Chapter Nine

Zo? leaned on the rail of the ship, gazing through the mist, breathing deeply of the cool, moist salty air.

There they were at last, the White Cliffs of Dover.

Last time, when she’d left England for the first time, on her way to a new life in Paris with Gerald and Lucy, she’d never really looked at them. She’d been looking forward, not gazing back.

Now, as England loomed ever closer, her feelings were very mixed. Living in Paris, she’d never really been homesick, perhaps because she’d never really had a home. With Maman she’d moved from one rented room to another, all in the same general area. Then, after her death, there was the orphanage, and that had certainly never felt anything like a home. Even in these last few years with Lucy and Gerald, she’d known that she was their guest, though they treated her more like family.

And though Clarissa and old Lady Scattergood had welcomed her—embraced her, really—she’d never considered Lady Scattergood’s house her home. Despite their warmth and generosity toward her, she’d always felt, deep down, that she was there on sufferance—that any day she might have to leave.

Now, gazing through the faint mist at those white cliffs, she felt quite apprehensive. What would this new life bring? Would anyone recognize her as Izzy’s half sister? Reveal her—reveal both of them—as Sir Bartleby Studley’s bastards. She shivered. It was a daunting prospect.

She really didn’t want to be a society lady, would much rather live the life of a vagabond artist traveling in a painted wagon with a charming rogue by her side, but that wasn’t possible now that she knew the truth about him.

Though, if she’d never been found by Clarissa, would she have joined Reynard? No, of course not, if only because she’d never have had the opportunity to go to France and meet him. But if she had…She just might have thrown in her lot with him. No, not might, would .

But that was not to be thought of. Fate—and Lucy—had trained her to become a lady, and they all—her sisters, Lucy and Lady Scattergood—were so excited by the prospect, they couldn’t wait to launch her. And Lucy had spent nearly three years training her until she looked, sounded and acted like the perfect aristocratic lady. She just hoped she didn’t let them down.

“Ah, the first sight of home,” said Gerald, coming up to join her on the rail. “The sight of those white cliffs never fails to move me.”

“How is Lucy?” Lucy had felt queasy the moment she set foot on the ship. Luckily Gerald had booked a stateroom and she’d managed to sleep for most of the voyage.

He smiled. “She’ll be all right the moment she sets foot on dry land. She’s never been a good sailor. I’ll go and tell her now. She’ll be glad to see the cliffs and know we’re almost home.”

Zo? took a deep breath. Yes. Home.

Marie came up beside her at the rail and eyed the misty outline of the cliffs. “They are more gray than white.” As she spoke, a light drizzly rain began. She eyed it disparagingly. “I have heard this England is always wet and cold, and now I see it is true. Come inside, mademoiselle, out of the rain.”

The closer they came to London the more excited Lucy was, and the more tense Zo? became. Would her sisters be pleased with how she had turned out? Had she done well enough in her lady lessons?

And the big question was where and with whom would she live?

Both her sisters had invited her to live with them, but they were both married now, and would their noble husbands want a bastard half sister living with them? Cramping their style? She would hate to cause difficulties for either of her sisters. And though she’d lived in Lady Scattergood’s house before, the old lady was no relative of hers—she was her half-brother-in-law’s great-aunt, or something, and she’d originally stayed there as a guest, invited by Clarissa.

“There it is, London at last.”

Their carriage had crested a hill, and there was the dome of St. Paul’s just visible on the horizon rising above the tall buildings, along with several church spires wreathed in a faint veil of yellow-gray mist. In minutes they were in the city, the carriage slowed by carts and hawkers, horses, dogs and people of all kinds cluttering the streets.

Zo?, leaning out the window, breathed in—and there it was, London, the smell she didn’t realize she knew so well, the smell of home. Not a pretty smell, but home, all the same.

The home of her childhood, not where she was going to live now, wherever that would be.

Finally the carriage pulled up outside Lord and Lady Tarrant’s house in Bellaire Gardens. Lady Tarrant was Lucy’s godmother and Gerald’s aunt, and their plan was to stay with her and her husband. Gerald would have to return to France, but Lucy intended to remain with Lady Tarrant until her baby was born. She was the closest that Lucy had to a mother, and she, her husband and his three little daughters had become Lucy’s only family.

But although Zo? knew and liked the various members of the Tarrant family—they lived across the garden from Lady Scattergood—she wasn’t part of their family.

The front door was flung open before the groom had even let the carriage steps down, and three little girls hurtled from the house to greet them, followed in a more stately fashion by the butler and several footmen. Alice, Lady Tarrant, the girls’ stepmother, waited in the doorway, beaming with pleasure.

She was increasing again, Zo? saw.

Gerald helped Lucy and Zo? to alight, then, since they were surrounded by the excited little girls, he ran up the stairs and kissed his aunt. It was a joyous, noisy and chaotic welcome, and Zo? couldn’t help but laugh and feel touched as she was drawn warmly into the group.

“Come inside, out of the cold,” Alice said, laughing. “Girls, let Lucy and Zo? catch their breath. You can ask them everything after they’ve gone upstairs to freshen themselves and have come down for tea.”

Was she to stay here, then? Zo? wondered, following Alice and Lucy upstairs. But when she came downstairs a few minutes later, there, waiting at the foot of the stairs were her two half sisters, Clarissa and Izzy. They hurried forward and embraced her warmly.

“Lady Tarrant sent a footman over with the news the moment you arrived,” Clarissa explained, hugging Zo? for the third time. “Oh, I’m so excited. And look at you, all grown up and so elegant and lovely. My little sister.”

“And mine,” Izzy said, hugging Zo? again. “Welcome home, Zo? darling. We’ve missed you.”

The exuberant affection of their welcome deprived Zo? of words: she was deeply moved. Any doubts she might have had about her welcome vanished in an instant.

“Oh, I’m so, so happy you’re finally with us again.” Clarissa wiped tears away. “Don’t mind my tears, Zo? dear, I’m increasing. Apparently it turns people into watering pots, even when they’re happy.”

“You’re increasing, Clarissa?” Zo? exclaimed in delight. She knew from Clarissa’s letters that she had been hoping to conceive, and it seemed she’d finally succeeded. “Congratulations. When is the baby due?”

“Oh, sometime early next year,” Clarissa said vaguely.

Izzy said, “You’ll have to come over and see my beautiful babies later.” In the last three years Izzy had given birth to a boy and a girl.

Gerald appeared. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said after greeting Izzy and Clarissa, “but where shall I have Zo?’s luggage taken? I have to warn you, there’s mounds of it. My wife went mad, shopping in Paris for Zo?’s come-out.”

“How exciting! I’m so glad she did.” Clarissa clapped her hands in delight. “I’m looking forward to Zo? making a real splash when she comes out in society. I can’t wait to see all her lovely French clothes.”

A real splash? Zo? didn’t want anything of the sort.

“Yes, I want to be there for the unpacking, too,” Izzy said. “And who is that?”

Zo? followed her glance and saw Marie hovering uncertainly in the background. She’d been traveling in the second carriage with the baggage. “Oh, poor Marie. She’s my maid,” she told her sisters, “but she doesn’t speak any English yet.” In French she explained to Marie that these were her relatives and that she didn’t yet know where they were to live. She turned back to her sisters. “Where will I be living?”

Izzy and Clarissa exchanged glances. “It hasn’t been decided yet,” Clarissa confessed, and Zo?’s heart sank a little. She didn’t want to cause any problems.

“Now, don’t look like that, silly,” Izzy said briskly. “We both want you, of course.”

“But so does Lady Scattergood,” Clarissa said. “In fact, she insisted we bring you straight over to her the minute—”

“The very minute!” Izzy said with a wry grin.

“Yes, the very minute you arrived,” Clarissa finished. “She was absolutely adamant.” She paused and said, “I’d better warn you, she’s looking rather poorly at the moment. She had a nasty bout of influenza a couple of weeks ago, and though she’s recovered, she’s still quite pale and wan, and has lost weight and still tires very easily.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Zo? said. It explained why she hadn’t received any letters from Lady Scattergood in the last few weeks.

“She’s still very much herself, though,” Izzy assured her. “Now, shall we go?”

Zo? glanced at Marie and hesitated.

“Bring her with you,” Clarissa said. “My maid, Betty, will look after her.”

“Does Betty speak French, then?” Zo? knew she didn’t. Betty had been an orphan, like her, and had been in service since she was twelve.

“Ah. No.”

Lucy, coming down the stairs with Lady Tarrant, overheard the discussion. “I will look after Marie for the moment,” she said. “We know each other well, don’t we, Marie?” she said in French, smiling kindly at Marie, who nodded shyly.

“Lovely. So that’s all settled,” Izzy said. “Now come along or the old lady might just explode from impatience.” She and Clarissa linked arms with Zo? and headed out the back gate, entering Bellaire Gardens, the large garden that was entirely enclosed by a square of houses.

All of them—Lady Tarrant, Izzy and Leo, Clarissa and Race and Lady Scattergood—had houses that backed onto the garden, so they could visit one another whenever they liked. Clarissa’s husband, Race, had bought their home especially so Clarissa could still have her beloved garden and be close to her sister.

Late in the season though it was, the garden was looking beautiful. A few late roses were still in bloom, though most were finished. The leaves of the trees were turning russet and gold and the last of the Michaelmas daisies were blooming in vibrant clumps of pink and lilac and white. In another bed, white and dark red penstemons were nodding their dainty heads, interspersed with spikes of blue and white salvia. Lastly there were shaggy-headed chrysanthemums in gold and pink and bronze. Clarissa pointed them out as they passed, reminding Zo? of the names. Clarissa adored the garden and knew the names of everything.

“I’d forgotten how lovely this garden was,” Zo? said. She’d spent a lot of time out here when she first came to live with Clarissa at Lady Scattergood’s.

“And we’ll soon—Oy, you, Jimmy!” Clarissa broke off, and hurried over to where one of the gardeners was about to prune a rosebush. “Please don’t prune them yet,” she told the man. “I want to harvest the rose hips first. I promise I’ll get them all picked in the next day or two.”

The man doffed his cap and moved away.

“Did you say you wanted the rose hips?” Zo? asked Clarissa when she rejoined them.

“Yes, they make a wonderful syrup that’s very good for winter colds. And a very nice tea, too. And I use them in some of my creams.” Clarissa’s hobby was making all kinds of cosmetic and medicinal creams and potions. They were very good, too. Zo? had used one of Clarissa’s medicinal creams on the cut on Marie’s face and had also applied it to poor Hamish’s rubbed-raw neck.

How was he getting on? she wondered. Would Reynard keep him? He would, she hoped. He was clearly very fond of animals. If only he wasn’t such a…such a…

Catching herself—she was not thinking of Reynard at all!—she turned to her sister. “If you like, I’ll help you pick them,” Zo? offered. She’d always enjoyed helping Clarissa with her herbs and flower potions and creams.

Clarissa beamed. “That would be wonderful, thank you, Zo? darling. Meet me out here first thing tomorrow morning and bring an old pair of gloves—preferably kid—to protect your hands.” Zo? nodded and glanced at Izzy.

“Don’t look at me,” Izzy said. “I wouldn’t know a rose hip from a dandelion.”

Clarissa laughed. “You would, too, it’s perfectly obvious, and besides, dandelions are very useful, too. But I want to pick the rose hips first thing in the morning, while the dew is still on them, and I know you’re not an early bird, so I forgive you.”

They walked on, passing the summerhouse, which had been their own special gathering place. The small, pretty glassed-in structure belonged to all the residents, but not many of the other residents used it, apart from Milly Harrington, a nosy girl who often poked her nose in to annoy them. But Milly would be married and gone by now, Zo? reflected. Thank goodness.

They entered Lady Scattergood’s house and were greeted by a pack of excited little dogs, leaping and barking and wriggling with delight. Lady Scattergood collected abandoned and mistreated little dogs—females.

“You’re late!” Lady Scattergood said, presenting a wrinkled, rouged and powdered cheek for Zo? to kiss. “I’ve been waiting here for ages. I thought you’d forgotten me.” She did look even thinner than usual, but the pallor Clarissa had warned her about was well hidden by a thick layer of cosmetics and a lavish application of rouge. She was sitting in her favorite peacock chair, draped with her usual half dozen vibrantly colored and patterned silk shawls.

“Of course I haven’t,” Zo? said, gazing around her, appreciating anew the exuberantly cluttered collection of images and statuettes from far-flung corners of the world that the old lady surrounded herself with. It was like visiting some grand potentate from another world. “How are you, dear Lady Scattergood?”

“Oh, struggling along. I’m all alone here now, you know,” the old lady said in a tragic voice. “Nobody cares about an old lady these days.” She heaved a sigh and drooped feebly back in her chair.

Zo? frowned. The pathetic tone sounded quite unlike the Lady Scattergood she remembered, who’d been feisty and assertive. Was it a result of her recent illness?

“What about Mrs. Price-Jones?” An old friend of Lady Scattergood’s, she’d acted as her companion and as chaperone to Clarissa when Zo? had lived there.

“Althea? Gone. Left. Abandoned me,” Lady Scattergood said in a die-away voice. Concerned at the gloomy way the old lady was speaking, Zo? glanced at Izzy, who winked.

“Mrs. Price-Jones got married,” Clarissa explained.

“Yes, she left me, and now I’m all alone, rattling around this big old house with nobody to care for me. I might as well be a ghost.” She sighed again and shot Zo? a swift glance from under her heavy eyelids.

Izzy said, “Yes, all alone, you poor dear, apart from your butler, the cook, your dresser, several maids and a footman—and your six little dogs.”

The old lady snorted. “Servants don’t count. The dogs do, of course, but otherwise, I’m all alone.”

“Except for the visitors who call on you almost every day,” Clarissa said.

“Which include Clarissa and me,” Izzy added. “And then there are the friends who come to play cards with you most evenings.”

The old lady glared at them, sat up and stamped her cane. “Enough of your impudence, gels! It is quite clear to me that the only place for young Zo? to live is here, in her old room—which I have had especially redecorated for her. Almost three years ago I appointed her my official Artist in Residence, and that position has not changed. No, don’t argue—I have spoken!” She banged her cane on the floor again and sat back in her chair, having delivered her decree.

Zo? couldn’t help but smile. There was no sign now of the bereft, lonely old lady—here was the Lady Scattergood she knew and loved: autocratic and imperious. She might never leave her house, but within it she ruled like the empress she appeared.

She glanced at her sisters, who, smiling, both nodded their silent agreement. They’d obviously known what the old lady was going to say, and though they had both invited her to live with them, they’d all be living so close—just across the garden—that Zo? could see them whenever she wanted.

She came forward and hugged the old lady. “Lady Scattergood, I would love to live here with you. Thank you so much.”

“Oh pish-tush! Lot of fuss about nothing. Of course you’ll live here with me! Never any question about it,” the old lady said gruffly, deeply pleased.

Clarissa said, “And since we’re all just a few steps across the garden, we can pop in and out as much as we want. And meet in the summerhouse as we always used to.”

“And, of course, Clarissa and I and our husbands will be on hand to escort you to all the various social events,” Izzy added, “so we won’t need to hire a chaperone.”

It was the perfect resolution, Zo? decided. She wouldn’t be underfoot in her sisters’ marriages, but would be able to see them whenever she wanted. Best of all, Lady Scattergood would expec t her to paint, whereas for her sisters, social occasions and the search for a husband would come before what they probably regarded as her hobby.

They didn’t yet understand how her time away and her lessons in painting from some of the best French painters—not to mention that magical week working with Reynard— had cemented in her the desire to become a professional artist.

With a heavy heart, Reynard gave up the search for Vita and returned to the village where they’d been working. It was the last thing he felt like doing, but he’d made commitments and needed to honor them. Besides, he’d left Hamish and his horse in the care of Madame LeBlanc’s son.

“So you didn’t find Mademoiselle Vita, then,” the innkeeper’s wife greeted him on his return.

“No.”

“You forgot the address of your uncle and aunt, then?” she added ironically.

“Of course I didn’t. She wasn’t there,” Reynard said crisply, and strode off to where he’d left his wagon, horse and dog. As he approached the LeBlanc farm a large creature burst from the bushes, almost knocking him over. Laughing, he scruffled his dog’s ruff and suffered some exuberant, sloppy licks in return.

The LeBlancs had taken good care of him; Hamish was in excellent condition, and not only had someone—he suspected the little girl—brushed his scruffy coat, but they’d carefully tied his fringe back with two pink ribbons. “Very fetching,” he told the dog, who snorted and shook his head vigorously. The ribbons failed to be dislodged.

Feeling better than he had in days—you could trust dogs at least—Reynard continued on to the farm, where he found Rocinante in excellent condition as well. Her hat had even been refreshed with some new flowers.

He thanked madame and her children for their care, and when madame refused the money he offered, he quietly tucked some notes under a pot of honey on the kitchen table and gave a few coins to each of the children.

But the questions didn’t stop. Like the innkeeper’s wife, Madame LeBlanc wanted to know where Vita was and why she’d run off without so much as a goodbye. She wasn’t subtle about it, either.

And later, as he reconnected with people who’d commissioned paintings from him, it seemed nobody had believed the “cousin” story, and they almost universally assumed that her abrupt disappearance was because of something he’d done. The implication was that he’d made unwelcome advances, and, being a good and virtuous girl, Vita had taken herself off to safety out of his lecherous reach.

Of course, he denied it, reiterating that she was his cousin, but the skeptical expressions told him how little that story was believed. And he couldn’t explain that she’d stolen one of the valuable old paintings, because he didn’t want them to start speculating about the true value of the paintings they so willingly exchanged.

Refusing to dwell on it, he got on with painting the replacements, and though it was clear that Vita was by far the better painter of people, he’d picked up a few techniques from watching her work, and the result, if not as good, was adequate enough. At least nobody complained. Not to his face.

It was lonely, working on his own again. It was ridiculous that he missed her so much when she had spent only a week with him, but somehow he did. He missed her in the morning, returning from her wash in the stream, her complexion bright and dewy, her gorgeous green eyes sparkling with life, then sipping her morning cup of tea with a blissful expression. She didn’t have a lot to say in the morning, which he liked. It was companionable and peaceful.

Most of all, he missed her in the evening, sitting by the fire, talking about their day, the firelight gilding her dark curls and turning her pure, pale skin peach and gold. She’d made him laugh, too, with her stories and her pithy observations about the people she’d met. But now, thinking about it, though he’d told her a little of his own story, she’d told him almost nothing about herself.

He’d kept quite a bit back himself—things that were significant but, when he thought about it, not really important. Admittedly he’d bent the truth quite a bit. But then, so had she.

So he painted on alone. Of course, the dog kept him company, but there were times when Hamish’s eyes rested on him with what Reynard would swear was reproach. And no matter how many times he reminded himself that all dogs learned to do “reproach” as puppies, Hamish’s lugubrious expression and heavy sighs quite clearly conveyed that he was missing Vita and that he knew who was to blame.

Dogs! What did they know? The sooner he finished his paintings, passed on to Gaston the rest of the old ones he’d collected and returned to England, the happier he’d be.

As evening grew nigh, Lady Scattergood declared she was too tired to stay up late and sent them off to dine elsewhere. Izzy and Clarissa, having anticipated this—the old lady was still sadly pulled by her recent bout of influenza—had arranged to dine at Izzy and Leo’s home. Their Neapolitan cook, Alfonso, had been working all afternoon, preparing all their favorite dishes.

But first there was a visit to the nursery, where Zo? was introduced to her niece and nephew. Little Louisa, aged two and a half, was an adorably lively toddler with her mother’s green eyes and a mop of dark curls. Seeing Clarissa, she ran toward her, shrieking, “Aunt Rissa, Aunt Rissa, up up up!” Laughing, Clarissa picked the little girl up and kissed her.

Baby Joey had just a bare fuzz of dark hair covering his little head. His eyes were more hazel than green, but he smiled readily, giving everyone a drooling, toothless, happy grin.

“He’s really Josiah Leonard Thorne,” Izzy said, jiggling him on her hip. “It’s Leo’s family tradition to name the firstborn son Josiah Leonard Thorne, and each generation takes it in turns which name they use. Leo’s father was called Joe, but Joey suits my baby boy better, I think.”

Zo? agreed. Little Joey seemed a serene, chubby baby, who gazed out at the world with an air of benevolence.

It was fascinating to see her sisters as mothers. Clearly they both adored the children, and it was obvious that they spent a good deal of time with them, which many young, fashionable society mothers didn’t.

But the big surprise of the day was when Leo, the children’s father, arrived home early and came straight up to the nursery. “PapaPapaPapa!” little Louisa screeched, and wriggling out of Clarissa’s arms, she hurled herself at her father.

Zo? had always been a little intimidated by Leo, Lord Salcott, who, though invariably polite, had always seemed rather cold, a bit stern and stiffly correct. But with a laugh, Leo scooped up his daughter and tossed her, screaming with delight, in the air and caught her again. Winding one arm tightly around his neck, she scruffed up his neatly arranged hair and gleefully ruined his intricately arranged neckcloth.

To Zo?’s astonishment, Leo simply chuckled. And with his daughter in his arms, he kissed his wife—in front of them all—then bent to greet his son, who drooled and grinned and waved his chubby fists at his father.

Zo? marveled at the change in him. He clearly doted on his wife and children and wasn’t afraid to show it. It was the last thing she would have expected of him. Izzy had always said Leo was a wonderful husband, and now Zo? could see it was true.

Dinner that evening was a most convivial gathering with Leo and Izzy, Race and Clarissa, Lucy and Gerald and Alice and her husband, James. Leo’s chef had cooked a magnificent meal, with English favorites like roast beef and steak and kidney pie, along with Neapolitan dishes like lamb ragù, a kind of stew served with noodles with meat that melted in your mouth, and a delicate but delicious dish of fish cooked in butter and herbs, as well as several vegetable dishes.

To follow he gave them a delicious English-style steamed lemon pudding, a big wobbly red jelly studded with berries and cream, a bowl of flummery and a special Neapolitan cake made with some Italian soft cheese and deliciously flavored with candied citrus peel and rosewater.

Matteo, Leo’s general factotum, who presented the meal with flamboyant Neapolitan flair, explained that the cake was usually only served at Christmas and Easter. “But this is special family celebration, no? So Alfonso, he make something special to celebrate you coming back to us, Miss Zo?.”

Zo? was deeply moved by the welcome she’d received and was still receiving. Why on earth had she been worried about it?

Everyone had gone to so much trouble on her behalf.

When the meal had been eaten, the ladies retired to the sitting room, leaving the men to their port and brandy.

“Leo and I are going to hold a reception to introduce you to society,” Izzy told Zo? as she poured tea and passed around cups.

“A reception?” Zo?’s heart sank. Starting so soon? She’d thought she would have several months at least before she needed to face society. At this time of year most people would be at their country estates. They’d return, like swallows, in spring when the Season would start.

“Yes, there aren’t enough people in London for a full- scale ball—we’ll hold that once the Season begins—but in the meantime we want you to make a small splash.”

“Why?” Zo? didn’t want to make any sort of splash.

“Yes,” Clarissa said eagerly. “We have a plan.”

“But first you need a dress,” Izzy said.

“A dress? But I have dozens of dresses, all never worn.”

“Yes, we saw them when you were unpacking, and I must say, Lucy, you did very well. If I don’t miss my guess, Zo?’s going to set a fashion when she steps out in her elegant French gowns. But Zo?, this is a special dress we need, so Clarissa and I will take you to Daisy Chance’s establishment and get you measured up for it.”

“Why? Are you planning a costume party?”

Izzy and Clarissa laughed. “No,” Clarissa said. “But that’s a good idea, don’t you think, Izzy? Race and I could hold one later in the Season when it gets warmer. Maybe even in the garden.”

“So if it isn’t a costume party, why would I need a new dress?”

“Wait and see. It’s a surprise,” Izzy said, her green eyes, so uncannily like Zo?’s own, dancing with what Zo? could swear was mischief.

The conversation then turned to other matters. Lucy shared stories about their time in Paris, Alice talked about her beloved children and how quickly they seemed to grow. They told Zo? and Lucy about Mrs. Price-Jones, Clarissa’s erstwhile chaperone, and who she’d married—not one of the “silver suitors,” the two gentlemen who’d been assiduously courting her when Zo? had left the country, but Sir Alfred Nicolas, a younger man who was rich and vigorous and who apparently thought the world of her. Then the talk turned more general and touched on various people they knew in society, few of whom Zo? had met.

“When do you plan to hold this reception?” she blurted out in the middle of a conversation about some neighbor. Then she blushed at her rudeness.

But Izzy didn’t turn a hair. “After Christmas, close to the New Year. New year, new you!”

Zo? breathed again. So, almost a month before she needed to grit her teeth and make her entrance into English society.

She hadn’t yet told her sisters that she wasn’t at all keen to enter society. They were both so enthusiastic and had gone to so much trouble to ensure she was fit to enter the ton; she couldn’t bring herself to tell them.

She’d attended dozens of French society events, and though she’d been quite popular and hadn’t blotted her copybook—apart from the incident with Monsieur Etienne—somehow, doing it in England was different. For a start, she was nervous that she’d revert back to her old accent.

Everyone here had been delighted with the improvement in her speech, and when she wanted to, she could even insert a faint flavor of French into it, as a real French cousin would.

But driving through London, she’d heard a cacophony of accents out in the streets, and she was a natural mimic. It had helped enormously when Lucy was teaching her to sound like an English lady—she had a good ear—but Zo? also had a tendency to reflect someone’s manner of speech back at them, which was not so good. She’d discovered that when she’d met a Scottish lady in Paris and found herself, after fifteen minutes’ conversation, responding to the lady with a soft Scottish burr. Lucy had been horrified; Zo? hadn’t even realized she was doing it.

And even though she’d met dozens of charming Frenchmen, several of whom had even proposed marriage to her, none of them had given her the slightest desire to even consider marriage. It wasn’t because they were French, either—she just couldn’t see herself as a wife, living the life of a society lady. She just wasn’t made like that.

It was telling that the only man she’d ever been able to envisage herself marrying was a footloose vagabond English artist. Who was a charming, untrustworthy rogue.

The following morning after a delicious breakfast—Cook’s way of welcoming her back—Zo? joined Clarissa in the garden to pick rose hips. First Clarissa showed her how to pick them—she used scissors to snip them off—and for the first little while they worked side by side.

“Did you enjoy your time in France?” Clarissa asked as she snipped and dropped rose hips into her basket.

“Yes, very much. Lucy has been simply wonderful. I learned so much.”

“I’m glad.” Clarissa gave her a sidelong glance. “I was worried that you’d fall in love with a Frenchman and never want to come back to England. You didn’t, did you?”

Zo? laughed. “No, not at all. I met some very charming Frenchmen and some who were terribly handsome, but none of them caused my heart to beat the least bit faster.” She’d fallen instead for an English scoundrel, and what a mistake that had been. She added quietly, “I’m not sure I even want to get married.”

Clarissa turned to her in dismay. “Oh, but married life is so wonderful. I’m sure it’s just that you haven’t met the right man yet. Look at me—I was sure I was going to have to make a practical marriage, and certainly not to anyone who had a reputation with women, you know what I mean.” She sighed happily. “But Race wore me down and convinced me that he’d make a good husband, and I’ve never been happier.”

Zo? smiled. She’d seen at dinner the previous night how very well suited Clarissa and Race were. In fact, both her sisters had made very happy marriages, as had Lucy and Gerald. And Lord and Lady Tarrant.

“Perhaps there’s something wrong with me,” she said lightly. She couldn’t tell Clarissa—and certainly not in the face of her sister’s happiness—that the idea of being a society wife didn’t appeal in the least. Bearing children, being endlessly decorative and presiding over teapots, dinners and balls—it was simply not enough.

“Oh no, don’t say that. I’m sure you’ll meet the right man one day. Izzy and I will help you. Being married to the right man is blissful. Really, it is. Besides, don’t you want children?”

Zo? considered that. Yes, she did want children—as long as they were born in wedlock. It was bad enough being illegitimate herself, but to deliberately bring an illegitimate child into the world would be unforgivable.

On the other hand, she was an aunt now. She could love her sisters’ children. Perhaps that would be enough. Hoping to distract Clarissa from the issue of Zo?’s marriage prospects, she asked Clarissa about Izzy’s children and the one she was expecting, and from then on, the talk was all about babies.

As each rosebush was stripped of its hips, they moved farther and farther apart until they couldn’t even see each other, and talk was no longer possible.

Working in the garden was very peaceful, with the birds twittering and chattering in the trees and the scent of damp earth and flowers all around. Zo? snipped rose hips, her hands busy and her mind far away, in a small French village where people would be exchanging old paintings for new…

How could he, in all conscience, justify it? Those people were poor. The price he would get for those old paintings would make a big difference to their lives. Did it really matter that they had been stolen in the first place? It was thirty years ago, after all. But then she thought of the painting she’d taken and how much it meant to her. She sighed. There was no easy answer. She just wished—

“Izzy?” Milly Harrington, their annoying neighbor, stood there. She blinked when Zo? turned. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes,” Zo? agreed.

“So you’re back, are you, Zo? whoever-you-are?”

“Apparently. And it’s Zo? Beno?t.”

She lifted a disdainful shoulder. “Zo? Ben-whahhhh, then, if you insist.”

“I do. And I see you’re still here as well.”

There was a short silence, then Milly said, “What are you doing cutting those knobbly things off my roses?”

“They’re rose hips.”

“So? You’re not allowed to cut flowers and things from the garden.”

“They’re for Clarissa. And the gardeners know she’s doing it. Besides, it’s not your garden; it belongs to all the residents.”

“Yes, but you’re not one of us.”

“Residents means people who live in these houses”—Zo? gestured—“and since I’m now living here with Lady Scattergood, I am, therefore, a resident.”

Nettled, Milly just glared at her. Zo? went on snipping rose hips. “I see you’re happy to talk English now. And not the sort of English you did however many years ago. You sound almost like a lady.” She smirked. “Almost.”

“Would you prefer me to speak to you in French?”

Milly snorted. “It’s not very patriotic, so no, I don’t.”

Zo? hid a smile. Milly’s French was almost nonexistent. She glanced at Milly’s ringless hands. “And you, Miss Harrington—it is still Miss, isn’t it?—what has it been, three seasons, and yet you still don’t have a husband? My commiserations.”

Milly stiffened. “I’ll have you know, Zo? Ben-whahhhh, that I’ve had several offers of marriage from eligible gentlemen.”

“What happened? Cried off once they got to know you better, did they?”

Milly’s color heightened. “Not at all. They were each devastated when I had to refuse them. Dev-a-stat-ed.”

“Had to refuse them because?”

“Because Mama did not consider them sufficiently…” She paused, groping for the right word.

“Sufficiently handsome? Sufficiently rich? Or were they lacking a title?”

“Not all of them.” Milly tossed her head. “I refused a baron and a baronet, actually.”

“So what was wrong with them?”

“Mama has her position to consider. She is second cousin to a duke, you know.”

“I should think anyone who has ever met her must know that. I’m surprised she doesn’t hand out cards announcing it. So Mama wants you to marry a duke, does she? You’re not getting anxious about being left on the shelf, are you?”

Milly shrugged airily. “Mama knows what she’s doing. Anyway, I don’t see any rings on your finger.”

“Perhaps because I’m wearing gloves. But you’re right, rings would get in the way of my work.”

“Work? What work?” She glanced at the basket of hips. “Is that it? Are you a servant now?”

“No.”

“Then why are you picking those things?”

“They’re very good for the complexion. You know how perfect Clarissa’s skin is. Well…”

“You mean you eat them?” Milly screwed up her nose.

Zo? was getting fed up with all the questions. “Well, what else?” It wasn’t true—not raw, anyway. Clarissa made syrup and rose-hip jelly and tea from them.

Milly watched her busily picking, and when Zo? moved away to another rosebush she followed. Milly watched in silence for a few moments, then reached out and, with her nose screwed up, cautiously plucked several rose hips.

She wiped them on a handkerchief, stared at them a moment, then shrugged and popped them in her mouth.

She chewed, clearly finding the taste and texture disgusting. Then she spat them out. “Eurgh!” she exclaimed, spitting again. “They taste horrid.” She scrubbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.

Zo? kept a straight face. “You probably ate a spider.”

“Urgh!” Milly spat again. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

Zo? shrugged. “It’s your garden, I thought you would have known. There are loads of spiders in the garden. There are webs all over the place, so pretty with the morning dew on them, like strings of crystals.”

Milly pulled a face. “You are so strange! Everything about spiders is disgusting—everyone knows that.”

Ignoring her, Zo? kept picking while Milly watched, glowering, her mouth puckered. Then she said, “People really eat these things to improve their complexion?”

“You have to suffer for your beauty.” A crow cawed from the rooftops, and Zo? cocked her head. “Isn’t that your mama calling you?”

Milly scowled. “I didn’t hear anything. You’re just trying to get rid of me.”

“Am I? Your mama won’t mind if you don’t come, then, will she?”

“Oh, you!” Milly hesitated, grabbed a couple more rose hips and flounced off.

Zo? grinned to herself and kept picking rose hips.