All the way home, chatting pleasantly with the unknowing Brentortons, Charlotte’s mind was racing. Julia was ruined! If anyone knew that a young man was writing to her, she’d never be able to go to Almack’s. She’d never be approved by the patronesses. She would never find a husband.

When they got back to Brentorton Hall, Charlotte took Julia firmly under the elbow and swept her upstairs to her room. Then she pushed the door shut, leaned on it, and stuck out her hand, without saying a word.

Julia looked at her mutinously. Her eyes measured Charlotte’s taller height against the oak door. Julia was slight and small. She would never be able to push Charlotte’s willowy self from the door. She sighed and plumped down on her bed and pulled the small bit of paper from her bosom with a practiced air that chilled Charlotte to the bone.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Nothing, Charlotte!” She looked up at her fiercely. “See?” She flashed the scrap of paper.

Charlotte snatched it. There were four words, written in peaky letters with blue ink: Stuart Hall, Saturday, 9 o’clock.

“Oh, Lord, Julia, you wouldn’t—you aren’t meeting him, are you? Secretly?” Charlotte slid slowly down, crushing her petticoats, until she was sitting against the door. “What is this place, Stuart Hall?”

“It’s nothing bad.” Julia leaned forward eagerly. “It’s not a rendezvous—I would never do anything like that. It’s a masquerade ball that is held every Saturday night, and I just happened to be talking to Christopher about it—”

“Christopher!”

“Well, Reverend Colby, then, but I don’t like his last name. Anyway, it is nothing serious, Charlotte. It’s a masquerade ball that lots of, well, merchants and servants attend, and Christopher—Mr. Colby—says that people of our class never get to see real life, and especially how everyone else lives. He says young girls, society misses, are like houseplants. We never do anything, and then we’re sold to the highest bidder, and he says that it is a perfectly amiable dance, and everyone wears masks the whole time, so no one could see our faces and—”

“Our! Our faces!” repeated Charlotte.

Julia leaned forward. “You must come with me, Charlotte. You see, don’t you? If you’re with me everything is quite proper. Mama knows how correct you are, and even if she found out, she wouldn’t be horrendously angry.”

“Yes, she would,” Charlotte replied, picturing Julia’s brisk and forthright mother.

“Don’t you see, Charlotte? We’re just like sheep, being sold to the highest bidder, and—”

“What are you talking about, Julia?” Charlotte asked with exasperation. “What does being a sheep have to do with sneaking off to go to a ball?”