“That’s quite enough, Betsy,” Viola said firmly. “You and I will speak of this further. In private.”

“I simply can’t bear it!” wailed Blanche. “I’m a very calm person but my nerves are at the breaking point. If I don’t find a match this year, then none of you will. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want to find a match,” Bernadette said, raising her head briefly from the book. “At least not yet. I have many more important things to do first.” She turned to Viola. “I wrote a letter to your friends at The Boadicea Club for Ladies on the Strand about my studies of soil composition and insects and Lady Beatrice Wright wrote back a very encouraging missive and told me that if I wanted to consult the library, I’d be welcome to—”

“Lady Beatrice married the carpenter on her brother’s estate.” Blanche shuddered delicately. “You mustn’t prefer books to balls or you’ll marry a tradesperson, Bernadette.”

“It was a love match,” said Viola, defending her best friend, Beatrice. “They’re blissfully happy. And Mr. Wright has built her ever so many bookshelves.”

“I don’t care if she’s happy and has more bookshelves than Hatchards Bookshop. She’s an object of ridicule,” said Blanche. “I couldn’t bear it if I was shunned by polite society. We must all make suitable matches.”

“She’s one of my heroes,” said Bernadette. “She and the Duchess of Ravenwood, the intrepid archaeologist.”

Viola smiled at her. “They’re both wonderful women and you would do well to emulate them.”

“I’m beginning to despair of you.” Blanche narrowed her eyes, fixing each of her sisters with a glare in turn. “You must be on your best behavior, and behave like perfect ladies, not dreadful hoydens, isn’t that right, Miss Beaton?”

“Lady Blanche is right,” Viola said.

Betsy groaned.

“She’s right,” Viola continued, “though one may maintain an outward appearance of decorum and propriety while maintaining an inner freedom of thought.”

“Is that what you do, Miss Beaton?” asked Bernadette. “I can’t imagine you being a hoyden in any way. You’re so sweet and accommodating at all times.”

Accommodating. She was that. Like a portmanteau stuffed so full of items that the seams were stretching and beginning to fray and the whole thing was in danger of ripping apart. She was responsible for so many things. She was her father’s caretaker. He was gradually going deaf for undiagnosed reasons and the worse his hearing got, the worse his tempers became.

“You two must promise to behave,” Viola said sternly, speaking to the twins.

“We promise,” Belinda and Betsy said in unison, too glibly for Viola’s liking.