. There came a long moment of silence. She gazed up into his eyes.

“I know why you keep referring to me as your wife. But I’m not pregnant, Leo.”

He hadn’t truly hoped, but still it was not easy to hear. It would be wonderful to have a child together, to commit not just to each other, but to a growing life, a continuation and natural extension of their love.

“You don’t need to be,” he said. “Children are not essential to my life. Only you are. You have always been. And nothing has changed.”

Her lashes lowered. “You will make me cry,” she murmured.

“It’s all right to cry,” he whispered back, “when you get home, that is. Crying is not allowed in the Wyden house: It’s the Marsden rule.”

Her lips quivered. After a while, she looked up, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. “Did you say you wanted a word with me, sir?”

He’d forgotten entirely. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and pressed it into her hands. “For you. Something I promised. And tomorrow morning I’ll call on you: We’ll go to Cambridge.”

My Dear Lisbeth,

I love this season in the Cotswold. We go for walks every day, Bryony and I. Sometimes Mr. Asquith comes, when I can persuade him to be away from his books and manuscripts during the day. Yesterday—without Mr. Asquith, of course—his daughter and I lay down in a field of buttercups and rolled in that carpet of flowers.

The most exciting event in the next fortnight is going to be the picnic on dear Bryony’s sixth birthday. She is quite involved and helps me with the lists and the games. There is something so very endearing about that lovely little girl as she writes down in her neat, round hand all the tasks still to be done, in the notebook I gave her—it makes me think how fortunate I am. My cousin Marianne is married to a widower too and moans constantly about his brood of hooligans, tricksters, and ruffians. And here I am, gifted with the most wonderful child in the world.

Sometimes Mr. Asquith complains about the amount of time I spend with her—he would emerge from his library looking for me and I would have gone off somewhere with her. I tease him that it is because she loves me more and in a way, it is true. Certainly she needs me more. I have scolded Mr. Asquith on not keeping her nearer to him in her motherless years. There is this fear in her, sometimes, and I know she still remembers the long months when she was alone in this house, looked after by only the servants.

I tell Mr. Asquith that before we know it she will be a beautiful girl of eighteen and some eager fellow will snatch her away from us, whereas I will always be his wife, for the rest of our days. And when I have no more children on whom to dote, does he think he’ll be able to write in peace anymore? No, then it will be he whom I shall drag with me everywhere for company!

I enclose the recipe for ginger mulled wine that you requested, along with a book of pressed flowers Bryony and I made for you. Do please write me soon and let me know what this spring has been like for you in Derbyshire.

Love,

Toddy

Bryony wept. For sorrow. And pure, startling joy: Toddy had been happy.

She’d always imagined her father as a distant, neglectful husband. She’d believed Toddy lonely, a vibrant young woman married to a much older man who had little appreciation for her liveliness and spirit. But the letter alluded to a husband who treasured his bride, a Toddy who was indulgently fond of him, and an affectionate, comfortable marriage.

It was all she ever wanted for Toddy, that her days on earth had been filled with sunshine, and that she had known how much she’d been esteemed and loved.

When she’d read the letter a dozen times, she decided that it was enough for the night. Slipping the letter back into the envelope, she discovered that there was another sheet of paper inside.

Dear B.,

I cabled Lady Griswold from Bombay and asked if she could send the letter she’d once referred to in conversation with me to the Wyden town house. She has kindly granted my request.

I hope I will be able to give this to you after the funeral. I miss you terribly.

Love,

Leo

She kissed the note. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, my love.