Glancing around the brim of her bonnet, he could not decide if she was amused or still angry and shocked. He could usually read women like a book. She was a closed and locked volume, and perhaps that was why he liked her and found her interesting. Who could resist the lure of a lock when the key was hidden somewhere?

They walked on.

Eight

Dear Miss Ford,

By the time you receive this, I daresay you will know why I was summoned to London. I am sure Joel Cunningham will have shared my letter with you and everyone else. However, one thing has changed in just the day since I wrote that letter, and I must inform you that I will not after all be returning to Bath within the next day or two.

I wish I were. Indeed, I long to go home. Perversely, now that I have discovered that I am a lady of fortune, I want to go back to being who I was. I want my familiar life back. I want to be there with you and all my friends. I want to be teaching my dear children.

However, I have been persuaded—by others and by my own good sense—of the wisdom of remaining here, at least for a while. It would be foolish to take flight just when I have discovered what I have longed all my life to know. I must remain, I have decided, and learn just exactly who Lady Anastasia Westcott is and what her life would be if she had not been turned into Anna Snow at the age of four and left there at the orphanage. I must decide how much of her I can become without losing Anna Snow in the process. It may be conceited of me, but I am rather fond of Anna Snow.

Before I venture upon this strange voyage of discovery, however, I must resign from my teaching position. I do so with the deepest regret and something like panic in my heart, but I cannot expect you to inconvenience yourself and all the children while you wait for me to decide when I will return, if ever.

I shall be writing another letter after this one, but it seems only fair to give you advance notice that I will be trying to lure one of your girls away from you, and the one who has become your helper. It appears that Lady Anastasia Westcott, that pampered, helpless creature, cannot possibly dress herself or style her own hair or fetch hot water to her room or clean and iron her own clothes. She must have a personal maid to do those things for her.

I have been offered the temporary services of the maid of my second cousin, who is staying with me at Westcott House—which I own—but I have been warned that a maid of superior talents and experience will be chosen for me by my grandmother and my aunts. I tremble at the very thought—and I am only half joking. I picture someone stiff and humorless, who would look contemptuously along the length of her nose at poor me in my Sunday best, and me shaking with terror in my best and very sensible shoes. I would rather choose my own maid and have someone I know, someone with whom I can talk and laugh, even if she should find herself with as much to learn about her new life as I.

I am going to offer the position to Bertha Reed, since I believe the position might suit her and—more to the point—it would bring her closer to her Oliver. Oh, dear, does that make me a matchmaker? But the match has already been made, has it not? Those two have been devoted to each other since infancy.

I may deprive you of more of the older boys and girls too. This house of mine is vast. Indeed, I am inclined to call it a mansion. I have not yet been subjected to the terror of a meeting with my housekeeper—that is set for tomorrow morning—but I have learned that we are short staffed, as several of the servants went with my half sisters and their mother into the country this morning before I arrived here. My guess is that they will not be returning—or remaining there for long. They do not like the new order of things, and I cannot say I blame them. I am going to find out from the housekeeper what servants are needed and inform her that I will fill any suitable positions with candidates of my own choosing. I am thinking in particular of John Davies, who is a tall, strapping boy even though he is not quite fifteen, and he is always very neat and tidy, in both appearance and habits. I know you have tried to find an apprenticeship for him, but I know too that his dream is to be a doorman or a porter at one of the smarter hotels in Bath, someone who wears a uniform and looks strikingly handsome (John has never said that last, of course—he is far too modest). I shall see what Lady Anastasia Westcott can do for him. She must surely have some power.

This was intended to be a very brief note, but instead I have run on. Do please forgive me. And please give my love to all the children and assure them that I will always, always think of them. Wish me joy of my new identity, which is not new, of course, as I have always been Lady Anastasia Westcott without knowing it. I do intend, though, always to remain

Your grateful friend,

Anna Snow

Anna and Elizabeth finished their letter writing at almost the same moment a short time later and smiled at each other.

“I do apologize,” Anna said, “for writing letters during the first evening you are here to keep me company, but I did want to write to the matron of the orphanage without delay and to two of my friends.” She had written a letter to Joel too and a brief note to Bertha.

“No apology is necessary,” Elizabeth assured her. “I had some of my own to write. You must miss your friends.”

She was not to go back to the Pulteney Hotel, Anna had learned on her return from the walk with the Duke of Netherby. Everyone had left the house except the duchess, Aunt Louise, and Lady Overfield, Cousin Elizabeth. Her belongings had already been fetched from the hotel, and Elizabeth’s had been on the way. Tomorrow Anna would meet Mrs. Eddy, her housekeeper, before the arrival of the hairdresser and the modiste. Her aunt was to arrange those appointments.