Enid put lamp-black cream on Campion’s eyelids, a faint touch of rouge on her cheeks, then stood back. “You do look nice, Miss Campion.”

“It’s your work, Enid.” Campion looked at herself in the mirror, a fine piece of silvered glass from Venice, and she was astonished at what she saw. She smiled when she thought what Ebenezer, Scammell or Goodwife might say if they could see her now, her hair hanging in golden rings from her head decorated with silver and ribbons, her shoulders mostly bare above the silken neckline. She wore something new this day, too, a pair of sapphire earrings that Sir George had insisted on her having. Lady Margaret had pierced her ears, freezing them first with ice and then stabbing with a sharpened leather-worker’s awl. “Don’t make a fuss, child. A little pain for a lifetime of pleasure. Keep still.”

Campion now hung the seal about her neck, letting it fall on her dress. She frowned at the mirror. “Are my breasts too small, Enid?”

“You don’t want to listen to what she says, miss. It’s what Mister Toby thinks what matters.”

“I wish he was here. I thought he was coming.” There was a touch of sadness in her voice. She had not seen Toby since September.

“You’ll enjoy it just the same, miss. Everyone does. Now you go downstairs, miss, and don’t you drink too much of that wassail bowl. Half a ladle of that and a horse would fall down.”

Music echoed in the passageways of the New House as Campion walked toward the Old. The musicians were in the gallery, their playing still unaffected by the drink that would eventually silence them. Campion walked through the Old House toward the brilliantly lit great hall and stopped at the head of the stairs to look at the splendor.

The hall was lit by scores of candles; in sconces, on tables, and in the two ancient iron-ring chandeliers that had been hoisted to the yellow ceiling. Two great fires burned, warming the throng that laughed, chattered, and maneuvered friends and neighbors beneath the enormous sprig of mistletoe hanging between the chandeliers. The tables were already set with pewter and earthenware, the gleam of silver at the top table where the gentry would sit.

She looked for Sir George or Lady Margaret, needing allies to help her deal with all these strangers, and she saw them with their special guests at the largest of the two hearths. She started down the wide, polished staircase, then stopped.

Toby had come home.

He stood by the fire, still in travelling clothes with his long boots muddied to the knees, and he paused himself as he put a tankard of mulled wine to his lips. He stared, unbelieving, at the woman who came down the stairs, a woman who seemed to gleam and sparkle in the flame-light, a woman of deep beauty who stared at him, whose face was suddenly suffused with joy, and he knew he was smiling uncontrollably when his mother tapped his shoulder. “Don’t stare, Toby, it’s rude.”