The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble

his guide,” she said, earning a startling cackle from Helen, causing Leticia to smile.
    â€œIf it weren’t for you, my dear, I’d be tempted to stay inside with him and play out another hand of cribbage—we are very close to declaring a winner—but to have you be forced to chaperone the children on your second day on the job? Leaving you would be unconscionable.”
    Leticia decided to ignore that. “How long have you and Sir Barty been playing cribbage?”
    â€œThis current game? About twelve years, I should think. And soon enough, he’ll admit defeat. Come now, let’s catch up to the others.”
    Leticia had to admit she liked the intelligent, pushy woman. If circumstances had been different, perhaps Helen could have been the confidant that Leticia would find herself longing for. But as it was, Helen was not quite the ideal person to whom to confess secrets of her son’s romantic life.
    Especially since she was far too preoccupied by that son’s romantic life already.
    â€œTell me, Leticia,” Helen said, whispering a confidence, “what do you think of the two of them?”
    She nodded toward where Margaret and Turner were walking ahead of them. Thankfully neither seemed to be angling to be closer to the other than propriety allowed.
    Margaret had at some point acquired a plain starched apron, whose use Leticia was surprisingly glad of, since at that moment the girl dropped to her knees, reached between Turner’s ankles, and began digging out a root, making better space for her violets.
    Turner simply watched.
    â€œI . . . am not certain what to think,” Leticia said cautiously, her eyes uncharacteristically glued to the back of Turner’s head. “I only met Margaret yesterday.”
    â€œAnd you only met my son this morning,” Helen replied. “But surely that is enough time for someone shrewd, who has lived in the world as you have, to see if two people have a spark of interest between them.”
    Leticia kept the smile on her face. She was getting markedly better at keeping that bubble of hysterical laughter down in her belly. Soon she would be able to sail through Helmsley, convincing even herself that she had never met Mr. John Turner before.
    But Helen was waiting for her answer. “I see nothing untoward in their manner. But on the man’s side, that is not always a good thing.”
    â€œHow so?” Helen asked.
    â€œA man who was enamored would make it known. He would find an excuse to be in her presence, to touch her ungloved hand . . .” To kiss her, claim her in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
    To come to her room later that night . . .
    Helen’s brow came down. “My son is simply reserved. He is respectful of Margaret because he is utterly respectful of Sir Barty. But what about the girl? Do you observe some interest on her end?”
    Aside from the fact that Margaret had told her of her interest? Well, at that moment she was showering Turner with a rendition of her growing practices, using more words in a single breath than Leticia had heard from her in twenty-four hours.
    â€œAnd these barrels here, they are filled with my own special formula—they irrigate down into the beds, you see . . . And this set I grew from cuttings . . .”
    But instead of admitting it, Leticia simply shrugged.
    â€œI think that Margaret is a lovely young woman, but she does not know much of the world. If she spent a season in London, perhaps she would find her eyes opened to many new things.” Eyes opened to see that a gentleman’s daughter does not marry a mill owner, perhaps. “But she seems to have no interest in it.”
    Helen’s eyebrow went up. “No, I daresay not. Miss Margaret has always been a bit of a homebody—her mother understood her, and indulged her. Ever since Hortense passed, I’ve tried to act as the girl’s