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is to resume soon, Mother. Shall we return to our carriage?”
    Mrs. Graves scoffed at her suggestion. “No one gets off the field until at least the second gong.”
    A look around showed that, unfortunately, Mrs. Graves was right. The happy crowd remained firmly affixed. Laughter boomed like artillery shots all around her, each one leaving a new dent on her heart.
    She glanced toward the earl, hoping he hadn’t seen her. But just then he looked in her direction. Their eyes met. And the expression on his face—a recoil of the soul—told her everything she already knew and could no longer deny.
    She wrenched her gaze away, crushed beyond all endurance.

     
    T he second warning gong rang, louder and more strident. And with it came the police, ready to enforce the resumption of the game, if need be. But of course the elegant crowd who attended the Eton and Harrow game would never be mixed up with the police. Ladies and gentlemen melted from the playing ground, back to the stands, the benches, and the carriages.
    Mrs. Graves’s visiting, however, continued for another hour. Millie was glad for the excuse to turn her back on the game. But everywhere they went, there seemed to be a young boy nearby, a cricket fanatic who pestered his mother and sisters to watch the goings-on. The earl’s name came up all too often.
    Did you see that? Fitzhugh just sent one clear over the boundary. That’s six runs!
shouted an Eton enthu-siast.
    No, not another one out of bounds! At least it touched ground, so only four runs
, grumbled a Harrow supporter.
Fitzhugh already scored ninety. When is he going to be dismissed?
    At last they returned to their landau and ate their picnic luncheon.
    “Shall we go now?” Millie asked Mrs. Graves.
    “Of course not,” answered Mrs. Graves. “When the match breaks for tea, we will go to the Eton pavilion and have your fiancé present his friends to you.”
    His mates had to know how he truly felt. They’d probably already commiserated with him. Should Mrs. Graves begin to express her great delight, oblivious to the earl’sdistaste for his imminent trip to the altar—Millie could well imagine the snickering.
    “But we have not been invited to approach the Eton pavilion and we—”
    Mrs. Graves placed her gloved hand over Millie’s. “My dear, you must not feel apologetic about this marriage. Never forget all that you are bringing to the marriage and never consider yourself inferior simply because he is young and handsome. He is getting the better bargain here. Do you understand?”
    The real question was, did
he
understand?
    He did not. And he would not.
    Mrs. Graves touched Millie’s cheek. “I love your father dearly, but how I wish he were not so needlessly stubborn on the matter of your marriage. You should have a husband who treasures you, for no man can possibly be more fortunate than the one who has your hand.
    “But reality being what it is, I have brought you here today. Do not hide, my love. And do not retreat. I know it will not be easy for you. But it will only be worse if you lock yourself in a cupboard. Hold your head high. Stake out your ground. So he hasn’t invited us when he should have. That means it is up to you to make your presence felt, to compel him to publicly acknowledge your position in his life.”
    She couldn’t. She had nothing in her to compel anyone. She only wanted to disappear.
    “Yes, Mother,” she said.
    “Good.” Mrs. Graves patted Millie on her shoulder. “Now let me close my eyes for a moment. Then we will show our magnificent selves to Lord Fitzhugh. And he’d better be properly awed and pleased.”

     
    M rs. Graves napped. Millie wrestled with her handkerchief. The boy in the next-over carriage narrated the general goings-on, thankfully not bothering with the names of the individual players.
    Abruptly the boy fell silent—midsentence. Millie glanced his way, wondering whether he’d choked on something he was eating. But the boy only stared