One was also more likely to drown, in Anna’s opinion.

But she held her peace. It was a matter upon which she really had no firm preference. She had made the decision to remain in London, to learn the role of Lady Anastasia Westcott and take her place in society. Beyond that, she was at the mercy of her relatives, who knew better than she how the transition was to be accomplished. Balls, soirees, concerts—they were all beyond her experience and equally impossible to imagine.

The proponents of the grand ball idea won the day. And Aunt Louise won the less vigorous argument about where the ball would be held. It was to be at Archer House with the Duke and Duchess of Netherby as host and hostess. The date was set for the day following Anna’s presentation at court. It would be preceded by a dinner, and then she would stand in a receiving line with the duke and duchess. Everyone who was anyone was to be invited, and Grandmama would be astonished indeed if anyone declined. The ton was agog to meet the earl’s daughter who had grown up in an orphanage in provincial Bath. Anastasia would have a partner for each set of dances—no one had any doubt of that, though she would open the ball with the Duke of Netherby and dance the second set with the Earl of Riverdale.

Anna had not seen the duke since the day Harry left to join his regiment.

She would apparently be allowed to dance even the waltz because of her mature age, though there was a strange prohibition against younger girls waltzing until they had been granted permission by one of the patronesses of Almack’s, whoever they were.

It was all enough to interfere with Anna’s appetite for several days ahead of time. She had never attended so much as an assembly in Bath before coming to London, and the queen had been someone who sat upon a throne somewhere in the clouds, only a little lower than God’s. It was easier, she found as the days went by, to keep her mind blank and live from hour to hour. Though that was more easily said than done, of course. The appetite loss did not reverse itself.

* * *

Dear Joel,

I am too exhausted to sleep. That is what utter, mind-numbing terror does to a person after it is over.

I HAVE MET THE QUEEN. AND I HAVE TALKED WITH HER. Forgive me for yelling again, but it is not every day a poor orphan gets to meet royalty. It is the most daunting thing one could possibly imagine, though the queen herself is the most ordinary-looking mortal and smiles vaguely about her and looks as though she wishes herself elsewhere, as I daresay she does, poor lady. But the liveried . . . persons who get one organized and properly lined up with one’s sponsor (the duchess, my Aunt Louise) are far grander and altogether more intimidating than a mere queen. And the whole thing is set up to make the process as uncomfortable as it could possibly be for the participants. When one’s turn comes and one has been properly announced, one has to approach the chair (throne?) and execute the curtsy one has rehearsed for weeks—a very deep and graceful one reserved purely for royalty. Then one has to subject oneself to the vague but kindly smile of Her Majesty and anything she may care to say. And THEN comes the hard part, for one must back out of The Presence without tripping over one’s train. And the train IS OBLIGATORY but may not be looped over one’s arm.

I hoped and hoped when my turn came that she would have nothing beyond a few murmured pleasantries to say to me, as with the two very young ladies who preceded me. But alas, she knew of me, Joel—me, Anna Snow! She looked at me with what seemed like a spark of real interest and asked if it was true that I had grown up in an orphanage on one bowl of thin gruel and a dry crust of bread each day. But I disappointed her. I told her that we had been served three wholesome meals every day as well as a light supper at bedtime. I believe—I cannot be sure—I even added that the soups had always been thick with vegetables and often some meat too and that the bread was freshly baked every day except Sundays. But by that time she was looking vague again and I was given the very firm signal from one of the frightening minions to start backing out.

I did not trip over my train. But did I PRATTLE? I shall have nightmares tonight, though Aunt Louise assured me I did not.

There are a thousand and one details of your last letter I want to comment upon, not least your all-too-brief mention of Miss Nunce, the new teacher. But I am too weary to hold my pen much longer. I shall write again tomorrow. My mind will need distracting, for tomorrow evening is THE BALL. Oh, sometimes I wish, wish, wish, that letter from Mr. Brumford had never found me. I ought to have hidden beneath the desk. I am getting silly with tiredness. I am going. But know that you remain

The dearest friend and confidant (however abused!)

of Anna Snow

* * *

Late the following afternoon Anna was still wishing she could wake up as from a lengthy, bizarre dream and find herself in her narrow bed in her tiny room in Bath. But she was not dreaming, of course.

“And,” she said aloud, “one can never go back.”

“Oh, I hope not, Miss Snow,” Bertha said as she twisted Anna’s hair into a rather intricate knot high on her head and teased free some tendrils that she would proceed to curl and arrange becomingly about her face and along her neck. “I would hate to have to go back. I hope you keep me on even if I did iron that crease into the back of your brown carriage dress yesterday without noticing. It came out when I ironed it again, though I really had to press hard. It’s funny, isn’t it, how creases go in so easily but are an absolute pest to get out? I love being here and being treated almost like a nob myself because I am your personal maid. And I love being able to see Oliver every week instead of having to wait for a letter twice a year. He has to be the world’s worst letter writer. He has just had a very good report on his apprenticeship, though, and is almost certain to be kept on when he is finished, though his dream is to have his own shop. Oh no, I never want to go back. I only want the next three years to pass quickly until we can get married, though I ought not to think that way, ought I? It is wishing my life away, and my life is very sweet now just as it is. I can’t believe how sweet it is. John Davies says the same thing, and Ellen Payne in the kitchen. Oh, look how these curls are turning out. Don’t they make all the difference to your appearance? I always thought you were fine looking, Miss Snow, but I didn’t realize how pretty you are.”