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drops and chest plasters a charming affectation. But during their first winter together at his home in Norfolk, he had taken a chill and promptly died, leaving Portia a rich widow of twenty.
    Of course, Portia was not quite as distraught as she might have been. In London, Bettiscombe had been charming and waggish, ready for any jape, so long as he was well wrapped against draughts. In the country, he was a perfect mouse, rising at six and retiring by eight. He fretted over everything without the whirl of London distraction, and had left Portia too often in the company of his spinster cousin and poor relation, Jane. He died before the true nature of their relationship became apparent, and Portia lost no time in returning to London and bringing dear Jane with her to set up house together in the elegant town house Bettiscombe had left her. I knew my widowhood should not prove half so interesting to my family as Portia’s had.
    “But you must have felt a tiny prickle of guilt,” I prodded her. Portia frowned. She never liked to be reminded of things she had tucked neatly away.
    “Not guilt, not precisely,” she said slowly. “It was rather more complicated than that. But I had my sweet Jane for compensation. And I think you would do rather better if you counted your own advantages rather than mooning about trying to convince yourself that you have lost your one true love.”
    “Portia, that is unspeakably cruel.”
    Her eyes were sympathetic, but her manner was brisk. “I know that you wish to mourn Edward. He was a lovely person and we were all quite fond of him. But the man you buried was not the child you played with. Do not make the mistake of climbing into his grave and forgetting to live the rest of your life.”
    My fingers were cramping and I realized that my hands were clenched. I rose. “Portia, I do not wish to speak of this now. Not to you, not to anyone. I shall conduct myself as I see fit, not to please you or Father or anyone else,” I finished grandly. I swept to the door.
    “Hoorah,” she said softly, still not moving from Mother’s chair. “The little mouse is beginning to roar.”
    I slammed the door behind me.
    I spent the rest of the day in a high sulk, pouting about the evil treatment I had received at my sister’s hands and trying not to think about the possibility that she might have been correct. Edward had been my friend and companion when we were children together in Sussex. Our fathers’ estates had marched together, and Edward and his young cousin, Simon, had often joined in our games and theatricals and expeditions about the countryside. Like all of my sisters, I had come out into society, but I alone had held myself aloof from the few timid advances that had come my way. I suppose, having been raised on stories of knightly adventures and chivalric endeavors, I had been waiting for my very own storybook hero. But it seemed rather heroic when Edward left off of squiring some lissome beauty about the dance floor and came to sip punch with me where I sat by the potted palms. I was not like the other girls; I had no frivolous conversation or pretty tricks to win suitors. I had forthrightness and plainspoken manners. I had a good mind and a sharp tongue, and I was cruel enough to use them as weapons to keep the cads and rogues at bay. As for the young men I might have liked to partner me, I was far better at repelling than attracting. I did not swoon or carry a vinaigrette or turn squeamish at the mention of spiders. Father had raised us to scorn such feminine deceptions. Like my brothers, I wanted to talk about good books and urgent politics, new ideas and foreign places. But the young men I met did not like that. They wanted pretty dolls with silvery giggles and empty heads.
    All except Edward. He always seemed perfectly content to sit with me, or even dance with me at considerable risk to his toes. We talked for hours of things other young men would never discuss. People began to talk,