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her kid gloves were the prettiest of sunset pinks. She had not entirely abandoned her old self on that beach. Surely a kernel of Katerina Bruni still lurked under the gray wool, peeking out in those gloves.
    Kate leaned back against the hard seat and opened her secondhand leather valise to find the agency's letter. It was tucked inside the pages of a book of poetry, and had been read so many times the edges were worn. Kate knew all the words neatly scripted there, but she still wanted to see it. The letter reassured her that she was not just adrift on this sea of a moor—she truly had a destination.
    Thorn Hill, the estate of Mr. Michael Lindley, near the village of Suddley. A country gentleman, the younger brother of an earl, in need of a governess for his sister and daughter, girls of fifteen and six years of age respectively. Kate wondered what this Mr. Lindley would be like. He was a widower, just as she ostensibly was a widow. The letter didn't say his age, but he could not be very old, not with such a small daughter.
    Kate had not known many "country gentlemen," not English ones anyway. Her late admirer, Sir Julian Kirkwood, had sometimes told her about his English estates, but she had the distinct sense he had rarely visited them, preferring London and the Continent. The same for her mother's Edward, the grand Duke of Salton, who had enjoyed the sensual joys of Venice—and Lucrezia Bruni—over English landowner duties.
    It seemed this Mr. Lindley lived on his property all year around. A sudden rush of cold doubt assailed her, making her stomach queasy. How would she ever fit into such a household? She with her strange Italian ways, her, er, colorful past. But she had to try. Try her very hardest. This was her chance for an entirely new life, for getting to know her true self.
    Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by a sharp jolt of the post chaise. The driver shouted out hoarsely, and the vehicle tilted precipitously, sending Kate slamming into its hard wall. She screamed at a sharp stab of pain in her shoulder, and her bonnet tilted over her eyes, blinding her.
    For an instant, in the sudden darkness, she remembered the pitching yacht throwing her into the cold water, her mother slipping away from her. She took a deep gulp of air against the hot rush of tears. "San Marco!" she cried, pushing back her bonnet and struggling to sit up. She caught at the leather strap to pull herself against the tilt of the coach. Her shoulder throbbed, and she rubbed at it tentatively. It didn't seem to be broken or dislocated, luckily. But her valise was overturned, all her meager possessions scattered about.
    As she reached down to gather up her books, her clothes and hairbrush and miraculously unbroken bottle of rose water, she heard the coachman's voice.
    "Miss!" he called. "Are you all right in there?"
    Kate stuffed her nightdress into the valise and snapped it shut, hugging it against her. "I'm fine! What has happened?"
    The door was wrenched open, and hands reached in to lift her out. Once her shaking feet felt solid earth again, she spun around to survey the wreck. One of the coach's wheels was lodged in a ditch, dug deep in the mud.
    "One of those blasted sheep ran out in the road!" The driver was practically spitting with the force of his ire. He swept his battered hat off his head and used it to point at the flock of dingy white woolly creatures grazing atop a hillock. "Spooked the horses like, and made them run off into the ditch."
    Kate glanced uncertainly at the sheep. They regarded her with placid dark eyes, as if they were innocents who could never have caused such havoc in all their blameless days. She was very glad they were at a safe distance—she had never been around farm animals in Venice, and wasn't at all sure they could be trusted. "What can we do?" she asked the driver.
    "Eh, well, not much we can do, miss. It won't be moved. I'll have to ride into the village and fetch help." Even as he spoke, he stepped up