Until two days ago, they’d been navigating it together, along with their bosom friends, Stella Hobhouse and Evelyn Maltravers. The four of them were excellent horsewomen, more comfortable in their sidesaddles than in a ballroom. Their rides in the park were the highlights of Julia’s days. As for the evenings, even dances were more fun with her friends in attendance.

Would that they were here now!

They’d all left London on the same day. Evelyn had accompanied Anne and Lady Arundell to Birmingham to see the child medium. And Stella had abruptly departed town with her clergyman brother, made his unwilling companion to an ecumenical conference in Exeter. Both Stella and Anne would be returning on Sunday. Evelyn would come a few weeks later, after a brief visit home to her village in Sussex.

Julia missed them dreadfully. In their absence, she didn’t know quite what to do with herself. As always, in such circumstances, the security of her bedchamber beckoned. The warmth of her bed and the temporary escape of a novel.

Rising from her chair, she rang the bell for the maid.

Moments later, a hard-faced young woman in a starched apron entered. Jane Seven, she was called—the seventh maid employed in her position. They were all of them called Jane, just as all the first footmen were called Jenkins, the second footmen were called George, and all the grooms were called Luke. Julia’s parents insisted it was easier that way. Though, it never seemed entirely right to Julia’s mind.

“You rang, miss?” Jane Seven inquired.

“Have the carriage readied,” Julia said. “And summon Mary. I have some shopping to do this morning.”

“Yes, miss.” Jane Seven wobbled a curtsy before turning to leave.

“Why are these curtains opened?” The thin, querulous voice of Julia’s father, Sir Eustace, preceded him into the room. He entered, still in his slippers, wearing a shawl-collared silk and velvet banyan over his loose shirt and trousers. A thick scarf was tucked in at the neck as protection against imagined drafts. “Draw them at once, Jane.”

Jane Seven hurried to the bank of windows on the opposite wall. Reaching up, she pulled the heavy curtains shut, moving from window to window, until the bright sun was once again blocked from the morning room.

Julia frowned. “It was I who ordered them opened, Papa.”

Her father gave her a long-suffering look. “You’ll be the death of me, child. And yourself, too, if you’re not careful. Up at dawn again? Riding that horse of yours?”

“I’m perfectly well,” she said. “And you? You must be feeling a little better to have emerged from your rooms.”

“Still poorly, as anyone can see.” He dropped into an overstuffed armchair with a weary sigh. “I must go over the quarterly accounts with Hicks, though the strain of it will probably put an end to me. You must summon Dr. Cordingley as a precaution.”

Julia went to her father. She sank down on the tufted ottoman at his feet, the full skirts of her day dress pooling around her in a spill of Clarence-blue cashmere. “Can’t Hicks manage without your assistance?”