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bed seemed unaccountable. A silly humor to be sure, but, after all, how could a little damp harm her after her ride through the snowy twilight?
    One of the maids, dark-haired with shining brown eyes and rosy cheeks, now came up to her and bobbed a curtsey. “You must be fair chilled to the bone, my lady! You must not wait until your trunks arrive to wrap up and go to bed. Half a moment, and I shall just go and see if I cannot find some suitable nightclothes for you in the young misses’ chamber.”
    “Let me go with you,” Fanny cried suddenly. Then she quickly blushed. She was, after all, the mistress here, however nominally. She needn’t ask permission to do whatever she chose.
    Nevertheless, the little maid smiled warmly at her. “Of course, my lady.”
    Fanny hesitated a moment. “You are called . . . ?”
    “Sally, my lady”
    “Of course,” she nodded, remembering that Bently had mentioned that name. “Thank you, Sally.”
    As Fanny followed the servant down the long, familiar corridor, her heart grew full with the emotions she had thus far kept in check. Behind her, Flops followed along, making disgruntled little snuffling sounds as his nails tapped along the parquet floor.
    “Here we are, my lady,” Sally said, pausing before a doorway. She gave a tentative rap and listened for a moment, then opened it slowly and peeped in. A fire had been laid, but the room was empty. She held the door open for Fanny.
    Fanny stepped inside and scanned the room. What clues might she find here, she wondered, to interpret her daughters’ lives and temperaments? It had been so long since she had seen them, so long since she had winced at their apparent indifference to her when they had come home at holidays during those last, failing years of her marriage. They had been insulating themselves, she knew, against the distress that seemed ingrained in the very woodwork in those days. And, as she and Giles had drifted further and further apart, she recognized that she, too, had withdrawn from the girls.
    While Sally set about finding nightclothes for her. Fanny explored the room. There was only one large bed, but two of everything else: writing desks, dressing tables, chairs before the fire. She drew near to the bed and stroked the pillow nearest her. The delicate scent of lavender wafted up—along with the distinct crackle of paper. So, one of them had hidden something under her pillow, had she?
    Fanny glanced over her shoulder. Sally was busily engaged in searching through a chest of drawers. Fanny slipped her hand under the counterpane and pillow, pulling from beneath it a twist of paper.
    Fanny quickly smoothed the page and scanned it. It bore the same round hand as the letter she had received. So, she had been right—this whole adventure was the handiwork of one or both of her daughters. Headed with the mysterious phrase Scheme to Thwart Miss Walleye, the page contained what appeared to be a list of some sort. Several of the items had been neatly ticked off.
    First among these was Letter to Mama. This was followed by the words gift and atmosphere. Still to be addressed, apparently, were the more mysterious notations, masque and Belinda. She knit her brows as she twisted the paper once again and returned it to its hiding place.
    Who was this Miss Walleye, she wondered, and what did this list—most especially the letter they had written to her—have to do with anything? A sudden, unwelcome notion rose up. Perhaps, just perhaps, this Miss Walleye was the object of Giles’ affections! Stranger things had happened, after all. True, the name was unfortunate, for it conjured up all sorts of appalling speculations, but she had known several beautiful women with worse names than Walleye—Chastity Clappington, for one.
    Rationally, she knew that Giles would neither seek a divorce nor expose his affairs in such a public way. Still, if she were correct in her suspicions, then the girls must be championing their mother’s cause.