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Emily's father returned to the house shortly before dinner was to be announced. Mrs Thornton was still upstairs in her room getting dressed, but Emily—with no servant to fuss over her—had simply exchanged one dress for another very similar one, had tidied her hair, and then had come downstairs to the library to poke around for possible new literary acquisitions.

The Thornton household in Pimlico was not set up for entertaining fashionable evening parties. Rather, it had the air of a gentlemen's club. Except for the small front parlour, only the dining room was fit to receive female guests. But the biggest room by far on the ground floor was the library; besides a fair number of bookshelves, it featured the best fireplace in the house, in addition to a billiards table and the kind of wing chairs one could curl up and get lost in. Its French windows opened to a patio that was flanked by rambling roses and shadowed by an old magnolia. It was Emily's favourite room in all the world.

She was immersed in an engraved folio of the sights and wonders of the East Indies, when the clicking of the front door latch caught her attention. She snapped the tome shut and quickly ran out into the hall, only slowing down on the last few steps—mindful of her grandmother's earlier reproach.

There he was! Her father was standing by the hallstand, where he had deposited his top hat and gloves, and was scanning the calling cards. Then he caught sight of her.

He froze; his expression for that one moment was one of shock. Her anxious "Papa?" instantly brought him back and he opened his arms. The next moment she found herself enfolded in his embrace.

After a short while he let go and held her at arm's length. "How are you, my darling?" he asked. "Did you have a good journey?—and is your grandmother much fatigued?"

"Grandmother is just getting dressed for dinner and will shortly be downstairs. After our arrival she's been resting for the remainder of the afternoon—"

He nodded, shrugging out of his overcoat and flinging it across a chair.

"Will you come to the library?" she asked.

"Not yet, Emily. I'd better get changed first... I was out all day and I don't want to keep your grandmother waiting for her evening meal for very much longer." He gave her a quick smile. "Has she been complaining about our dandified southern ways already?"

"It was literally the first thing she did, with Tom Boucher at the receiving end." They both chuckled.

Accompanying her father to the bottom of the stairs, Emily said, "Was there anything wrong just now, when you first saw me?"

"Not at all," John Thornton replied, trying for ease. However, there remained a crease between his brows. "That moment I saw you in the doorway, it struck me how much you've come to look like your mother—"

"And," Emily asked hesitantly, "is this a good thing?"

"It is," he said firmly. "You are growing into a very lovely young woman, just like she was. And you remind me of her in more ways than just by your looks."

It was a niggling regret in Emily's life that she had never known her mother—she had only been a few months old when Margaret Thornton had been taken from them—but mostly Emily was grateful for having been too young to feel, let alone remember, the loss of a parent. For her it had always just been the three of them—Papa, Grandmamma, and herself—that comprised her family.

And until she was eight or nine years old, Marlborough Mills had been the only home she had known.

Then came the American Civil War, and the Darkshire Cotton Famine along with it; and during those years of austerity in the North John Thornton became a politician. In the wake of it one home turned into many. In the years that followed John Thornton's election to Member of Parliament, Emily's life became divided between Milton and London; and while York Street and the education she received there alongside her cousin Walter was an additional foothold in Milton, London effectively afforded her not just one new home, but two. There was St Georges Square, of course—and then there was Harley Street...

"Edith Lennox is sending her regards," Thornton told his mother over dinner. "I saw her the other day at the Blakes' dinner party."

Hannah Thornton answered with an indistinct noise—she was no great admirer of the Lennoxes—and returned her attention to the fillet of sole on her plate.

He turned to his daughter instead, "Your cousin Edith has assured me that she is very much looking forward to your staying with her at Harley Street next week. Though, I gather, the excitement mainly derives from overseeing the purchase of your travel wardrobe."

"Oh, but Cousin Edith and I get along famously!" Emily protested. "Besides, with Isabella on the Continent and Vivienne still being such a cry-baby—" She blithely ignored her grandmother's frown. "—she's bound to miss the company of a grown 'daughter'."

"Not sure about that, actually," her father replied with a smile. "She may quite enjoy the current absence of adolescent drama from her family... But, fortunately, she promised to fit you out with a minimum of inconvenience to my patience and purse, so who am I to question her motives?"

"Papa!" Emily protested, then she saw his smile broaden; he was obviously pulling her leg.

"However," he continued, "what's the news in Milton?—and did you go visit the Higgins family prior to your departure, Emily? Boucher here is desirous to hear how they are."

Tom Boucher, who as secretary was a cut above the servants and therefore was neither fish nor fowl in the Thornton household, was generally taking his meals together with his employer on such infrequent occasions when the latter was actually dining at home. Thornton himself, no stickler to class distinctions in the first place, had long since declared an abhorrence to dining alone, and the genuine regard he held for his young secretary—a protégé of his since childhood—made this arrangement as much a matter of expediency as of pleasure. And he wouldn't think of giving up on it only because his mother and daughter were visiting.

Emily had indeed gone to see Mary Taylor, née Higgins, only two days before and therefore could give an up-to-date report about the twins Agnes and Annie, both recently married, about Flynn, who had entered the Milton police force, and about the youngest, eighteen year-old Lily, who was a milliner's apprentice—all of them doing well, and all being Tom Boucher's younger brother and sisters.

Of Jacob, another brother who was already distinguishing himself amongst the Marlborough Mills workforce and was likely to follow his foster father Nicholas Higgins into the position of overseer one day, Boucher was, of course, gaining first-hand information through the correspondence he oversaw as secretary of the mill owner.

"I hope you are pleased with me," Emily finished, then bit her lips in vexation, even before she heard her grandmother's stifled sigh. It was a singularly stupid thing to say. But, truth be told, said visit had been an irritating task for her because the connection to the Higgins family derived from a time preceding her. They had been her mother's good friends, but she—Emily—felt little kinship with them.

"Thank you for visiting them and for giving me such satisfactory news," Tom Boucher answered smoothly. Years of working for a politician, besides having had to live by his wits as a penniless orphan, saw to it that he wasn't easily drawn out—and certainly not by a schoolgirl's blunder.

They stood outside the building, once again looking up at the façade covered in scaffolding.

"A conference hotel?" Meret asked, incredulous. "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes. With a substantial modern annexe," Paxton said. He wasn't looking particularly enthused. "It's part of the development plan for this site." He pointed towards the wasteland. Pinks took it as a sign that they were to be off and jumped to his feet, tail wagging. "When you came to see me earlier this week, our entry for the architectural competition was very much in jeopardy due to an IT system breakdown... That was the reason why things were a bit... tense." He grinned apologetically. "We really want to do this development; and not just because it's literally on our doorstep."

"So, what's the plan for over there?"

"Let's walk there and I'll explain... No, Pinks. Not really!" he laughed as the dog dragged a five foot stick out of the shrubs. He broke off a short piece and tossed it. Pinks rocketed off in hot pursuit.

"The master plan just said 'housing', but we've put forward a concept for a multigenerational housing development, five units with four floors each and individual designs for each flat—" He stopped to toss the stick again. "—The ground floor flats are dedicated to families and come with a small garden patch. Two of those units will get lifts and facilities for people with special needs. There will also be some public services, such as a nursery school and a small grocery shop doubling as a parcel delivery point, and space for a couple of artisan workshops or small start-ups at the near end."

"Sounds brilliant to me—and all the more reason to give them not a conference hotel as a neighbour, but a place to go for a meal." Even after only such a short visit she felt strangely possessive of her ancestor's home. "Why not turn this into a... let's say, a Victorian restaurant and café instead?—with an outside seating area shadowed by trees, and a few guestrooms for visitors from out of town?"

"Personally, I could stand behind such an idea," he said, "but it's not for me to decide, unfortunately. Besides, we'll have to see what becomes of our competition entry; we'd need to win first before we could even think about suggesting any changes of plan."

"When will you get a result?"

"Two weeks' time, approximately—"

"I'll keep my fingers crossed, Mr Paxton."

"Thanks," Paxton replied. "And... it's 'Jareth'." He slightly stressed the 'th' at the end.

"Is that a novel way of spelling Jared?"

"I wish." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Care to go out for a drink one of these days—and I'll tell you then?" he suggested.

"I'm intrigued," Meret replied. "And, yes, why not."

"I'll get in touch after results."

"'Jareth', ey? So, how was he?" Louisa curiously inquired. "By the way, funny name, innit?"

Meret's flatmate had been out of town to see her parents for the day and had only just returned. Hence they were meeting at a Tex-Mex bar near Outwood station. Currently they were on their first Caipirinhas while waiting for their shared jumbo serving of nachos with all the—vegan—dressings.

"'Funny' ha-ha, or 'funny' peculiar?"

"Both, I'd say," Louisa giggled. " I betcha it's..."

"Hang on! On second thought I'd much rather not know right now," Meret hastily stopped her. "He as much as promised to tell me next time we'll go out for drinks."

"A date, huh?" Louisa whooped. "Guy won't let the grass grow under his feet! Seems to me he fancies you... So, hit me! Is he hot?"

"Well... actually—and considering that I thought him a jerk at first—he's a total dreamboat."

The Lennox family's Harley Street household was a large one, consisting of Edith, her husband Captain Lennox—long since retired from active service—and their five children, in addition to a fair number of servants that made the place run like clockwork.

Edith Lennox wasn't Emily's own cousin but her mother's. The two women had grown up together in London. But Cousin Edith had always felt like a much closer relation than she was—and definitely closer than Aunt Frances—mostly because Emily's father also seemed to prefer the company of the former to his own sister's. This came as a surprise to many people because they—John Thornton and Edith Lennox—appeared to be so very different in their characters.

With her grandmother returning to Milton and her father tied up in the Commons during those busy times before the summer recess, Emily was moving in with the Lennoxes for the week. She was given Isabella's new room. It was not yet quite finished because its inhabitant was not due to return until later in summer, but it had the infinite advantage of not being shared with Vivienne. Emily didn't mind her younger cousin—much—but, from a lifetime as an only child, she was used to having her own space. Besides, Vivienne was frequently plagued by sinusitis and tended to snore.

Her first night at Harley Street coincided with an invitation to her father for a small informal dinner party; and so it happened that she arrived at John Thornton's arm in her best—and only—silk gown. It was in an unassuming shade of powder blue. She felt self-conscious under the inquisitive eyes of the Lennoxes' Harley Street neighbours and she knew that the dress with its modest neckline and trim—while befitting her status as a girl not yet out in society—didn't favour her. It was too pale to enhance the colour of her eyes—a vivid blue—and too childlike for her willowy height and budding feminine form.

As they crossed the room greeting the already assembled guests, she couldn't help noticing the admiring glances—not at herself, but at her father. He drew a fine figure indeed in his evening frock coat, white waistcoat, and stock. Not for the first time she wondered why he had never remarried. Not for lack of opportunities, surely?

Edith came towards them and greeted them by kissing both her and her father on the cheek in the French fashion. "You've been making yourself scarce in this house, John," she said fondly. "So good to have you tonight... Oh, look, there is Maxwell coming! He wants to quiz you about some new investments he's planning in Darkshire. Don't let him trap you in business talk all evening."

"I shall call you to the rescue if need be, Edith," Thornton replied with a smile. "Thank you for the invitation; and thank you for taking my daughter under your wing for the time being." He turned to greet Captain Lennox. "Maxwell! It has been a while—"

"My word, Emily, you really have grown into a young lady since I last saw you!" Edith exclaimed, taking the girl's hands. "Considering that it's less than half a year... As you are the only girl present tonight, I thought that you might enjoy being seated next to Sholto." She indicated across the room to where a young gentleman in a lieutenant's uniform stood with his back to them. "You do remember Sholto, don't you?"

"Of course," Emily murmured, though in truth she wouldn't have recognised him. He looked nothing like the gangly sixteen year-old she had last seen when he was heading off to the Royal Military College at Sandhurst. She was still looking his way when he suddenly turned and, noticing her gaze, gave her a fleeting but charming smile. That smile was all it took! The sight of it ignited a flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach; flustered, she quickly averted her eyes.

She hadn't quite regained her composure, when Sholto Lennox eventually came to claim her, in order to accompany her to table.

"Cousin Emily. Allow me," he said, offering his arm.

"O-Of course," she stammered, diffidently stepping forward.

Compared with his suave manner she felt awkward and gauche. Usually she didn't give a second thought on how she might appear to others and therefore rarely found herself out of her depth. But in this instance, with the debonair nineteen year-old in regimentals next to her, she suddenly wanted to please him more than anything else. But, from wishing so hard to impress him, she feared that she might achieve the exact opposite; and the dress didn't help either.

When he took his seat next to her, after helping her with her chair, Emily eyed him surreptitiously. Fair like his mother and with a soft blond moustache hardly standing out against his golden tan, he was like a ray of sunshine... So very handsome!... He was Apollo, the Grecian god of light.

Noticing her look he gave her another smile—white teeth flashing—that once again made her heart thump wildly in her chest.

"Mamma told me that you are going on the grand tour this summer, Cousin Emily," he casually remarked by way of starting a conversation.

I wish he wouldn't stress the word 'cousin' so much, Emily thought miserably. After all, we aren't so very closely related—hardly related at all, if one comes to think of it. Aloud she said, "Well, it's only Paris... um, and Burgundy, of course, but we won't go as far as the Mediterranean—and then it's already off to Lausanne. Hardly a grand tour!" Don't giggle now, she sternly reproached herself. Just don't!

She giggled. Now he must think me a nitwit! She felt the heat rise from her neck up to her cheeks. Soon her face would be flushed and blotchy. This was mortifying! She intensely stared at her soup.

"I would have known you anywhere," Sholto said over the meat course. "You've hardly changed—" It was almost three years ago when you last saw me. I was thirteen then! she felt like crying out. This was going from bad to worse."—and I daresay, Vivienne is looking forward to your company. You'll get along like a house on fire." Jolly good. Bring out the hooks, ropes, and water pump! "Though I think you may want to go easy on her tomorrow; she greatly envies your participating in tonight's dinner while she's not allowed..."

It was humiliating. This gorgeous young man was treating her exactly like a child.

After dinner the ladies were congregating in the drawing room and, while waiting for the gentlemen to join them, they were talking about children and ailments, and very little else. Just when Emily thought that things must have reached rock bottom, Cousin Edith ambled over, took a seat next to her, and asked her to kindly go visit Dixon in the servants' quarters on the morrow. Dixon was her mother's old maid—in fact, had been her grandmother's maid before that—and was allowed to spend her twilight years with the Lennox household. A small pension Emily's mother had bequeathed on her saw to it that the old servant's needs were met.

Dixon was an old bore and a few cards short of a full deck—as Cousin Walter would have said.