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green velvet bow in her hair and a smile that seemed eager to please. Her dress was a generous cut of matching green velvet, complete with buttons and lace from her neck to her knees, where the whitest of wool stockings were worn with a darling pair of black dress shoes. On any other girl, all those buttons might look excessive, but Viola wore the dress with such a casual manner that Tabitha liked her immediately.
    â€œI’m eleven too,” Viola said. “I go to St. Stephen’s with Edward. We live in London, next door to each other, actually. Our mums and dads know each other quite well. And, let’s see, what else? I love to research social services, and I’m learning French.”
    Frances tossed her hair, snorting like an amused piglet. “You’re ‘learning French.’ How new money of you. My mother would love to take your parents on. She runs a finishing business for young ladies. Not that class or grace can be taught.”
    Nor can humility, Pemberley.
    â€œFrances Hortensia Rathbourne Wellington, also age eleven, near twelve. I already speak French. I have a private tutor and live in London as well. The second we got the invitation, my mother used her connections to hire a former servant of Hollingsworth Hall. For a price, the woman blabbed everything.” She frowned. “Which wasn’t much.”
    â€œOut with it then,” Edward said.
    The others nodded.
    Frances’s mouth tightened. “Fine. She locks herself into her bedroom some nights, and she supports the women’s movement, though not openly. Oh, and she talks to her staff like they’re actually people—how ridiculous is that?”
    Tabitha covered her laugh with a cough. Scandalous, she tapped onto Pemberley’s back.
    Next in the introduction line was Barnaby Trundle, who did not mention attending school with Tabitha or say a word about his tendency to be awful in general. Tabitha was tempted to add a bit to his introduction, but made do with realizing his sailor outfit was perhaps more of an embarrassment than her own clothing.
    â€œHullo,” Edward said next, straightening in his seat. “Edward Herringbone. My parents work with the Dales. Like Viola said, they’ve all been the best of friends for years. We’ve spent enough Christmases and holidays together to be one big family. I like animals and poking bugs and reading thick books on history and medicine.” He nodded at Oliver. “That little knife and toothpick of yours would have worked wonders on medieval battlefields. Instead people mostly had their wounds jabbed at with rusty nails or sizzled with hot irons or . . .” He trailed off, sensing a general lack of enthusiasm. “Anyway, not a clue what we’re doing here.” He rattled off a few sentences in French and awaited Frances’s response.
    Frances stared blankly.
    â€œI asked if you knew why we’re here,” Edward told her. “You being a bit of a know-it-all.”
    â€œPerhaps Frances’s old-money French is a little rusty,” Oliver said, with a wink in Tabitha’s direction.
    â€œShut up. I don’t speak peasant French. Speaking of peasants,” Frances added with a smirk, “who exactly are you?” She looked pointedly at Tabitha.
    Simple is best. “I’m Tabitha Crum. I live in Wilting. My father works at a bank. I’m eleven as well.”
    â€œTabitha keeps rats,” Barnaby blurted. “I saw her playing with one at outdoor invigoration one day.”
    Tabitha glared at Barnaby and placed her hand over her pocket. “It wasn’t a rat.”
    â€œIt was a rat,” Barnaby insisted. “You were feeding it something, like it was a proper pet.”
    â€œA filthy rat?” Frances said, recoiling to Barnaby’s side of the bench. “Are you perfectly serious? You can’t be, of course, but I can certainly imagine it. My God, Tabitha Crum, you are