“Miss Coates, when do you think the cake will stand trial?” the judge asked, leaning toward me. My eyes went to the pink patch of skin on his forehead shaped like a strawberry—a scar from when an angry mob of Americans had tried to tar and feather him. Around the time I’d arrived in New York, the persecution of wealthy Tories had been terrible. The judge had escaped before the humiliating act had been carried out, but he’d suffered a burn from the scalding-hot tar. As he always wore black velvet and either a snowy white wig or powder, the patch on his forehead was often the only spot of color on him.

“The cake has been exonerated, Judge,” I replied. Earlier I’d joked with him that I spoke the Language of the Law. Now everything we said was the height of silliness—which delighted me, as the judge was one of the most urbane gentlemen I knew. “You may appeal the decision if you wish, but only after we have committed these nourishments to incarceration in Stomachshire.”

“Bailiff, if you would,” he said to his fork. Then he swept up a bit of rice and ate it.

We laughed, and the coil of tension inside me eased. My morning outing had left me jittery and uncertain, reminding me of when I’d first arrived in New York. In those days, I’d doubted everything. My natural expression. The volume of my speech. Even how often I blinked. I’d found my way by imitating Lucy and the other young ladies in our social group. And I’d been fortunate to come into a circle of good people, like the judge, who’d never suspected me.

Thanks to his help, I had inherited the entire Coates estate. That had been a feat, considering the laws designed to keep wealth in the hands of sons, but the judge had influence and saw the proper conveyance of the will to me, the sole surviving heir. Through the process, he’d become a good friend to the Holdridges—and to me.

The judge hadn’t yet heard about my “swimming adventure,” as Uncle Henry called it, so I described the event and blamed my drifting away from shore on a rip current. No one knew what those were, thank goodness, because I wasn’t even certain rivers could have them. My tale drew mixed reactions of amusement and mild concern. Nathaniel Coates had drowned in a shipwreck and, though no one mentioned it, I knew the thought of him was on every mind.

As dinner ended, Lucy and Charlotte placed a little stack of presents in front of me, each wrapped in pretty paper. From the Winters, I received a drawstring purse made of blue silk from the East Indies. “You’re always tucking things into your pockets,” Charlotte said.