“Ivy, if there were a way for you to stay in England rather than go to Australia, would you want me to pursue that opportunity?”

The woman in the bonnet with the blue ribbon, Mrs. Hodges, was looking around as if in search of Ivy.

“Stay? You mean like at a finishing school? Uncle hates finishing schools. He says they give young women airs and are not pleasing to the Lord.”

I despair of Uncle Whitlock sight unseen. “I mean, would you prefer to stay, as in stay with me. In the household I will share with my husband. He is a lovely fellow and quite capable of supporting you.”

Ivy considered the volume of Byron. “Uncle wants me to go to New South Wales and keep house for him. Mrs. Hodges says he’s daft, but my aunties say I’d best resign myself to that course. They don’t argue with Uncle either.”

“I will argue with your uncle.” And he’s not your uncle.

“Best not, Mama Constance. Uncle digs in his heels and gets all martyr-y if you disagree with him. Let the women keep silent and all that. He’ll pray at you and you can’t shout at a man who’s honestly praying. Nobody doubts Uncle’s vocation. They just all wish he’d pursue it someplace else.”

The temptation to spirit Ivy away, to bundle her into the big coach and gallop back to Rothhaven Hall, nearly made rational thought impossible.

Stephen, though, had set down his tankard of ale, and stood frankly staring at Constance, as if he were trying to communicate a warning.

“I believe Mrs. Hodges is trying to get your attention, Ivy.”

Mrs. Hodges was looking about worriedly, her basket laden with cabbages and carrots.

“Well, drat,” Ivy said, shoving Byron at Constance. “Uncle Witless must have finished his morning prayers early.”

A short, round man attired in brown from head to foot was bustling down the church steps and heading straight for the green. He slapped a low-crowned hat on his balding head and tucked a black leather-bound book against his chest.

Why, he’s only a little man. That thought was quickly followed by a frisson of unease, for little men could still claim a towering sense of self-importance.

“Will I see you again?” Ivy asked, gaze anxious.

“I hope so. I have a letter of introduction for your uncle.”

Mr. Shaw approached Mrs. Hodges, who had apparently spotted Ivy. She pointed in the direction of the bookseller’s stall and Shaw changed course.

“He hates for me to read anything,” Ivy said. “Mrs. H sneaks me the newspapers when Uncle thinks they’ve been donated to the library. Don’t leave me, Mama Constance, for he looks ready to preach on original sin.”

Don’t leave me.…The words tore at Constance’s heart and stiffened her resolve.