Evangeline was still wearing her blue worsted wool uniform and white apron. She was allowed to bring nothing else with her. Her hands shackled in front of her, her legs shuffling in irons, she required two constables to guide her up the narrow back stairs to the ground-floor servants’ entrance. They had to practically lift her into the prison carriage.

It was a cold, rainy evening in March. The carriage was dank, and smelled, oddly, of wet sheep. The open windows had vertical iron bars but no glass. Evangeline sat on a rough wooden plank next to the constable with the droopy moustache and across from the other two, both of whom were staring at her. She wasn’t sure if they were leering or simply curious.

As the coachman readied the horses, Evangeline leaned forward to look at the house one last time. Mrs. Whitstone was standing at the front window, holding the lace curtain back with her hand. When Evangeline caught her eye, she dropped the curtain and retreated into the depths of the parlor.

The horses lurched forward. Evangeline braced herself against the seat, trying futilely to keep the leg irons from cutting into her ankles as the carriage swayed and rattled along the cobblestones.

The day she’d first arrived by hackney cab to St. John’s Wood had also been cold and drizzling. Standing on the front step of the creamy white terrace house on Blenheim Road—its number, 22, in black metal, its front door a shiny vermilion—she’d taken a deep breath. The leather valise she clasped in one hand held all she possessed in the world: three muslin dresses, a nightcap and two sleeping shifts, an assortment of undergarments, a horsehair brush and washing cloth, and a small collection of books—her father’s Bible with his handwritten notes; her Latin, Greek, and mathematics catechisms; and a dog-eared copy of The Tempest, the only play she’d ever seen performed, at an outdoor festival by a traveling troupe that passed through Tunbridge Wells one summer.

She adjusted her hat and rang the bell, listening to it trill inside the house.

No response.

She pushed the buzzer again. Just as she was wondering if she had the wrong day, the door opened and a young man appeared. His brown eyes were lively and curious. His brown hair, thick and slightly curly, draped over the collar of his untucked white shirt. He wore no cravat or tailcoat. Clearly this was not the butler.

“Yes?” he said with an air of impatience. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I—I’m . . .” Remembering herself, she curtsied. “Pardon, sir. Perhaps I should return later.”

He observed her, as if from a distance. “Are you expected?”

“I thought so, yes.”

“By whom?”

“The lady of the house. Sir. Mrs. Whitstone. I’m Evangeline Stokes, the new governess.”

“Really. Are you quite sure?”

“P-pardon?” she stammered.

“I had no idea governesses came in this shape,” he said, sweeping his hand toward her with a flourish. “Bloody unfair. Mine looked nothing like you.”