that's what you mean."
"Was it difficult?"
"To let Edward have charge of me? Not in the least, for he'd been doing it all along. Even as a boy, he took his duty as elder brother seriously." His face softened with memory. "Our father was strict. A hard man, you'd say, to the point where he sometimes seemed cruel. His father had been the same. According to family lore, our great-grandfather was a wastrel. Nearly gambled Greystowe into the poorhouse. Perhaps the generations left to repair the damage were right to run a tight ship. Whatever the reason, many times Edward stood between my father's rod and me."
He rolled onto his elbow and covered the hand that was crumpling her skirt. "Shall I tell you the best Edward story?"
Ignoring the sudden skipping of her heart—for why should she care about Edward's part in the tale?— she smiled into bis boyish face. "Of course you should tell me."
He composed himself by propping his jaw on his hand. "You may not know this, but Greystowe is built above a lake with an island in its center and a family of proud black swans who return each year to raise their brood."
"Black swans?"
"None other. Nasty, noisy things, if you want to know the truth, but handsome enough to look at. At any rate, when Edward was seven, our father decided he ought to learn to swim. He rowed him to the deepest end of
Greystowe
Lake
and pushed him over the side of the boat. Edward, of course, immediately flailed around and went under. When my father judged he had swallowed enough water, he hauled him out, let him catch his breath, and did it again."
"Heavens!" said Florence , her hand to her breast.
"I told you my father was stern. I imagine his father did the same to him. He liked to say Greystowe men were made of iron."
"But Edward might have drowned!"
"He learned not to soon enough," Freddie assured her. and soothingly patted her hand. "Edward being who he was, when it came my turn to learn, he insisted he be allowed to teach me. Told my father the responsibility would prepare him to be a leader. He always was better at getting around the earl than I was."
Florence shook her head against a dawning horror. "You can't mean to tell me Edward dumped you in that lake!"
"Indeed, no." Freddie laughed and her shoulders unwound in relief. "But he did take it into his head that I had to learn in a single day or Father would do it instead. We stayed in that lake till
midnight
, a shivering pair of prunes."
"And did you learn to swim?"
"Enough to satisfy Father. And better over the course of the summer. Edward was so pleased he gave me lessons every day. Two years later, I won a swimming prize at school. Edward doesn't know I know this but, to this day. he keeps that medal in a cabinet by his bed."
Florence blinked her stinging eyes. "What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I really were your cousin, so I could have been there to cheer you on."
"I should have liked that." He touched her cheek where a single tear had slipped away. "Now you must let me ask you a question."
"Oh, Freddie, you know I can't tell stories like you." "It's not a question that requires a story. At least, I don"t think it is."
"Very well," she said, and smoothed her simple skirt. "Ask me anything you like."
He cocked his head at her answer, eyes twinkling, but all he said was, "What do you think of Peter Vance?"
"The duke of Monmouth's son?" She sat straighter in surprise.
"Yes. Aunt Hypatia tells me he sent you violets this morning and invited you to the opera with his family."
She squirmed at the memory of the card that had accompanied his bouquet. Something about the
"violet hiding in the shade" and the "sweet and simple beauty" that its perfume betrayed. The sentiment was flattering, even poetic, but Florence had felt supremely uncomfortable when he'd read it.
"I'm sure he only sent them to please his sister," she said. "And even if he didn't, he's the son of a duke."
"The youngest son," Freddie interposed.
"Yes, but I
"Was it difficult?"
"To let Edward have charge of me? Not in the least, for he'd been doing it all along. Even as a boy, he took his duty as elder brother seriously." His face softened with memory. "Our father was strict. A hard man, you'd say, to the point where he sometimes seemed cruel. His father had been the same. According to family lore, our great-grandfather was a wastrel. Nearly gambled Greystowe into the poorhouse. Perhaps the generations left to repair the damage were right to run a tight ship. Whatever the reason, many times Edward stood between my father's rod and me."
He rolled onto his elbow and covered the hand that was crumpling her skirt. "Shall I tell you the best Edward story?"
Ignoring the sudden skipping of her heart—for why should she care about Edward's part in the tale?— she smiled into bis boyish face. "Of course you should tell me."
He composed himself by propping his jaw on his hand. "You may not know this, but Greystowe is built above a lake with an island in its center and a family of proud black swans who return each year to raise their brood."
"Black swans?"
"None other. Nasty, noisy things, if you want to know the truth, but handsome enough to look at. At any rate, when Edward was seven, our father decided he ought to learn to swim. He rowed him to the deepest end of
Greystowe
Lake
and pushed him over the side of the boat. Edward, of course, immediately flailed around and went under. When my father judged he had swallowed enough water, he hauled him out, let him catch his breath, and did it again."
"Heavens!" said Florence , her hand to her breast.
"I told you my father was stern. I imagine his father did the same to him. He liked to say Greystowe men were made of iron."
"But Edward might have drowned!"
"He learned not to soon enough," Freddie assured her. and soothingly patted her hand. "Edward being who he was, when it came my turn to learn, he insisted he be allowed to teach me. Told my father the responsibility would prepare him to be a leader. He always was better at getting around the earl than I was."
Florence shook her head against a dawning horror. "You can't mean to tell me Edward dumped you in that lake!"
"Indeed, no." Freddie laughed and her shoulders unwound in relief. "But he did take it into his head that I had to learn in a single day or Father would do it instead. We stayed in that lake till
midnight
, a shivering pair of prunes."
"And did you learn to swim?"
"Enough to satisfy Father. And better over the course of the summer. Edward was so pleased he gave me lessons every day. Two years later, I won a swimming prize at school. Edward doesn't know I know this but, to this day. he keeps that medal in a cabinet by his bed."
Florence blinked her stinging eyes. "What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I really were your cousin, so I could have been there to cheer you on."
"I should have liked that." He touched her cheek where a single tear had slipped away. "Now you must let me ask you a question."
"Oh, Freddie, you know I can't tell stories like you." "It's not a question that requires a story. At least, I don"t think it is."
"Very well," she said, and smoothed her simple skirt. "Ask me anything you like."
He cocked his head at her answer, eyes twinkling, but all he said was, "What do you think of Peter Vance?"
"The duke of Monmouth's son?" She sat straighter in surprise.
"Yes. Aunt Hypatia tells me he sent you violets this morning and invited you to the opera with his family."
She squirmed at the memory of the card that had accompanied his bouquet. Something about the
"violet hiding in the shade" and the "sweet and simple beauty" that its perfume betrayed. The sentiment was flattering, even poetic, but Florence had felt supremely uncomfortable when he'd read it.
"I'm sure he only sent them to please his sister," she said. "And even if he didn't, he's the son of a duke."
"The youngest son," Freddie interposed.
"Yes, but I
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