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neither Millie nor Charlotte possess any aspirations that set them apart from other young ladies. To my way of thinking, the practical thing would be to teach them to run a household.”
    For one delicious moment Brigham actually thought his luscious house guest might kick him in the shins. Wisely, she reconsidered. “Naturally, your daughters would not have aspirations, Mr. Quade. Children tend to regard themselves as their parents do, which means Charlotte and Millie probably feel about as capable as a pair of long-haired lapdogs.”
    Instantly furious, Brigham leaned down so that his nose was within an inch of Lydia's and practically snarled, “I will not have my daughters taught to be ambitious! I won't see them hectoring politicians for the vote and making speeches in public places!”
    She didn't retreat, even though he was leaning over her, deliberately trying to make her take a step backward. No, she stood her ground, like a small soldier, evidently unable to speak for her fury. Her chin quivered and tears glistened in her eyes, and somewhere in the far, far distance, Brigham could have sworn he heard a bugle blow a call to battle.

3
    L YDIA'S DISLIKE OF B RIGHAM Q UADE HAD BEEN BOTH ARDENT and instantaneous, and her cheeks pulsed with the anger he'd stirred in her as she turned, sped up the stairway in high dudgeon, and took refuge in her room.
    It was a moment before she noticed the child sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed.
    The girl was about ten, and beautiful, with familiar coloring—dark hair and gray eyes, like Brigham's. Her tresses fell in ribbon-woven ringlets well past her waist, her fragile cheeks glowed with good health, and her gauzy white dress with its yellow satin sash made her look as though she'd just stepped out of some sentimental French painting. All she needed was a hat with a floppy brim, and a small dog to rest in the crook of her arm.
    â€œHello,” she said. “My name is Millicent Alexandria Quade, but you may address me as Millie.”
    Lydia's mouth curved wryly and she executed a half curtsy. “I am Lydia McQuire,” she replied, “and you may address me as ‘Miss McQuire.’”
    Millie frowned, tugging at one of the golden ribbons in her hair. “I had quite expected to call you ‘Aunt Lydia,’” she confided, bemused. “But I'm ten, after all, and I realize Uncle Devon couldn't have brought home two wives. Are you to be second choice, just in case the other one doesn't suit?”
    Lydia might have been insulted, were it not for the guileless puzzlement in the child's eyes. “I'm to be your governess,” she answered, regretting the words a mere instant after she'd uttered them. For all she knew, Mr. Brigham Quade intended to put her on the next outbound ship.
    The little girl sighed. “Oh, fuss and bother. I've already learned quite enough from Aunt Persephone,” she said.
    Lydia had heard that name before, from Brigham, and she anchored it in her mind by repeating it silently. Per-seff-any .
    â€œI can read grown-up books,” Millie went on, “and do sums as well. I know how to play the spinet, too.” She extended one foot, which was shod in a small velvet slipper, and wriggled it. “I'll be better when I can reach the pedals, though,” she speculated, with a frown. Her face was bright, however, when she looked up at Lydia again. “Do you know how to fish, Miss McQuire?” she asked hopefully.
    Lydia laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes,” she answered. “When I was a child in Massachusetts, I used to fish for brook trout sometimes, with my father. I always caught more than he did.”
    Millie looked very pleased, but then her smile faded. “Did your father like you?” she asked in a small voice.
    The pang of anger Lydia felt then was, of course, directed at Mr. Quade and not his daughter. “Yes,” she replied