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ingrained courtesy, she thought, and it was no more than human nature that caused him to glance at what she had written as he held her notebook in his hand. That was all there was to it.
    What else could there be?
    They finished off the evening with steak and kidney pie and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon at a small restaurant in the West End. Between them, they managed to involve two waiters, a busboy, and the cook in an argument over whether there was liver in the pie or if the kidneys themselves tasted like liver. There was apparently no answer to the question, and toward the end, Joletta discovered she was too tired to care.
    Rone insisted on coming in with her when they reached the hotel. Joletta felt her stomach knot with tension as they neared her door. It had been a nice day; it would be a shame to have it ruined by a tussle over whether he could or could not stay with her.
    She need not have worried. He opened the door for her and glanced inside. Swinging around, he held out her key. She reached for it, but he closed his fingers around it, retaining it for a long moment while he gazed down at her with somber consideration in his blue gaze. His lips tightened, then he gave a minute shake of his head and dropped the key in her hand. With a promise to call her next day and a quiet good-night, he was gone.
    Joletta stood where she was when the door had closed behind him. He had not even tried to kiss her. For a moment she had thought — but no. It was surprising, after the way they had begun. But then, he was a surprising man.
    Weighing the key in her hand, she attempted to decide if she was relieved or miffed. She didn’t know; she really didn’t.



   4
     
    MAY 4, 1854
    Today I went shopping for kitchen toweling made of English linen as described to me by my cousin Lilith, who had found it at the emporium of Fortnum and Mason on her last voyage abroad. It was a trivial expedition, yes, but this toweling is all that Gilbert has so far permitted me to purchase. He suggested a subdued gray stripe before he left the hotel for a visit to the cabinetmaker. I ordered twelve dozen pieces in a bright blue plaid, and pray he may dislike them.
    Afterward, I was caught in the rain.
    How simple it is to write those bare words, but how confusing it was and how — I should like to say exciting, but that is not a state at all suitable to a staid married lady of six-and-twenty.
     
    Violet wandered through the food courts of Fortnum and Mason, pausing now and then to look at the picnic baskets, the vanilla beans, or tins of tea, but refusing all offers of assistance. She would have liked to buy a few things, some cheese and wine perhaps, or a tart or jar of biscuits to take back to the rooms she and Gilbert had hired. She knew, however, that her husband would not approve. Gilbert was punctilious about appearances; he would be mortified if the hotel staff should think that he was pinching pennies by dining in his room instead of going out to a restaurant. They were staying at Brown’s Hotel, a hostelry established some years previously by Lord Byron’s valet, a fact that was supposed to give it an added cachet. To Violet, it was merely stuffy.
    Violet had felt somewhat conspicuous on the streets without her maid. The elderly black woman, Hermine, who always accompanied her when she so much as set foot outside the house in New Orleans, was laid down upon her bed with a chill brought on by the English climate. While it was true that most of the other women Violet saw were either in pairs or escorted by gentlemen, there was a goodly number of respectable-looking females who were alone. Certainly there were enough of them that Violet need not fear she was behaving improperly. There were compensations to being unchaperoned, she had discovered. She could move much faster on her own. And to be able to shop without Hermine looking over her shoulder, muttering disparaging comments and sighing over the weight of the market basket, gave