Mrs. Bell had laid out two dresses when I came downstairs on Saturday. One was dark blue, suitable for a family supper. The other was the pale green one my father liked, with the narrow cuffs that made writing difficult.
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“I didn't ask you to choose,” I said.
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“I know. I thought you might prefer having the choice made before the carriage arrived.”
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I touched the green sleeve. “The blue, please.”
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Mrs. Bell didn't comment. She sent the green dress away and asked whether I wanted breakfast in the sitting room. I did, though I ate very little of it.
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My father's letter was still in my satchel. Mira's drawing rested inside my notebook beside it. I'd considered leaving the notebook behind, but it also held my notes from Thursday's examination. I brought it.
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I wasn't going to show him the drawing.
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The carriage arrived shortly after noon. The driver had brought an extra blanket, despite the clear sky, and a parcel of pears from the city market for the estate kitchen. My father liked the kitchen to receive things before he did. He claimed it prevented the cook from accusing him of eating all the good fruit.
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The road out of the city was busy with carts. We passed a team repairing a drainage channel and a group of academy students walking toward the northern fields with measuring rods.
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I tried to read. I managed three pages, then realized I couldn't remember any of them.
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At the estate, the gardener was arguing with a boy over a wheelbarrow. The boy had filled it with wet soil until neither of them could lift it. My father stood nearby in an old brown coat, holding a pair of pruning shears.
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Mira had drawn that coat.
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I remained in the carriage a moment longer than necessary.
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Father came down the steps himself. He looked at the driver first, asked about the road, and then offered me his hand.
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“You're early.”
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“So are you. I thought you would be in your study.”
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“The gardener tells me the roses have a disease. He says it as though I introduced it personally.”
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“Did you?”
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“Not knowingly.”
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He kissed my forehead. His beard scratched, as it always had.
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Inside, he asked whether I wanted tea before we talked. I said yes. He ordered it for the smaller sitting room rather than the dining room, away from anyone passing through.
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Neither of us spoke about Adrian until the tray arrived and the servant left.
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“I've read your letter several times,” Father said.
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“I gathered that from your answer.”
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“You said you were seeing a student named Adrian. You said it was your decision and that you expected me to respect it.”
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“Yes.”
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“You didn't tell me much about him.”
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“I told you what I thought you needed to know before we spoke.”
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Father poured tea into both cups. He had always been particular about that, even when I was old enough to pour my own.
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“Then tell me now.”
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I described Adrian's work on defensive barriers, his tutoring, and the seminar. I told Father how we had met and that we had been spending time together outside the academy. His research was part of his life; I left it at that.
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When I finished, Father asked, “Does he know who you are?”
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“Of course.”
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“I don't mean your name.”
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“I know what you mean. He knows my family has expectations. He knows I have obligations. He hasn't asked me to abandon either.”
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“And you haven't asked him to change his circumstances?”
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“No.”
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Father set his cup down. “Those are pleasant answers. They aren't the difficult ones.”
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“Then ask the difficult ones.”
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He took a moment.
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“Can he afford to finish his studies?”
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“Yes. He's working hard to do it.”
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“That's not what I asked.”
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“No, it isn't. His finances are tight. He tutors because the money matters.”
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Father nodded. “Does he expect you to solve that?”
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“He hasn't asked me to.”
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“People don't always ask.”
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I could have told him that Adrian had refused help with smaller things. That he counted coins before buying groceries. That he'd once looked embarrassed over a packet of food Mrs. Bell had packed. None of those moments belonged in a defense brief delivered without his permission.
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“If I ever decide to help him,” I said, “that will be a conversation between us. I won't let you treat his income as a verdict on his character.”
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“I didn't say it was.”
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“You were moving toward it.”
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Father's mouth tightened. “I was moving toward whether either of you understands what you're taking on.”
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I disliked the way he'd reached the question more than the question itself.
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“We're learning,” I said. “We haven't promised each other the rest of our lives after a few weeks.”
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“Good.”
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The relief in his voice annoyed me.
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He rose to close a window that had begun to rattle. When he returned, he didn't sit immediately.
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“There is something I should tell you. I asked about him.”
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I looked up. “Asked whom?”
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“A colleague with connections at the academy. I wanted to know whether he was a student in good standing.”
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“What did they tell you?”
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“His attendance is satisfactory. He has taken on tutoring work. His barrier research drew attention at the seminar.” Father paused. “They said Professor Halden is protective of the work's limits.”
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“Halden is protective of everyone's limits.”
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“Then I'm glad someone is.”
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My grip tightened around my cup. Father had made inquiries before giving me the chance to introduce Adrian. At least he was telling me himself.
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“Did you ask about his family?”
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“No.”
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“His debts?”
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“No. I asked whether he was enrolled and whether there had been disciplinary trouble. I won't pretend I didn't consider asking more.”
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“Then don't.”
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Father finally sat. “You may ask me not to make further inquiries. You cannot ask me not to worry.”
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“I'm not asking you to stop worrying. I'm asking you to speak to me before you act on it.”
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He looked at me for a long time. “I can do that.”
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I let out a breath and reached for my tea.
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We ate supper with the windows open to the garden. Father asked about my classes, and I asked about the estate accounts. A storm had damaged one of the outer storehouses; repairs were taking longer because the local quarry was supplying stone for the northern road. He complained about the delay, then admitted the road needed the stone more urgently than his roof needed decorative edging.
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He complained about the delay longer than he spent admitting the road needed the stone more urgently than his roof needed decorative edging.
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Halfway through the meal, he asked, “Would you bring Adrian here sometime?”
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I set down my fork. “To meet you?”
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“That is generally what bringing a person here accomplishes.”
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“Not to have him examined over supper?”
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“I expect I'll ask him questions.”
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“Father.”
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“I'll try not to ask them as though he's applying for a position.”
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I studied him. “I'll speak to Adrian. I won't promise on his behalf.”
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“Fair.”
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He cut another piece of bread, and the conversation moved on.
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After supper, Father walked me to the carriage. The gardener had finally moved the wheelbarrow, leaving a deep track through the wet path.
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“Your letter frightened me,” Father said.
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I hadn't expected that. “Why?”
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“Because you sounded as though you thought you would have to fight me to be heard.”
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I watched the driver adjust a strap. “Sometimes I have.”
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“Yes.” He looked toward the garden. “I remember some of those times differently. That doesn't mean you imagined them.”
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I looked back at him, but nothing I could say belonged on the doorstep.
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“I'll write after I've spoken to Adrian,” I said.
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“Do that.”
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He helped me into the carriage, then stepped back. He didn't ask me to stay the night.
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Adrian was at home when I arrived. Mrs. Fenwick had gone, and the apartment smelled faintly of the soup he'd made the evening before. Mira was asleep behind the partly closed bedroom door. Sir Flopsy sat on a chair with his school bag across his lap.
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“How was it?” Adrian asked.
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“Long. Better than I expected in some ways.”
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He moved a stack of papers so I could sit. I told him about Father's questions, the academy inquiry, and the invitation. Adrian listened without interrupting until I reached the part about his finances.
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“He asked whether I expected you to support me?”
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“He asked whether you expected me to solve your financial problems.”
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“Ah.” He considered it. “I'd prefer he asked me.”
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“So would I. I told him not to make further inquiries without speaking to me.”
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“Thank you.”
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“I didn't promise you'd visit.”
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“I might. I'd like a little time to think about it.”
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“You have it.”
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I took my notebook from my satchel. Mira's drawing was still tucked inside.
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“I didn't tell him about Mira,” I said.
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Adrian glanced toward the bedroom, then back at me.
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“I thought I might, before I went. But once we started talking, I knew it wasn't the right time. We needed to settle one thing without asking him to understand something much larger.”
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“That makes sense.”
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“And I didn't show him this. I know Mira asked me to.”
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“We can explain that to her together.”
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I rested the notebook on my knees and ran my thumb along its edge.
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From the bedroom, Mira called sleepily for a glass of water. Adrian stood, then hesitated when I reached for it too.
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“I'll go,” I said. “You can tell me what you think of the invitation when I get back.”
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He nodded and sat down again.