Tessa and Perry had quarreled over the dress.

Tessa had prudently chosen the brown wool for the evening at Vauxhall and asked Perry to press it, but Perry had defiantly wadded that very dress into a ball and hidden it in the bottom of the mending basket. She had pressed a blue silk instead, a beautiful gown she’d found in one of Tessa’s trunks. The maid had aired the dress and carefully repaired snags to the myriad tiny, rose-colored embroidered flowers that swirled up and down the bodice.

“Perry . . . no,” Tessa had said when she emerged from a bath. She frowned at the bold blue dress splayed out across her bed.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes . . .” Perry had chanted, artfully arranging the matching hat on the pillows as if an imaginary woman lay prone across the bed.

In the end, there hadn’t been time to rethink the blue dress, which had always been one of Tessa’s favorites. On it went, and Tessa allowed Perry to dress her hair in two looped braids and pin a small blue hat at the back of her head. How nice it was to feel the kiss of braids on her shoulders each time she turned her head, even nicer to enjoy the unobstructed peripheral vision of no stiff bonnet brim. Looking at her reflection in the dress and the little hat, the braids and the matching leather gloves, was like catching sight of a long-lost friend.

An hour later, some combination of the New Tessa, who felt nervous and conspicuous, and the Old Tessa, who really did love this dress, stood beside Sabine in front of Vauxhall Garden’s bustling gates.

“Tell me again why I must share my long-awaited outing to Vauxhall Gardens with Joseph Chance?” asked Sabine, peering through the gates at the garden beyond. Strains of lively music drifted above the hum of voices. They heard the unfamiliar squawk of an exotic bird. Someone out of sight hurled a torch, its fiery tip painting a glowing arc through the air.

“Joseph and I have so much to discuss. Chief among them my move from Belgravia,” Tessa said. “His arrival caught me off guard, despite my planning, and then we had to contend with the new dock. I haven’t quite gotten around to discussing the future yet.”

“Naturally you chose a crowded pleasure garden as the most useful setting for this conversation.”

Tessa laughed. “It was never going to be one discussion, I’m afraid. I must . . . ease into it. It’s no small thing to ask him to buy a little house or to sort out a means for me to support myself.”

“You cannot think he intends to leave you with the Boyds forever, Tessa,” said Sabine. “He will have anticipated some change.”

“If so, he has not mentioned it. And I have very specific plans for a fresh start.”

“Yes, but they are not greedy plans. And you are his wife, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, and he had aspirations to run for Parliament. He must own property in a district that has the potential to elect him. There is much to be considered.”

A small eruption popped and fizzled just beyond the gates. Whoops and gales of laughter followed. They turned to peer inside, but queuing revelers blocked their view.

“Again,” sighed Sabine, “a pleasure garden? And what of your new vow? To innumerate exactly what you want, when you want it?”

“Yes, well.” Tessa ran a flat hand against the corset stays beneath her gown. She had not worn a proper corset since before the pregnancy and strangely, it heartened her. She was likely the only female in England who relished the tight squeeze of a finely made corset, but it made her feel long and lithe and dressed up, it made her feel as if she was going somewhere important. “Determination and execution are two different things.”

“You know what I believe?” asked Sabine. “I believe you wanted to pass a diverting night in a lovely park with your husband.” She tapped her friend on the hand with her closed fan. “And why shouldn’t you?”

Oh, because he cannot abide me, thought Tessa. Because I’ve saddled him with Christian and me forever. Because I am about to ask him to buy me a house in County Durham . . .

She said, “I did rather hope they would say yes for that reason.”

Sabine went stiff beside her. “They? They, who?”

Tessa made a repentant face. “Hmmm?”

“Tessa, you did not,” said Sabine. “You did not arrange for me to prowl around this park at dusk with Jon Stoker.”

“I made no arrangements one way or the other,” said Tessa defensively. “I merely mentioned that you and I planned to take in the gardens together. Given what I know of Joseph and Mr. Stoker, I’d say there is a chance he will come. But Sabine, what could be—”

“Tessa!” Sabine hissed. She wore a deep purple shawl and she snatched it tightly around her shoulders. “If he is coming—if there exists even a chance he is coming—I will go in alone.”

“Sabine, no, wait. It won’t be nearly as enjoyable if you set out by yourself. You cannot go in alone.”

“I’ve explored every other corner of London alone—I very well can. And I shall.” She tugged her gloves, tightening the purple leather. “Good luck, Tessa. Give my regards to Mr. Chance. And Mr. Stoker, if he turns up. I will meet you here at nine o’clock.”

“Sabine,” Tessa implored, but her friend was already walking away. A moment later, she slipped through the gates, joining the throngs of revelers streaming into the gardens.

Tessa shook her head and checked the timepiece in her reticule. They’d made far better time than expected, arriving a quarter hour before she and Joseph were meant to meet. She was given little choice but to stand alone, feeling the strange balance of conspicuous and so very comfortable. She felt so much more like herself in the blue dress than ever she did in the brown or the grey, she wondered what could one night hurt?

She waited only five more minutes before she spotted Joseph. He appeared like she’d fantasized about his return from Barbadoes, striding up the hill from the Thames, confident, proud, handsome. Mr. Stoker was beside him. They were a head taller than most men, their skin tanned compared to the clammy, pale-faced, London throng.

Tessa’s heart began to pound. She checked over her shoulder for Sabine—gone now—and looked back. Joseph was dressed for evening in head-to-toe black except for his shirt and snowy cravat. He was as finely turned out as any of the well-heeled men she’d seen gliding up to the ticket booths, their servants scrambling behind them with purses or umbrellas.

But how much more substantial Joseph seemed, more solid, broader chested, with big shoulders and large hands. He’d been tall and strong before Barbadoes, but he returned with the size and bearing of something akin to a conqueror.

Without thinking, Tessa looked down at the blue dress and gave the skirts a shake. She raised her hand to squeeze her cheeks but felt her own natural flush even through her gloves. She was just about to wave but Joseph turned his head, and their eyes locked. Tessa’s hand froze. He quickened his pace and scanned her appearance as he walked. His eyes moved up and down her body like fingers on a pianoforte, from high C to low A, and her body responded as if he’d touched her. She heard the music in her head.

“I worried you might arrive before us, and now you have,” he said when he reached her.

“We made excellent time,” she told him. Such mundane conversation, when what she really wanted to do was launch herself at him. She wondered idly if they would discuss the weather. Or the crowd.

We’ve done it, she wanted to exclaim. We’ve moved beyond. You know about Christian and I’ve docked your boat, and we’re here, together, on a beautiful night.

We’ve started again.

Joseph held out one large, gloved hand and Tessa’s breath caught. She placed her fingers over his, and he bowed. She stared down at the tussle of sandy blond hair, thrilled by the propriety of the gesture. When his head came up, she tightened her fingers, unwilling to let him go. Joseph looked at her, a question in his blue eyes.

Yes, she wanted to say. And why not?

She was just about to slide her hand down his wrist and tuck it into the crook of his arm when Jon Stoker caught up.

“Stoker, mate,” Joseph said, almost as if he’d forgotten he’d arrived with his friend. He looked at Tessa. “Sabine is . . . ?”

“Oh . . . she was very impatient to see inside, I’m afraid.” Tessa glanced apologetically at Stoker. “She has bought a ticket and gone ahead.”

Mr. Stoker said nothing, but his eyes went narrow and hard. He nodded slowly, once, twice, and began backing away.

“Stoke, no—don’t go,” implored Joseph. “Come inside with Tessa and me and have a look around. She’s inside, Tessa has just said as much.”

“This,” said Stoker, still backing up, “was a bad idea. As I knew it would be.”

Just then, a group of staggering young men broached the garden gate, their arm-and-arm progress heralded by whistles and two bars of a bawdy song in uneven harmony. An outlying man used his walking cane to lift the skirts of an unsuspecting young woman in his reach. The woman shrieked and skittered away while the men gave a cruel laugh.

Joseph mumbled a curse and stepped more closely to Tessa. Stoker paused in his retreat. He frowned at Joseph and closed his eyes. “How long?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How long has Sabine been alone inside?”

“Oh,” said Tessa, “Not so long. No more than ten minutes.”

Stoker nodded curtly and left them, crossing to the gates. He cut the queue, tossed a handful of coins at the ticket taker, and slipped inside.

“I implored her to wait,” Tessa told Joseph. “But she is very . . . conflicted about seeing him again.”

Joseph nodded. “He works hard to feign indifference, but he wanted to come.”

“Have the two of you been to Vauxhall before?”

Joseph looked down at her with an odd expression, like she’d ask him if he’d ever been to church or the market. “Many times. I don’t suppose there’s a chance you feel you’ve seen enough from here? That we might retire to a proper dinner—in Kensington, perhaps? With footmen to serve the talents of a French chef?”

She laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. I cannot wait to get inside.”