The next day, Sophie dressed herself in the agreed-on outfit, a black sweater borrowed from Charlie, a not-too-short black wool skirt, and thick black tights, with a blue-and-black cotton scarf knotted at her neck to provide a hint of color.

“You look gorgeous,” said Charlie, when Sophie dropped by the Fitzcharles for a fortifying cup of coffee on her way to the restaurant.

“Not too gorgeous, I hope,” said Sophie. “I wasn’t going to say this in front of Lulu, because she’d only go and tell Emma, but he does have a bit of a reputation.”

“I think he should be able to control himself at lunch,” said Charlie mildly. “He’s probably had some practice by his age. And, after all, you’ll be in a public place.”

“And Aunt Amy will be there,” said Sophie. “Don’t tell either of the others, but I’m a bit relieved by that part.”

As a young man, Marcus Wickham had been legendarily handsome, and was still striking at sixty, with a mane of white hair and piercing blue eyes. He was sitting alone at the table when Sophie walked into the restaurant, but stood up as soon as he saw her, waving enthusiastically.

“I’d know you anywhere,” he said, pumping her hand in greeting, “because you’re the image of your aunt. I’m sure everyone tells you that, but the similarity is quite striking. I’m Marcus, and it’s the most complete pleasure to meet you.”

“Sophie,” murmured Sophie, sliding a little disconcertedly into her seat. Beyond the blond coloring, which showed itself in the family occasionally, which Amy and Fee shared and Sophie alone of the sisters had inherited, she had never been aware of a physical resemblance to her aunt, and was by no means sure that she was flattered by the observation. But she quickly shelved the thought—this was Marcus Wickham, after all, sitting across from her at the Ivy, smiling at her, talking to her, offering her a glass of champagne from the bottle that stood cooling in ice in a silver stand beside the table.

“Or would you rather have what my godmother, rest her soul, used to call a ginny thing?” he added. “No? Quite right, I always think champagne is so civilized for lunch, don’t you? Now.” He raised a large, white hand. “I know you want to talk about theater, and of course we will, we will, but we’re not going to start talking about it yet, because I forbid us to say a word about it before your aunt arrives. Not a word. We’d only get talking, and, really, what would be the point of attempting to have a conversation about the theater without having Miss Amy Parker around to set us straight?”

There was a pause, while he looked at her with interest.

“Um … Aunt Amy?” said Sophie then, cautiously.

“Your aunt Amy,” agreed Marcus. “A woman of extraordinary intellect and intuition, who has somehow managed to live her life to this point with almost no exposure to good theater whatsoever. She is unshaped by experience. She is unsullied by familiarity. She is, in short, the ultimate civilian, and as such, possesses an astuteness of insight that is nothing short of remarkable. Have you ever been to the theater with your aunt Amy, Sophie?”