Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine

they chose to. Aquila would go because she had nothing better to do, but Cressida was happy to leave Toby in Philo’s charge.
    As they walked along the lane, Toby told her, “Mama says St Valentine’s Day is the day all the birds choose their mates. That means they decide who they want to marry. Will the canaries choose their mates today?”
    The days were still too short for canaries to think of nest building, and the bare hedgerows suggested that wild birds with any common sense would wait a few weeks.
    Philo didn’t want to disillusion Toby, though. “The canaries were married in Vienna,” she said.
    The breeding charts in her cloak pocket were in a sense their marriage lines. She touched the roll of papers. She would not show them to Mr Mayhew unless he asked again. Everyone else laughed at her; it did not seem possible that he was serious.
    Suddenly she wished she had not come. Mr Mayhew’s invitation had seemed sincere, but perhaps he was only being polite. He would think her forward, especially on this day of all days, a day for lovers. If Toby had not been with her she would have turned back, but he was running ahead down the hill, nearly at the bridge with its rickety handrail. She hurried after.
    This time they entered the garden between the posts where the front gate had once hung. Walking up the path, Philo glanced at the window. No odd-coloured light, no explosion. She almost hoped he was not at home. Almost.
    The door swung open as they reached it. Mr Mayhew himself stood there, a smile of welcome on his thin, clever face. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, about what Philo had guessed, with brown hair, somewhat longer than was fashionable, brushed back from his high forehead.
    Philo realised she was staring, flushed, and looked down. The chemist was dressed today in the everyday clothes of a country gentleman: a plain brown coat, buckskins, and top boots. He made her feel shy, as he had not with his stained smock and besmirched visage.
    He chuckled, and her gaze flew back to his eyes.
    “Well? I believe I succeeded in removing all the carbon from my person.”
    Before she was forced to answer, Toby interrupted.
    “Good morning, sir. Did you ‘member my ‘speriment?”
    “Certainly, Master Toby. Pray step inside, Miss Philomena. You know what to expect, so I shall not apologise for my humble abode. To tell the truth, it was not easy to find a landlord willing to allow my experiments within his desirable residence.”
    “Where is it?” Toby demanded eagerly. He darted past the adults into the room, scanned the worktable, and pointed at a row of glass jars. The crystals inside were yellow and blue and green and violet, enough to tempt any child. “Is those it?”
    “Ladies first,” said Mr Mayhew firmly. “You will not mind sitting at my desk, ma’am?”
    Philo shook her head. Her voice had gone astray. How she wished for Aquila’s well-bred ease in company!
    After Aquila’s mother’s death when the girls were nine, Cousin Sarah had impressed upon Philomena that it behooved her to be self-effacing. For years Philo had thought it was because she was the younger, if only by a few months. That was before she learnt the dreadful truth about her own mother.
           Mr Mayhew had pulled out a battered but sturdy wooden chair from the desk by the front window and he was waiting, an enquiring look on his face. Dismissing her memories, she hastened to seat herself.
    “Did you bring your charts?” he asked.
    She nodded, filled with gratitude that he had remembered. It did not matter whether he was truly interested or only being kind.
    If he was puzzled by her silence, he politely ignored it. “Then excuse me, pray, while I give young Master Toby something to keep him occupied.”
    “Do you got to call me ‘young Master Toby’?” the child asked in a long-suffering voice. “That’s what Mama calls me when I be naughty.”
    “What would you like me to call you?”
    “Just