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on Tuesday. Your come-out ball is
three weeks from tomorrow. The portrait must be finished by then."
    My stomach clenched. I had contrived to forget the ball. "I'm sure it will," I said. "Mr.
Sutherland seems very responsible."
    "That is as may be," she said with a sniff, "but I shall have a word with him nonetheless.
Now then, let us speak of the preparations for your ball." She spent several minutes outlining my
schedule for the next three weeks. The dancing lessons would continue, I would attend several
afternoon teas with the daughters of some of her friends, and I must practice my scales.
    "Scales? On the pianoforte?"
    "Of course. The tuner will be here this afternoon. You cannot have played since coming
to Town, so you must be in need of practice. I advise you to learn several short pieces. There
won't always be music available."
    "Music?"
    "Must you echo everything I say? It is quite the thing for young ladies to entertain with
musical selections. Since you cannot sing, you will play."
    "But, Mother--"
    "Enough." She waved me away. "I have much to do. Go and change your dress."
    Instead I returned to the roses. They were poor, straggly bushes, but seemed to stand
straighter when released from the twining tendrils. I pruned them carefully and dug well-dried
manure in about their roots. Perhaps I would still be in Town to see them bloom.
    I returned the secateurs and the trowel to the ramshackle gardening shed and went
inside, after one last, longing look around the garden. I had done what I could.
    Only then did I allow myself to consider Mother's command that I practice my scales.
Had she ever listened to me play? Not that I could remember. If she had, she would have known
that no amount of practice would render me anything but impossibly untalented where music is
concerned.
    Tuesday morning I still had not come upon a way that I might dress without Mattie's
assistance. She was just beginning to fasten the forty-six buttons--I had counted them--that
closed the bodice in back when a scream and a series of crashes sounded from the stairway.
"Go," I said, when she hesitated. The sound of loud sobbing drew her against her will.
    Quickly I pushed the gown off my shoulders and let it puddle around my feet. Removing
the loose chemise was easy, although it did tousle my hair. I pulled the gown back up and
struggled with the buttons. With a little contortion and some ingenuity, I was able to fasten the
lower thirty buttons. The door swung open just as I finished stuffing a linen handkerchief into the
décolletage, in a fair imitation of my chemise.
    "Miss Charity! You should have waited for me to come back."
    "Nonsense, Mattie. I'm perfectly capable of buttoning myself. I've been doing it for
years." I turned my back and allowed her to fasten the last sixteen. Her fingers were cold against
my bare skin. "What happened?"
    "That painter," she said with a snort. "He dropped a box of paints. Scattered them all
over the place. One broke and splashed on Lucy. A fair mess, she is. It'll take more than soap and
water to get the blue out of her hair."
    Had he somehow sensed that I needed a distraction? No. How could he have?
    "Let's look at you now," Mattie said, turning me to face her. "Hmph! That neckline's still
too low."
    I danced back as she reached. "Leave it, Mattie. Mr. Sutherland had me adjust it last
week, and I've got it just right."
    Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
    I contrived to look the picture of innocence.
    "Go along with you, then. Mind you leave the door open."
    "I will." My promise meant nothing, for even though I would not close the door, Mr.
Sutherland would. And lock it.
    As I ascended the stairs, I could feel my breasts moving against the gown's fabric. It was
slick, cool. Very different from my chemise. No matter how fine the linen, it would never
compare to silk. By the time I reached the room where Mr. Sutherland waited, my nipples were
almost painfully turgid.
    He looked up as I entered. His face, never