Finger sandwiches, scones, mousses, and petits fours appeared on miniature towers of floral-printed porcelain plates, arriving with steaming pots of tea.

“How are you enjoying your stay, my dear?” she asked.

“Very well, Duchess,” I said carefully, considering the pastry tower. Was it too far across the table to reach? Across the party, Perrault eyed me sternly, then shook his head—whether at the sweets or the reach, I couldn’t be sure.

The Duchess of Devonshire followed my gaze, then, seeing Perrault, unceremoniously dragged the tea things a foot closer to us.

I raised my eyebrows at her, but the duchess merely plucked a scone from the tower and began to heap it with jam. “I can’t abide bossy aides,” she said coolly. “Or clotted cream.”

I didn’t know what clotted cream was. It didn’t sound appealing. I took two finger sandwiches and a raspberry shortbread cookie, cutting my eyes at Perrault again. He scowled. I added a strawberry to my plate.

“Now, dear,” the duchess began comfortably, biting into her scone. “How exactly did you become acquainted with Bear?”

I frowned. “Bear? He’s my guard.”

The duchess shook her head and laughed. “How silly of me. I meant Bertilak, but I was watching that wretched adviser of yours and saw your guard next to him.” She dabbed her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “You couldn’t have met him at school, you’re much too young. Where did you study? Sherborne Girls? Cheltenham Ladies’?”

I shook my head, swallowing a bite of my sandwich. “I was taught by the nuns in my parish, back in Potomac.”

“Ha!” the duchess exclaimed. “A Catholic. Well, we’ve moved beyond our fear of that, at least,” she said, mostly to herself. “So you knew nothing of Bertilak before your courtship was arranged?” Her eyes were keen on me, her feathered fascinator bobbing as she chewed another scone with the focus of a mathematician.

I shook my head. “My stepmother arranged our meeting.”

The idea to pursue strangers away from home wasn’t mine, I thought of adding, but decided that wasn’t tea-party fare.

“Your stepmother. Interesting.” The duchess raised her eyebrows, then reached for a miniature cup of blackberry mousse, spiked with a demitasse spoon. “She and your father won’t miss you terribly?”

I didn’t know if she meant over the duration of my courtship, or if I married Bertilak. I didn’t guess it mattered.

“They’re eager for me to settle down,” I said politely, sipping my tea. “My stepmother has . . .” I paused, considering. “She has great hopes for me.”

“Don’t all mothers?” she asked slyly.

I smiled back at her noncommittally. I didn’t have the heart to tell the duchess I wouldn’t know.

Another afternoon. Another night. I put another tick mark in my godmother’s book. A little fence of scratches was beginning to take shape across the back endpaper.

The months stretched out before me, interminable.

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