“What I mean,” Lotti continued, “is could someone educate us at home? Or at their home? Or even on a boat? Someone who knew what they were doing, like a tutor?”

“I suppose they could, yes.”

“Someone like Miss Clara, who is a writer and so must be very educated?”

Ben gazed at Lotti in wonder. Clara Primrose stared at her aghast. Albert Skinner scratched his head.

“Someone like Miss Clara. Yes, I suppose she could.”

“But I don’t want to be a teacher!” protested Clara.

Lotti turned to face her. Albert, foreseeing another battle, decided to beat a retreat while his dignity was still salvageable, and announced that he would return soon.

As he walked away, he was conscious of an uncomfortable feeling that he had been outplayed.

When it came to Ben and Lotti, it was a feeling he was going to have to get used to.

The little crowd, minus Albert but including the dogs whom Ben had let out of the Sparrowhawk, were making their way into the cottage, and Clara was feeling even more confused.

“I don’t want to be a teacher,” she repeated. “I’m a writer. I need peace, quiet. I need solitude. I want you to go.”

Ben, never one to willingly cause trouble, glanced uneasily at Lotti. Lotti, unconcerned, bounced on one of the two sagging armchairs by the fire.

“You have a lot of books.” She picked up a volume of poetry from the floor and spelled out the author’s name. “G-O-E-T-H-E. Goaty! Goat?”

“It’s pronounced G-E-R-T-E-R. It’s poetry. It’s German.”

“German?” Ben was outraged.

“I didn’t know Germans had poetry,” said Lotti.

“Well, they do, beautiful poetry.” Clara flushed, and resisted the urge to throw a book at Lotti’s head.

“But why are you reading German poetry?” demanded Ben. “When we have just fought a war against them?”

“Poetry has no frontiers,” Clara informed him frostily.

Ben sniffed, unconvinced. Lotti put down the Goethe and picked up another volume. “Is this one German too? Look, it’s got your name in the title. Für Clara. For Clara?”

“Give me that!” Clara snatched the book from Lotti’s hand.

“You should tell my uncle about Germans and poetry. He thinks all foreigners are savages. Including me, because I’m half French. Will you teach us German poetry?”

“Not German,” said Ben decisively.

“Not anything!” cried Clara.

“But it’s the perfect solution!” said Lotti.

“Solution to what?” asked Clara, practically shrieking.

“Your uncle would never let you have lessons with me anyway,” said Ben, ignoring Clara. “He’s too posh.”

“He’s mean though too, and I bet Miss Clara wouldn’t cost as much as school. No offense, Miss Clara.”