Nor was her forgotten state a product of the fact she’d been gone these past years. Rather, she’d always been left out of the melee. As a young child, she’d chafed at being the forgotten one. She’d hated the fun her family members had enjoyed, only because she’d remained on the fringes, wishing to be part of it all. Determined to make herself be seen, Myrtle had gone out of her way to carry out every wicked prank on her kin, and to be as loud as she possibly could.

Which also, no doubt, accounted for one of the reasons she’d been sent off to finishing school and not kept around with a governess as her elder sister had.

And hating that miserable finishing school, Myrtle had done absolutely everything within her power to prove herself a lady so she might get out of there as quickly as possible.

She’d stayed out of mischief—or at least carried it out in a clandestine enough way to have evaded the miserable headmistress’s notice.

She’d attended to her lessons with a diligence and solemnity, laughing about the absurdity of it all only under the covers with the other girls, who’d hated that place as much as Myrtle had.

She’d dropped more flawless curtsies than she could count.

Had perfected her stitches and singing.

Well, perhaps not her singing. Mrs. Belden had cringed and banged her cane, accusing Myrtle of having the tones of a drowning cat trying to scratch her way out of a metal tub. And even as Myrtle had strenuously disagreed with that harsh assessment, she’d not challenged the miserable old biddy, but instead had focused on playing the pianoforte—at the appropriate tempo and volume.

She’d learned to perform steps of the quadrille La Boulangère and even the scandalous waltz—as best she was able to without a male partner leading.

Along with the rules of propriety and decorum, she’d been schooled on needlework and the practical study of household management. She’d learned and practiced her discourse with other students and instructors, in both English and French—always speaking on topics suitable for polite discussion when she made her Come Out this spring.

Through it all, Myrtle had conducted herself with grace and aplomb.

But this? This day and this moment were pushing Myrtle in every way, as through the roar of the household activity she threatened to erupt, undoing everything she’d done to get out of Mrs. Belden’s.

From her central vantage point, she searched the bustling crowd of servants below.

A young maid approached, and to make herself heard over the din, Myrtle called out to her loudly. “Do you know where my mother is?”

“No, miss,” the unfamiliar young woman responded, and then dropping a curtsy, she hastened around Myrtle.