Her mother clearly hadn’t recovered from the previous evening’s events, her bitterness freezing the surroundings during their journey like a block of ice. The difference now was that Alice didn’t care. She had been lonely before Kit and Nellie and Katherine . . . and she could withstand it again. So, she ignored her mother and read a cookbook Franconi had recommended, making notes in the margins of things she would like to try, ingredients to add.

Their butler, James, opened the door, and two footmen hurried down the walk to deal with the luggage. James pulled the door wide. “Madam, miss. I trust you had a nice—”

“Is he in?” her mother snapped, cutting off whatever James had been about to say.

“Yes, madam. He received your telegram and is waiting in his study.”

This was news to Alice. Were they speaking of her father? “Hello, James. You are looking well.”

“Hello, miss.” The butler smiled down at her, a rare break of emotion for the usually stoic man. “It is nice to have you home.”

Mama had already left for Daddy’s study, so Alice leaned in. “You just missed my lemon poppyseed cake.”

“I did,” James said. “No one makes it better, miss.”

The compliment thawed out a tiny piece of her battered heart. “I’ll make you some this afternoon.”

“But . . .” His eyes darted to where her mother had disappeared. “She won’t like that.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, James. It really doesn’t matter.”

His salt-and-pepper eyebrows flew up. “I see. New York has certainly done you some good, then.”

Her chest tightened, the pain from last night nearly sending her to her knees. But James didn’t need to hear all that, not at the moment. “I should go and see Daddy before she gets him riled up.”

“Your father instructed me to send you to the kitchen instead.”

Daddy didn’t wish to see her? And why would she go downstairs now? “I don’t understand.”

James lowered his voice. “He said that he and your mother had things to discuss and you should go to the kitchen until they were finished.”

Alice’s shoulders fell. “At least I can start on the poppyseed cake, I suppose.”

“Now, don’t look so glum, miss.” He gave her a nod. “It’ll all work itself out.”

Alice tried for a smile but couldn’t really muster the enthusiasm. She’d lost her reputation, her friends . . . Kit. Nothing would ever be the same. “Thank you, James.”

A few minutes later, she approached the kitchen. In a booming voice, Chef Point, their French cook, was giving direction to the kitchen maids and other staff. He wasn’t as keen to teach Alice, not like Angelo, but she badgered him often enough that he relented every now and again. “Bonjour, Chef,” she called upon entering—and then stopped in her tracks.

Kit was in the kitchen. This kitchen, here in Boston. In her home.