Andrew stared down at the ring in his hands.

It wasn't a particularly exciting engagement ring — four carats, princess cut, a golden band. Simple. Standard. The man at Tutton's Jewelers had assured him that it was good quality, though. And it bloody well better be, Andrew thought sourly, for the extortionate amount he paid for it.

He sighed, setting the ring on the coffee table.

The last two weeks in Cornwall had been challenging; Andrew had spent the first half of it camped out on his father's hospital room. Nurses ran various tests. His father slept. His mother cried. And on the tenth day, a grim-faced doctor emerged into the room and told them all the prognosis.

Andrew hadn't understood a lot of the medical jargon, but he understood what the doctor was trying to get at; there would be no more chemo. No more hospital visits. No more hair falling out, and endless tubes and wires, and poking with needles.

His father was coming home.

For the very last time.

Frank had taken the news of his imminent death well. He had asked a few polite questions — "How long do I have?" and "Will it hurt?" — and then he had made the hospital staff laugh by asking if this meant he could have cigarettes again.

"I'm dying, anyways," Frank pointed out. "What harm can they do?"

His father was too weak to travel up the stairs now, so Jane set up a cot in the Orangerie, where Frank could look out over the gardens. Andrew spent most days reading to him. Ophelia had mailed them a book on the history of the Cornish coast with notes that she had made of her thoughts, and it had quickly become one of Frank's favourites.

"She's a bright girl, that Ophelia," Frank mused, shaking his head. "Twice as clever as the rest of, but with only half the ego."

"She loves reading."

"Ophelia seems capable of loving a lot of things," Frank said mildly. "Should the person or thing deserve it."

Andrew's other friends had sent gifts, too. Eleanora had sent a massive bouquet of lilies, while Henry had sent a cheese basket. Millie and James, a cashmere throw blanket. Rupert and Jess, a basket of expensive tea and jam. Only Digby hadn't sent anything, although he phoned almost every day.

Andrew had preferred that, honestly; it had been a source of comfort.

At least, until their latest call.

Andrew had been halfway through a story about an oak tree near Wisteria Hill catching on fire during a really bad thunderstorm when Digby cut in and said, "I asked Ophelia to move in with me."

He said it quite casually, like a person inquiring about the weather. And Andrew had experienced a searing pain, as if Digby had reached inside his chest and ripped out his heart.

"Andrew?" Digby asked. "You still there, mate?"

"I—yes."

"She hasn't given me an answer yet."

"Oh." Andrew couldn't help but feel a wave of relief. "Well, when did you ask her?"

"Weeks ago."

"Ah."

"Do you think I should bring it up again?"

Andrew closed his eyes. Neutral. He had to be neutral, in this. "I don't know. Does she know that you meant it?"

"Well, I told her that I loved her."

Andrew swallowed. The invisible hands had risen to his throat now, choking out his airways. "And what did she say?"

"Oh, Ophelia feels the same. Obviously."

"She said that?"

"Of course." Digby sounded annoyed. "Right after I told her. Christ, Andrew, you don't need to sound so surprised."

Andrew had murmured a few more basic reassurances before hanging up the phone. Then he sat in the garden for hours, watching as the green strawberry runners slowly choked a potted lilac to death.

The next day, Andrew went out and bought a ring.

It had been an impulsive decision, but Andrew felt it was the right one. His father had four months left. Maybe five. If Eleanora agreed to rush the wedding, then they could wed in the summer, before she began her—

"What is that?"

Andrew jumped. His mother was standing at the door, staring at the engagement ring as if an alien from Mars had landed in the middle of the coffee table. Andrew flushed, quickly shoving the ring into his pocket.

"Nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"Well, it's none of your business."

Jane's mouth tightened. "Is that for Eleanora?"

"Of course it is," Andrew said, nettled. "Who else would it be for?"

Jane stood very still for a moment. Then she rummaged in the side drawer, pulling out a pair of brown gardening gloves. Andrew watched, perplexed, as his mother slipped them on. She picked up a plastic jug.

"Let's go for a walk," Jane suggested. "My petunias need watering."

Andrew got the sense that his mother was torturing him.

Jane took her time humming and hawing over the plants, examining the soft petals in a leisurely fashion. She sprinkled some fertilizer into a purple rhododendron bush. Then she watered the petunias, the Scottish bluebell, and the peonies. By the time they reached the wisteria, Andrew was going mad.

"Go on, then." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Say it."

"Say what, dear?"

"The ring."

"What about it?" Jane asked innocently.

Andrew growled in frustration. Good lord, his mother could be infuriating. "You're obviously not happy about it."

"I never said that."

Jane crouched down next to the strawberry bush, clipping off some of the errant runners. Andrew ground his loafer into the dirt.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Hmm." Jane examined a strawberry. "Needs more sunlight."

"Not the plant," Andrew said, exasperated. "Me. My love life. Proposing!"

"Oh, is that what you're planning to do?"

Jane rose to her feet. Her blue eyes — the exact same as his own — were twinkling merrily, and in that moment, Andrew couldn't even bring himself to hate her for it; this was the first time he'd seen his mother look happy in days.

Even if it was at his expense.

"You know," Jane said calmly, "I didn't want to tell you that your father was sick."

She might as well have stabbed him in the stomach with the gardening shears. Andrew slumped on to a stone bench, staring at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly that." Jane shrugged. "I know how you are, Andrew. People that pretend not to have a heart usually possess the largest ones." She clipped off another runner. "I knew that you would make sacrifices for your father. Sacrifices that would alter your life forever."

Andrew stilled. In all of his wildest imaginings, he had never guessed that his mother knew the truth as to why he gave up polo. And bareback riding in Canada. And really any sport on a horse that he enjoyed.

Although he had a feeling that they weren't just discussing horses.

Still, Andrew played innocent. "I didn't give up painting. Not intentionally, anyway. Some of it has to do with Father's illness, but I never set out to—"

"Andrew." Jane looked at him sharply. "Don't insult my intelligence."

He fell silent. Jane went back to battling the errant strawberry bush, waging war on the green vines choking a small hydrangea.

"I have never asked you to marry Eleanora, Andrew," Jane said softly. "If you feel that you are in a cage, then it is a cage of your own making."

"Mum—"

"Just tell me this," Jane said shortly. "Do you love her?"

Andrew paused. "Who?"

"Exactly," Jane said triumphantly. "That is exactly my point, Andrew." She gestured at him with her garden shears. "You shouldn't have to ask that question."

Andrew sighed. He suddenly felt like the strawberry bush, being prodded and poked by his mother, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take. She had already cut off most of his limbs, at this point.

"So you don't want me to marry Eleanora?"

"Oh, my darling." Jane set down the shears. "I want you to be happy; that's all your father and I have ever wanted for you."

Andrew rose from the bench. He felt unsteady on his feet, and there was a horrible burning sensation in his eyes. He hadn't cried once during his father's illness — not even on the way back from the hospital last week — but he felt like the world was crashing down around him, shattering into a million pieces at his feet.

"I just want Father to meet her," he said hoarsely. "The woman that I'm going to marry."

Jane's eyes grew misty. Her lower lip wobbled, but she managed a brave smile for him, reaching up to pat his cheek.

"Oh, Andrew," she said. "I'm certain that he already has."

A/N: JANE IS NOT PLAYING AROUND!

I have to say that this scene was one of my favourites to write; there's just something so satisfying about the image of an angry Jane stabbing menacingly at Andrew with her gardening shears. But I mean, SOMEBODY had to tell him ;)

We find out on Tuesday if Ophelia is going to move in with Digby — stay tuned!

Affectionately,

J.K.