“Perhaps there would have been legal difficulties if he had admitted to bigamy,” Abigail said. “Would there have been? Is bigamy a crime? Would his title have protected him from punishment? Oh, I know nothing about such things. Perhaps he was just too embarrassed to admit the truth. But that is all history. We cannot change it by agonizing over it or imagining how different everything might have been. Why do you need to go to that orphanage, Cam? Are you trying to . . . punish yourself somehow for the fact that it was she who grew up there when strictly speaking it ought to have been us?”

Camille shrugged. “I cannot explain it even to myself more clearly than I already have,” she said. “I just know I must try it, and I actually feel better since going there, even though I know I have upset you and Grandmama. I feel—invigorated.”

“But how will you be able to teach?” Abigail asked. “Where will you begin? We had a governess, Cam. We never even went to school.”

“Miss Ford gave me a copy of the course of studies I should use as a guideline,” Camille said, “and she talked to me about it and about the children who attend the school. There are more than twenty of them, and they range in age from five to thirteen. I can do it.” Actually the prospect terrified her—yes, and invigorated her too. She had not lied about that. “And the duties will be light for the next month or so. It is summer and I will be expected to do lots of recreational things with the children and take them out as often as I can.”

“Oh, Cam,” Abigail said.

“It does not seem like an oppressive place,” Camille told her. “There is an art teacher who comes in two afternoons a week to teach those who are interested—Mr. Cunningham. He was there this morning, though that was apparently unusual. I looked at some of the children’s paintings and I could see that he allows them to use their imaginations in interpreting a subject.”

“Oh, I have met Mr. Cunningham,” Abigail said, coming to sit down again. “He was at Mrs. Dance’s the evening I went there with Grandmama. Remember? I believe he was painting Mrs. Dance’s portrait. Perhaps he still is. He had brought a couple of completed portraits with him to show her guests, and they were exquisite. He has real talent. He was rather handsome too.”

Camille was not sure she would say quite that of him. He was on the tall side—taller than she, anyway—and solidly built, though he had a decent, manly figure. His face was more pleasant than ravishingly good-looking, she had thought. His dark hair was cropped but not in any of the fashionable short styles, like the Brutus, for example. His eyes were dark and intelligent and he had a firm mouth and chin, all suggestive of a certain strength of character and will. His coat, she had noticed, though not ill fitting, was not fashionably formfitting either and had looked slightly shabby. His boots did not shine, not from lack of polish, she guessed, but from being scuffed with age. He was a man who seemed careless of his appearance, very different from the gentlemen with whom she had consorted until a few months ago. She would not have afforded him a second glance if she had passed him on the street—or even a first glance for that matter. But during the few minutes she had been forced into his company, she had been aware of a sort of restless energy and raw masculinity about him, and she had been slightly shocked at herself for noticing. It was not like her at all.

“I suppose,” she said, arrested by a sudden thought, “if he has been teaching there awhile, he must know Anastasia.”

Was that why she had sensed some hostility in his manner? Did he resent the fact that she was about to take Anastasia’s place in the schoolroom? But of course he knew Anastasia—Miss Ford had introduced her to him as her sister, had she not? And she had corrected Miss Ford by saying she was Anastasia’s half sister.

“Can I talk you out of going back there, Cam?” Abigail said. “Grandmama is going to take me to a concert at the Upper Assembly Rooms tomorrow evening. There are likely to be people there who do not attend the Pump Room in the early mornings. Come with us. Most people are polite to me. No one recoils in horror when they discover who I am. No one treats me like a leper. And not everyone in Bath is elderly. We will surely make a few friends close to us in age, given time and a little bit of effort. Perhaps even . . . Well . . .” She smiled and looked away.

But only Mrs. Dance of all Grandmama’s supposed friends had invited Abby to her home. And there had been no sign yet of any younger ladies making friendly overtures to her. And no sign whatsoever of any prospective beaux. Oh, poor Abby.

“You will not talk me out of going to school on Monday and every day thereafter, Abby,” Camille said. “I want to go. I really do.”

Abigail’s eyes filled with tears. “Cam,” she half whispered, “do you find yourself sometimes expecting to wake up to find this is all a horrid dream? Or at least hoping to wake up?”

“No longer.” Camille got to her feet and sat beside her sister, gathering her into her arms as she did so. “Life has kicked us in the teeth, Abby, and I am about to kick back. Hard. I am going to teach at an orphanage school. That will show everyone.”

Abigail almost choked over a sob that had turned to laughter. Camille laughed with her and felt cheerful for the first time in . . . how long? It felt like forever.

Three

On Wednesday of the following week, Joel approached the school with lagging footsteps—like a reluctant schoolboy, he thought in disgust. The new teacher would be there—Anna’s starchy, haughty half sister. He really did not look forward to sharing the schoolroom with her. Any hope that either she or Miss Ford had changed her mind since last week, though, was banished as soon as he opened the schoolroom door and found that she and the children were already in there, though it was surely not yet quite the end of the luncheon hour. He came to an abrupt halt on the threshold, his hand still grasping the doorknob. What the devil?