“I’m afraid one does have to eventually,” I said. “I haven’t always conformed. I have never worn a corset, for one thing. But once you are married it’s different.”

“You mean you have to obey your husband?” and she wrinkled her button of a nose.

“Not ‘obey’ necessarily, but not do anything that might let him down or damage his position. I’ve had to learn to temper what I say. I’ve always been a trifle hotheaded.”

“Me too.”

“Are you going to Paris? If so you’ll find plenty of people who don’t like to conform, so I’ve heard.”

She frowned. “I’m joining my fiancé and his family there. They’ve been in London and sent me a ticket to join them. But they are Bostonians. Everything has to be done properly and with decorum.”

“Then I don’t think you’ll be going to the Moulin Rouge or Montmartre.”

A wicked smile twinkled in her eyes. “They expected me to sail on an American ship out of Boston but I found this one sailing a week earlier. I plan to enjoy my freedom in Paris before they arrive.”

“Mercy,” I said. “Your family must be very modern if they will let you run around Paris on your own.”

The wicked smile spread. “They don’t know. They think I’ll be meeting Peter straight away.” Then a little sigh. “I had to make the most of my one moment of freedom, didn’t I? When I marry Peter I’ll have to behave like a Boston matron and hold tea parties.”

“I know just how you feel,” I said. “I only married recently and I certainly had to think hard about giving up my freedom. But surely you’re not traveling alone?”

“No, not exactly. Mademoiselle is with me. She was the French teacher at my old seminary and she is returning home to France so she was asked to accompany me to Paris. I just have to make sure she doesn’t find out that Peter won’t be joining me for a few days. She’d have hysterics and cable Mama and all would be lost.”

Finally I dared to pose the question I had been longing to ask. “Has anyone told you that you look remarkably like the girl in the Reynold Bryce—”

“I know,” she snapped, cutting me off. “But I assure you I’m no angel.”

“Then it’s just a coincidence?”

“No. We’re related. Her real name is Adelaide and she’s my aunt.”

“Your aunt?”

She nodded. “My mother was the oldest of five sisters. Adelaide is the youngest.”

I wondered how far I dared to pursue this. “Did I understand that your aunt had been ill?”

Her face became stony. “Aunt Adelaide is of a delicate nature. She is afraid of many things and does not like to venture outside the home, that’s all.”