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more than I’d expected—though why shouldn’t Dorset produce men as fine-looking as any you’ll meet in London? He was tall and slim, and everything about him was tidy and elegant, from his newly cut curly hair to his pale, slim hands. He wore a beautiful chocolate brown tailcoat the same color as his eyes. It looked glorious against the pale green gown Margaret wore—which must have been why she wore it, and had taken the trouble to get me to sew on a new dark green ribbon at its waist, as well as fashion a new turban with feathers dyed to match. Indeed, since James Foot’s arrival in Lyme, she had begun to fuss even more over her clothes, buying new gloves and ribbons, bleaching her slippers to remove scuffs, writing to ask our sister-in-law to send cloth from London. Louise and I did not bother much about our own clothes, wearing muted shades—Louise dark blues and greens, I mauve and gray—but we were happy enough to allow Margaret to indulge in pastels and flowered patterns. And if there was money enough for only one new gown, we insisted she get it. Now I was glad, for she looked lovely dancing with James Foot in her green gown, with feathers in her hair. I sat and watched them, and was content.
    Louise was less so. She said nothing at the Assembly Rooms, but when we were preparing for bed later—having left Margaret still dancing, with an assurance from friends that they would see her home—Louise declared, “He cares very much about appearances.”
    I secured my sleeping cap over my indifferent hair and got into bed. “So does Margaret.”
    Though it was too late to read, I did not blow out the candle, but watched the cobwebs flutter on the ceiling in the draft of heat from the flame.
    “It is not his clothes, though they are a reflection of his inclinations,” Louise said. “He wants things to be proper.”
    “We are proper,” I protested.
    Louise blew out her candle.
    I knew what she meant. I had felt it when James Foot was introduced to me. He was polite and straightforward—and conventional. I found myself trying to respond as blandly as possible. As we talked, his eyes flickered over the slight fraying on the neckline of my violet gown, and I felt a judgment clicked into a place in his head, a bit of information tucked away to be brought out and considered later. “Elizabeth Philpot does not attend to her gowns,” I could imagine him saying to his own sister.
    For Margaret’s sake I tried to be proper when James Foot visited us at Morley Cottage one day. James Foot himself was obliging too. He asked Louise to show him the garden and offered to send her cuttings of his hydrangeas when he found she had none. She did not tell him she detested them. He was keen to examine my fossil collection and knew more about fossils than Henry Hoste Henley. When he suggested that I go to Eype, farther east along the coast, near Bridport, to look for brittle stars, he added that I was welcome to visit his nearby farm. For myself, I did not quiz him about fossils as I wanted to, but let him lead the conversation, and it was pleasant enough.
    After he left, Margaret was in such a daze that we took her to bathe in the sea, hoping the cold shock would sharpen her. Louise and I stood on the shore while she paddled. The bathing machine, a little closet on a cart, had been pulled far out into the water to give her privacy, and Margaret swam with it between her and the shore, preserving her modesty. Once or twice we caught a glimpse of an arm, or a plume of water as she kicked.
    My eyes scanned the pebbles, though I did not expect to find any fossils amongst the chunks of flint. “I thought his visit was very successful,” I announced, aware of how uninspired I sounded.
    “He won’t marry her,” Louise said.
    “Why not? She’s as good as anyone, and much better than many.”
    “Margaret would bring little money to a marriage. That may not matter to him, but if there is no money, then the character of the