“He’s very good at what he does,” Da said one evening as I was preparing dinner. A maid now came four afternoons a week, which left three dinners for us to cook ourselves. Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management was stained with my efforts, but I wasn’t improving.

“He has an eagle-eye for inconsistency and redundancy, and he rarely makes mistakes.”

“But he’s odd, don’t you think?” I brought the hashed cod to the table. It sat like a stagnant pool within its mashed potato border.

“We’re all a bit odd, Esme, though perhaps lexicographers are odder than most.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much.” I served Da and then myself.

“I don’t think he likes people very much; doesn’t understand them. You mustn’t take it personally.” Da took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “And what about Mr. Pope and Mr. Cushing? How do you find them?”

“Oh, very pleasant. And funny, in a fumbling way.” The cod was overcooked and under-salted. Da seemed not to notice.

“Yes. Nice young men. Is there one you prefer? Good families I’m told, both of them.” He took another sip of water. “I wonder, Essy. Do you…I mean, would you consider…”

I put down my knife and fork and looked at him. Beads of perspiration were gathering at his temples. He loosened his tie.

“Da, what are you trying to say?”

He took his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Lily would have had all this in hand.”

“Had what in hand?”

“Your future. Your security. Marriage and such.”

“Marriage and such?”

“It never occurred to me that it was something I should arrange. Ditte would normally…but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to her either.”

“Arrange?”

“Well, not arrange. Facilitate.” He looked down at his food then back up at me. “I failed you, Essy. I wasn’t paying attention; I wasn’t really sure what I should be paying attention to, and now…”

“And now, what?”

He hesitated. “And now you’re twenty-five.”

I stared him down. He looked away. We ate in silence for a while.

“What exactly is a good family, Da?”

I could see he was relieved the subject had shifted a little.

“Well, I suppose for some it’s about reputation. Others, money. For others it might be education or good works.”

“But what does it mean for you?”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then placed his knife and fork on the empty plate.

“Well?”

He came round to my side of the table and sat beside me. “Love, Essy. A good family is one where there is love.”

I nodded. “Thank goodness for that, because I have neither education nor money, and my reputation relies on secrets and lies.” I pushed my own plate away in frustration. The fish was inedible.