Lady Kingsborough, through all of it, vexed me entirely. The clearer the girls became to me, the more obfuscated she was. There was no humanity in her that I could see, not even love for her own children. She cradled her yipping dogs in her arms, talked to them like babies, laughed when they skittered across the marble floors, chewed up pillows, and said nothing when they pissed in the middle of the foyer, right under poor Proserpine. She seemed to hate her husband, of whom I saw very little, and was often confined to the company of women who gossiped and tittered, not real laughter or talk. When I tried to tell her about the girls’ progress in various subjects, she talked over me with news of last night’s party, who wore what, who flirted with whom, which men flocked around her, which friends were in, which out, whose love affairs were the most scandalous.

Out of desperate need for adult company, I accepted an invitation to one of those soirées, and soon found myself in animated conversation with a handsome man who caught my eye. His name was George Ogle. He was in his forties, married, successful, suave, but deeply unhappy in some way, and alert to another melancholy soul. He didn’t bother with small talk or gallantry. We found we were both reading Rousseau’s Émile.

“I find the hero a bit moody,” said Ogle.

“What if moods aren’t a symptom of weakness, but greatness?” I said. “I would certainly be relieved to know my aches and inner torments aren’t for naught.”

“‘Aches and inner torments’? We are made for each other,” he said. “Honestly, I find women far more sensible, on the whole, than men. Even Rousseau’s poor Sophia.”

“Who matters not at all except as she exists to be desired, attract, and charm, no real thoughts of her own, no autonomy of any kind.”

“How would you have written her?”

“My heroine would have thinking powers. And not be governed by fear.”

“No weeping and sighing, then?”

“Just enough. As I weep and sigh, just enough.”

We put our heads close and laughed. “I hope you do write it. You ought to.”

Having seen our tête-à-tête, Lady K insinuated herself between us, irritated at our easy intercourse.

“I’m so pleased you’ve discovered each other. Isn’t Mary novel in her … plainness?”

“I find her novel in mind and spirit, actually,” he said, not taking his eyes off me. “Frankly, I thought this evening might be dull, so I congratulate you, Lady Kingsborough, for your good taste in guests.”

“She’s not a guest, she’s our governess!”

“Well-chosen all around, then. Excuse me, ladies.”

“I thought you would be a wallflower,” she said to me in the carriage home. “Not thrusting yourself into the arms of men who are far above your station.”