Setting her shoulders against the chill, Effie waited for someone to let her in. She’d come straight from the railway station. She was still in her black silk traveling dress, a veiled bonnet perched atop her stylishly arranged ebony hair, and a heavy carpetbag clutched in her gloved hands. Her small black poodle, Franc, was comfortably ensconced within.

Sensing her uneasiness, he poked his beribboned head out of the bag’s opening. He looked at her briefly, as if to reassure himself she had the situation in hand, before turning to peer through the gates. His lip twitched in a preemptive snarl.

Effie gave him an absent scratch to soothe him.

Miss Corvus employed no gentleman porter. During Effie’s time as a student, the gates had been manned by the junior teachers. Several minutes passed before a door at the side of the house opened and one of them finally emerged. The young woman advanced slowly down the pebbled drive, a heavy shawl drawn around her narrow shoulders, and a large ring of keys in her hand. A pronounced limp marred her gait.

It was Penelope Trewlove. Nell, as she was called by her intimates. There was no mistaking that glossy flaxen hair and beguiling heart-shaped face.

Catching sight of Effie, Nell’s angelic countenance was transformed by a roguishly dimpled smile. “I confess, I didn’t truly believe you’d come,” she said as she drew closer. “Not even when we received your wire from Calais.”

Effie smiled in return. It was genuine, not artifice. A rarity with her. So much of her conduct these past several years had been studied instead of spontaneous.

But this was Nell, not an adversary. A version of Nell remarkably unaltered by the passage of time.

Granted, she may have grown taller, and her cheeks were slightly less plump, but her eyes had retained their mischievous sparkle, and her figure was still something to be envied. Above all, she was familiar. Far more emblematic of home than the cold, unwelcoming structure that loomed behind her.

“Nell,” Effie said warmly. “I’d hoped yours would be the first face I saw.”

“Never mind my face.” Nell’s gaze swept over Effie in glowing approval as she came to a halt on the opposite side of the gates. “How well you look! Lovelier even than when you left us. That’s Paris’s doing, I’ll wager.” Her smile broadened, revealing a glimpse of her crooked front tooth. “And this must be the famous Franc!”

Franc stared back at Nell through the bars. He offered none of his usual grumbles. He seemed to sense she was an ally rather than a foe.

“Franc,” Effie said, introducing him as formally as if he were a gentleman acquaintance. “This is Miss Trewlove.”