"You handled that with remarkable grace," he observed.
Anne sighed deeply.
"It was easier than I anticipated."
"Because of your strength," he said.
She shook her head slightly.
"No, because I realized something tonight. What I felt for Charles, what I thought was love, was merely the excitement of a first attachment, pleasant but ultimately shallow."
David remained silent, allowing her to continue.
"When he spoke to me privately, I felt nothing of the turbulent emotions I expected, no lingering attachment, no desperate longing, just acceptance."
"That is a valuable realization," David said carefully.
Anne turned to him, the street lamps they passed casting alternating light and shadow across her features.
"Yes, most valuable indeed."
Summer unfurled across England like a verdant tapestry, bringing with it the annual exodus of society from London to country estates.
The Hobart family retreated to Oakwood Park, their ancestral home in Kent, grateful for the respite from the capital's persistent gossip.
For Anne, the pastoral setting offered both solace and perspective. Morning rides across dew-kissed fields and afternoons reading beneath ancient oaks provided space for reflection that had been impossible amid London's social whirl.
Marieβs promised letters arrived regularly, tentative at first, gradually growing more open as Anne's brief responses encouraged continued correspondence.
Through these exchanges, Anne began to piece together a clearer understanding of her sister's actions.
"I have no right to ask your forgiveness," Marie wrote in one particularly candid letter. "What began as petty jealousy transformed into something I neither expected nor controlled. I told myself Charles truly loved me, that it justified everything. Only now do I understand the pain we caused you."
Anne found, somewhat to her surprise, that forgiveness was gradually becoming possible. The process was neither swift nor simple, but the crushing weight of betrayal had begun to lift, allowing her to contemplate a future unmarred by bitterness.
That future, she increasingly realized, featured David Harrington with remarkable consistency.
Though he had returned to his own estate in Derbyshire, his letters arrived weekly, thoughtful, engaging missives that Anne found herself anticipating with growing eagerness.
In early August, an invitation arrived from Lady Caroline Brentwood, a mutual acquaintance whose estate bordered Norfolk's lands. Her summer house party would bring together a select group of guests for two weeks of leisure and entertainment.
"You must accept," Lady Eleanor insisted when Anne mentioned the invitation. "Lady Brentwood's gatherings are always most exclusive, and I understand the Duke of Norfolk is certain to attend, given the proximity to his estate."
Anne pretended not to notice her mother's meaningful glance.
"I had considered accepting."
"Excellent. We shall need to review your wardrobe immediately. Your father has been most generous with your allowance this quarter in light of recent difficulties."
Recent difficulties, her mother's preferred euphemism for Anne's broken engagement and subsequent scandal.
Still, Anne recognized the genuine concern beneath her mother's mercenary considerations.
"Thank you, Mother. I shall write to Lady Brentwood today."
Two weeks later, Anne found herself settled in a beautifully appointed guest chamber at Brentwood Hall, a handsome Palladian mansion nestled among rolling hills and ancient woodland.
Lady Caroline, a vivacious widow in her 40s, had welcomed Anne with particular warmth.
"My dear Lady Anne, how delighted I am that you've joined us," she exclaimed, linking her arm through Anne's as she personally escorted her to her chambers. "I've placed you in the East Wing. The morning light is simply divine, and the views of the rose garden are unparalleled."
"You're most kind, Lady Brentwood," Anne replied, genuinely touched by the considerate gesture.
"Caroline, please," the older woman insisted. "And it's not kindness at all, merely sensible hostessing. The right setting can make all the difference to a guest's experience."
As they reached Anne's assigned room, Caroline paused, her expression becoming more serious.
"I should mention that I've invited your sister and her husband as well."
Anne stiffened slightly.
"I see."
"If that presents difficulties, I can arrange..."
"No," Anne interrupted gently. "We must all learn to coexist in society. Better here among friends than elsewhere."
Caroline studied her face.
"You're a remarkable young woman, Anne Hobart, far more resilient than many give you credit for."
"Thank you," Anne replied simply.
"Rest now," Caroline suggested. "We gather for drinks on the terrace at seven, dinner at eight, and I believe Lord Harrington is expected to arrive tomorrow morning."
With that parting information, delivered with a knowing smile, Caroline departed, leaving Anne to settle into her accommodations.
The first evening passed pleasantly enough. Marie and Charles had not yet arrived, allowing Anne to become acquainted with the other guests without the complication of their presence.
She retired early, citing fatigue from travel, though in truth she wished to be well rested for David's arrival the following day.
Anne woke to brilliant sunshine streaming through her windows. After breakfast with the other early risers, she decided to explore the extensive gardens for which Brentwood Hall was renowned.
Armed with a parasol against the August sun, she wandered the formal parterres before discovering a winding path that led to a secluded rose garden enclosed by ancient yew hedges.
The garden was a riot of late summer blooms, damasks and centifolias displaying their final flush of the season, while hardier varieties still offered abundant blossoms. Anne inhaled deeply, savoring the mingled fragrances.
"I thought I might find you among the flowers."
The familiar voice startled her. Anne turned to find David standing at the garden entrance, his tall figure silhouetted against the green hedge behind him.
"Your Grace," she greeted, unable to suppress the smile that rose to her lips. "You've arrived earlier than expected."
"I found myself eager to reach my destination," he replied, approaching her. "The roads were kind and my horses swift."
"Lady Brentwood will be pleased by your promptness."
David's expression suggested Lady Brentwood's pleasure was not his primary concern.
"You look well, Lady Anne. The country air agrees with you."
"Thank you. Oakwood Park has been a sanctuary these past weeks."
"And your correspondence? Has that provided any comfort?"
The question held a note of uncertainty, rare in his usually confident manner.
"More than you know," Anne admitted. "Your letters have been a great source of pleasure."
The word seemed inadequate to describe the anticipation with which she received his correspondence, the care with which she composed her replies, but it was all she dared express.
"I am glad," he said simply.
They strolled together through the garden, conversation flowing easily between them as they reestablished the comfortable rapport that had developed during their time in London.