Finally Charlotte pulled herself together. Mr. Colby must think she was dreadfully ill-bred, sitting in total silence. She cleared her throat, a small uncertain noise, but Julia was deep in her normal flow of distracted chatter and there was no space for Charlotte to speak. In fact, Julia paused only to cast fascinated glances at the curate seated across from them, his head politely bent toward Julia.

Finally Charlotte seized an opening and began asking the kind of question she had heard her mother ask the curate: about his flock, so to speak, and how were the poorer people doing?

“This is a fortunate area,” Mr. Colby replied courteously. “Miss Brentorton’s father is more than generous in his support of the parish.”

“My mother says—” Julia broke in and dashed away with the new subject, and so Charlotte relaxed even more and felt that while the excursion was daringly bold, it wasn’t beyond reproach. Someday she might even be able to tell her mother, and laugh about it with her.

Charlotte was able to keep her feeling of calm equanimity when they arrived at Stuart Hall. It was an imposing brick building with long windows casting light across gardens: not so different from any gentleman’s house, she thought. Inside, everyone was in costume, and most people had masks, just as Mr. Colby had said. There were many, many people there, pushing slowly through crowds in the hallway, and she could see, down the steps into the ballroom, couples lined up in close rows on the floor.

They wormed their way into the ballroom, and found a little space over to one side, between a statue of Narcissus and the open doors to the gardens. Mr. Colby pushed off and came back with some rather vile lemonade, and they stood about sipping the drink.

“Do you know,” Julia said, “I think there’s some liquor in this lemonade.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” was all Mr. Colby said. “They simply can’t afford the best lemons here, the way you can at home.”

Charlotte and Julia both felt a flash of shame at all the best lemons they’d eaten in their lives, and they drank with renewed fervor.

Mr. Colby turned to Julia: “Shall we dance?” He looked respectfully at Charlotte. “You’ll be perfectly safe here, and Julia and I shall return in a moment. They’re playing a minuet, which was my dear mother’s favorite dance, and I should love to honor her memory….”

He looked so apologetic and sad about his mother (she must be recently deceased) that Charlotte nodded, even though she had made Julia swear that she wouldn’t dance, no matter what happened. And Julia, of course, turned quickly and vanished into the press of people.

He’s not wearing a cassock, Charlotte thought rather stupidly.

And then, vaguely, one doesn’t think of the mother of a curate whisking about the dance floor.