Her uncle had believed that massage did no good, but at least it didn’t hurt, not the way that spirits did, or copious amounts of castor oil. Her uncle always said that some baby’s bowels just weren’t ready to digest properly.

“Nothing to do but wait,” she said aloud, remembering her uncle’s brusque advice to new mothers.

“What did you say?” Mr. Berwick said from behind her.

Even his voice was bewitching, with its smoky foreign tone.

She didn’t turn around but just kept marching up the stairs. “I trust I am going in the right direction for the nursery?”

“It’s just above the portrait gallery where I was walking Jonas, so we have another flight to go.”

Philippa’s legs were starting to ache. Becoming a nursemaid at Pomeroy Castle would definitely make her stronger.

“How did you learn French?” came that voice from behind her.

Her foot hesitated on the step, then she said quickly, “My aunt was French.” That wasn’t true, and Philippa quite disliked telling lies. She was from thoroughly English stock, whose only claim to exoticism was the red hair that cropped up now and again.

“Your aunt was French?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“But your mother wasn’t French?”

Philippa felt panic, but managed to keep her invention aloft. “My aunt is on my father’s side, that is, she was raised in a French convent, then joined him in England sometime later.”

“How unusual,” Mr. Berwick said after a short pause. “I was under the impression that convents generally raised young ladies. Not that I mean to imply that your family has come down in the world, Miss Damson.”

“Oh, we have,” Philippa said madly. “Terribly far down. I have to find a position, you see. Because we’ve—because we’re so far down.”

“How far?” Mr. Berwick asked, with interest.

She stopped, as much to catch her breath as to glare at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you do sound a bit like a heroine in a melodrama,” he pointed out, stepping in front of her to push open the door.

“You shouldn’t mock our hardship. It’s been heartbreaking for my family!” she snapped, feeling a surge of virtuous anger before remembering that the family in question didn’t exist.

He looked down at her, and she saw something in his eyes that made her blink. “You must feel neither fish nor fowl.”

Philippa swallowed. What she felt was something no young lady should be feeling. “Precisely,” she said. “Fowl, fish, who knows what I am?”

“You are Jonas’s nursemaid,” he said, with a lightning smile as he held open the door.

She walked through, thinking about what he had just said: she had secured a position in the castle.