It was not a question. But Bart would not leave until he had a kind word from Mama, he said. I drew in my breath. And he began to banter her there upon the step, coaxing her to look up at him and smile. “Hush your foolishness,” she said, finally relenting and smiling at the piece upon her lap, “and please go down with Mr. Cutting.”

And for the instant she smiled, we three were joined. For that instant, I forgot it were a broken joining—from the first. For when Bart did rise finally to follow Mr. Cutting, walking swiftly down the lawn in the direction of the wharf, Mama’s voice behind me was bare, all the woolly laughter shorn.

“Maisie, you must stop this.”

“I am sorry you are distressed, Mama.” I took one of the steps toward her, advancing near where she sat. “But I do not think Miss Grange’s story will require much time.”

“I do not mean that.” Now she looked straight at me. “I am sure you will tire of all that soon enough.”

“Mama—”

“No, Maisie, I mean this flirtation.” Her words rapped out. “You must stop this flirtation.”

A sickening draft blew through me. “With whom, Mama?”

She took the steps between us with surprising vigor, putting her hands on both my shoulders to hold me in place.

“Do not think to playact with me, Maisie.” She rested two fingers beneath my chin. “You have made a promise—no”—she took a breath—“you have made a vow.”

“I never vowed,” I answered stiffly.

“Not in words, but in gesture”—she tipped my chin up, forcing me to look at her—“and in kind.”

“Mama.” I struggled under her gaze. I would make her understand, I would tell her. “Everything is suddenly altered.”

She dropped her hand from my chin but still held fast to my arms. “It is you, my girl, who has suddenly altered. Who do you think you are, Maisie Thomas, to snap your fingers and break a man’s heart?”

I could not answer; the tears welled into my eyes.

“You do not know what you do. You do not know of what you speak when you speak so lightly about things … altered.”

“Mama,” I whispered. “I think I can see something new—” But the cold panic in her eyes stopped me dead.

“What is it you think you see?”

I pushed forward into telling, though I trembled under the grip of her fingers. “My life,” I said miserably, “not as foretold, but as—” I looked up at her, pleading with her. “Mama, someday you might think me brave.”