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was standing apart from her, was as tall as he, but slender comparatively, and neither Christoph von Wolfram nor Bartol Liebner were as tall. Far from his disarray earlier, Graf von Wolfram was very correctly dressed in a gray sateen frock jacket, velvet knee breeches, and clocked stockings, but she could not forget how he appeared before, though she would try to erase that image from her mind. It was disturbing to her peace, for some unfathomable reason, the memory of that open-necked shirt and thatch of dark chest hair. Perhaps it was worse for her because unlike the pure and chaste young woman she must pretend to be, she had a too-vivid idea of what taut musculature filled the perfect jacket and formal knee breeches.
    “Miss Stanwycke,” the Graf said as he approached. He bowed formally. Glancing around and gathering his family group within his gaze, he said, “I would like you all to make this young lady welcome here. It is a great sacrifice to leave your homeland, as she has done, and it behooves us to show her we appreciate that.” He directed his look especially at his nephew.
    “And in her presence, please speak English, as I am sure you have been, all. To do otherwise would be discourteous. For those of you not comfortable in that language,” he continued, eyeing Herr Liebner, “it is an opportunity to practice.”
    “Yes, nephew, for I have already said so, have I not?” The older man beamed a smile, glancing around.
    Elizabeth, her gaze riveted on her employer, felt that she was missing something and glanced around, but most of those gathered had neutral expressions. Charlotte was quiet, and her gaze was directed to the floor. That seemed odd, for if Elizabeth was in her place she would be examining her new tutor, at least covertly. But for the rest of them, Graf von Wolfram’s arrival seemed to have revivified the gathering, that electricity Elizabeth had noticed earlier in his presence sparking the others to a livelier expression.
    “Shall we dine?” he said, glancing around at his family and guests.
    He turned and was moving toward her, but his eldest sister, Adele, grasped his sleeve and drew him away from the others for one moment, and Count Delacroix offered Elizabeth his arm in his courtly manner. She gladly accepted and they all strolled to the dining room, which proved to be a large hall adjoining; her escort murmured to her that this was the family dining room. There was another in the new wing— new only in that it was under three hundred years old—that was larger, an even more formal dining hall. Gerta von Holtzen directed the seating, which Elizabeth found odd considering this was supposed to be an informal family dinner according to the Graf, and she ended up last, on the left of the French count, quite a ways down the table from her new employer and across from her pupil. She didn’t mind, because it gave her the opportunity, partially obscured by shadow, to observe this group. She still felt awkward and drained, but she trusted in a night’s sleep to give her more confidence.
    When Graf von Wolfram entered with his sister there were only two places left, with him at the head, of course, and his sister on his right. He paused, glanced down the table at Elizabeth, and seemed about to make some remark, but she smiled and spoke to her dining companion, Count Delacroix, and the Graf sat down.
    Conversation was desultory at first, as appetites were sated. Elizabeth feared that the Graf’s injunction that they all speak only English in her company had stilted things badly, though most seemed to have an excellent grasp of the language. Some, as time went on, slipped back into their native tongue as they conversed with each other.

    The Frenchman, though, offering her wine and taking some with her, said, after sipping, “I admire your bravery, mademoiselle, in crossing the continent so, surely a feat for a gently born English lady?”
    They chatted about her trip for a few minutes as they