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help you, just ask.”
    “I…” Priya hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I did want to ask you if…never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
    Now Annie was curious. “What?” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Priya, you can ask me anything.”
    Priya looked terrified, but she took another breath and started again. “Well, have you ever found Sir William to be…to try and take liberties with you?”
    Annie looked at her in shock. Priya was blushing, her thick eyelashes swept down to hide the expression in her eyes. Annie’s shock turned to irritation. Did this girl really think she had caught the eye of the Earl of Westlake’s heir? Did everyone in this house have delusions of grandeur?
    “No,” Annie said, drawing herself up. “And I can’t imagine he would have any interest in…‘taking liberties,’ as you say, with someone like you . I hope you haven’t set your sights on him.”
    “No, I—”
    “I mean, why would Sir William lower himself?” Annie went on, feeling more and more resentful as she spoke. “You ought to be grateful he’s kind to you—grateful for all this family has done for you. After all,” she sniffed, “think where you’d still be if they hadn’t brought you to England with them.”
    She swept to the door. Priya might have her large soft eyes and her slim waist, but she, Annie, had moral dignity. The curate’s sermon from last Sunday echoed in her ears: Bless the squire and his relations, and always keep our proper stations. Poor Priya, she thought as she went down the servants’ stairs. If only she had had the advantages of being born in a Christian country, she would know that.

London
    Rose looked out of the window of Lord Westlake’s motorcar as the chauffeur brought them to a halt before the entrance to Buckingham Palace. Liveried footmen as tall and solid as British oaks framed the grand doors. One of them, gold buttons glinting, stepped forward smartly to open the motorcar door. Rose gathered her skirts, and with a nervous glance at Ada, who sat beside her, stepped out. At once she was glad of her fur-lined opera cloak’s soft hug. Even though it was a pleasant May evening, her ball dress was so delicate that the slightest breeze made her feel as if she were naked.
    “I don’t want to be covered in jewels as if I were a table at Garrard,” she had begged Céline a week ago. “Please, find me something simple to wear.”
    “My lady, it is a state ball.” Céline looked worried.
    “And everyone there will know that I was once a housemaid. I don’t want to give them more reason to mock.” She had smiled at Céline in the mirror. “I place myself in your hands.”
    As she stepped from the motorcar, she hoped she had been right to trust her. She clutched the cloak around her, her heart sinking as she thought of the moment she would have to remove it. No matter how Céline had tried to convince her that the sapphire-blue silk was meant to hug and reveal her curves, that it was the fashion to have nothing but velvet ribbons skimming her bare shoulders, she couldn’t help imagining her mother’s face if she saw her in such a dress. Ugly as they were, at this moment Rose would far rather have been wearing a maid’s uniform. It was as good as a cloak of invisibility.
    She followed her father and the countess up the stairs to the palace. A blaze of electric light and the more muted, subtle tones of candles seemed to unroll a glowing carpet of gold for them to walk on. Ladies in their shimmering ball gowns, light turning their diamonds to fire, and gentlemen in top hats and tails as glossy black as their ebony canes were walking up the stairs, chatting and laughing. Rose thought it looked like the fairy tales she had been told as a child, the enchanted world under the mountain that enticed in travelers to dance and dance…and then wake in the cold dawn to a world changed beyond belief. She shivered, and quickly followed her family into the entrance hall.