Evangeline felt conspicuously dumb, as if she were performing in a play and had forgotten her lines. In her role as vicar’s daughter, she used to stand a step behind her father, greeting parishioners before and after the service, accompanying him on visits to the sick and infirm. She met all sorts of people, from basket-makers to wheelwrights, carpenters to blacksmiths. But she’d had little contact with the wealthy, who tended to worship in their own chapels with their own kind. She had scant experience with the slippery humor of the upper classes and was unskilled at banter.

“I’m just having a bit of fun.” The young man smiled, holding out his hand. Tentatively she took it. “Cecil Whitstone. Half brother to your charges. I daresay you’ll have your hands full.” He opened the door wide. “I’m standing in for Trevor, who is no doubt off fulfilling some caprice of my stepmother’s. Come in, come in. I’m on the way out, but I’ll announce you.”

When she stepped into the black-and-white tiled foyer, clutching her valise, Cecil craned his neck out the door. “No more bags?”

“This is it.”

“My word, you travel light.”

At that moment, the door at the other end of the hall opened and a dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her midthirties emerged, tying on a green silk bonnet. “Ah, Cecil!” she said. “And this must be, I assume, Miss Stokes?” She gave Evangeline a distracted smile. “I’m Mrs. Whitstone. It’s a little chaotic today, I’m afraid. Trevor is helping Matthew harness the horses so I can go into town.”

“We all do double duty around here,” Cecil told Evangeline conspiratorially, as if they were old friends. “In addition to teaching Latin you’ll soon be plucking geese and polishing silver.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Whitstone said, straightening her bonnet in a large gilt mirror. “Cecil, will you inform Agnes that Miss Stokes has arrived?” Turning back to Evangeline, she said, “Agnes will show you to your quarters. Suppertime for the servants is at five o’clock. You’ll take your meals with them if the children’s lessons are finished in time. You look a little peaked, dear. Why don’t you have a rest before supper.”

It was a statement, not a question.

When Mrs. Whitstone left, Cecil gave Evangeline a sly smile. “‘Peaked’ is not the word I would’ve used.” He stood closer to her than felt quite proper.

Evangeline felt the unfamiliar sensation of her heart thumping in her chest. “Should you . . . um . . . let Agnes know I’m here?”

He tapped his chin, as if considering this. Then he said, “My errands can wait. I’ll take you around myself. It will be my pleasure.”

How might things have turned out differently if Evangeline had followed Mrs. Whitstone’s instructions—or, for that matter, her own instincts? Had she not realized the ground beneath her feet was so unstable that it might crumble at the slightest misstep?

She had not. Smiling at Cecil, she tucked a stray piece of hair back into her bun. “That would be lovely,” she said.