Chloe took Cook’s hands in hers and gave them a little squeeze. “Oh, Cook. What would we do without you?”

Mrs. Scott pulled the bell and moments later Fiona ran in, out of breath, set a scrub brush and bucket down at the door, and curtsied.

Mrs. Scott didn’t even look at her. “Do fetch Miss Parker and Lady Grace’s dancing gloves. Hurry now.” She clapped three times.

Chloe cringed at seeing her maidservant treated so rudely.

“Mrs. Scott,” Grace said in the same whiny voice Abigail used when she wasn’t the center of attention. “Much as I would love to be the man in Miss Parker’s life, I do want you to know that Mr. Wrightman will be coming to collect me very soon. I need to change into my riding habit.”

Chloe shot a look at Mrs. Crescent, who turned toward Fifi, fast asleep atop a rolled-up carpet.

Fiona dashed in with the gloves, and the pianoforte and dancing resumed. Chloe, dizzy and thirsty from the dancing, counted the steps as she turned around Grace, as Grace turned her, and as they cast down to the end of the line of dancers. Grace knew all the dance steps, because she had been here for three weeks, so she threw zingers at Chloe every chance she got.

“What kind of perfume do you have on, Miss Parker? Eau de algae?”

Chloe concentrated on the figures and whispered to herself, “Right-hand turn, left hand. Cross, and cast down. Bounce on your toes.”

“I heard about your little foray into the frog hatchery. I can understand sneaking a pinch of snuff or taking a nip of the Madeira, but dipping into the frog hatchery? Well, naturally your little adventure has cost you. As you know, Mr. Wrightman and I will be riding off into the sunset together. You haven’t even met him yet, have you? Wealthy English gentlemen are not that accessible to the likes of you—from America. I do hope you realize your place.”

Grace was not “in” with the other girls. Nobody seemed to like her, and Chloe suspected her of having some kind of hidden agenda—but what? Did she join the show to launch an acting career? Was she just after the money or was it more complicated than that? Chloe continued to mouth the dance moves to herself. “Face up, take hands, elbow forms a W, in a line of four. Forward three steps—”

Grace stopped in the middle of the line and put her hands on her hips. “Lady Martha, if you please.”

Lady Martha stopped playing.

“Miss Parker will need private dance coaching. She has made entirely too many mistakes.”

Chloe folded her arms. “I may have made mistakes, but they have nothing to do with dancing.”

Mrs. Scott adjusted the feather in her turban. “Ladies. I have changed my mind. Let us break from dancing for a moment. I want to work on: fanology. The art of sending messages to your love without a word. You can say ‘I love you’ or ‘kiss me’ or ‘I wish to speak to you’ all with a flick of your fan. I realize it’s a bit old-fashioned and now used mostly at court, but I find it delicious.”

Chloe sighed. “How romantic.”

Grace slumped over in a chair.

“Your fans, ladies? Lesson one.” Mrs. Scott dropped her fan. Chloe picked it up for her.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Miss Parker,” Mrs. Scott said. “When a woman drops a fan, or a glove, or a book, you must allow a man to retrieve it. Again.”

She dropped her fan again. Nobody picked it up, because all the footmen had bolted when they’d had the chance.

“Your ladyship, pray tell me what it means when a lady drops her fan.”

“It means ‘we will be friends.’”

Mrs. Scott’s fan, splayed upon the floor, seemed much larger than Chloe’s, and more ornate, with tortoiseshell sticks and black lace. Grace’s fan sticks glistened in the natural light streaming in from the windows. Her fan seemed to be made of mother-of-pearl with little mirrors embellishing the tips, and an elaborate scene of two young people dancing had been painted on it. Chloe’s fan had wooden sticks. The scene on her fan depicted a woman, classically clad, playing a lute, alone.

When Abigail was in preschool, she went through a phase where she folded fans out of paper. Pink, purple, and yellow construction-paper fans of all sizes were all over the place. Those were the days when business was brisk, when people were spending money on letterpress-printed invitations, business cards, menus, and booklets. Then, as suddenly as it began, the fan folding ended, and so did the brisk business.

“Miss Parker. Are you paying attention to me? What could possibly be more interesting than learning to flirt without saying a word? Mrs. Crescent, your charge has offended me most deeply by not paying attention, and I will not tolerate it.” She swooped up her fan, put the back of her hand to her forehead, and fell back into the fainting couch. Mrs. Crescent frowned and Fifi got up on all fours.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Scott,” Chloe apologized.

“It’s too late for apologies. I’m hurt. Wounded. My lady? You know the fan language so well. Would you do me the honors of reviewing it with Miss Parker?”

“My pleasure.” Grace stood, looking down on Chloe, her free hand on her hip. She let the fan rest on her left cheekbone. “This means ‘no.’”

She opened and shut the fan. “This means ‘you are cruel.’”

She drew the closed fan through her hand. “This means ‘I hate you.’”

She twirled it in her left hand. “This means ‘I wish to get rid of you.’” She waited for Chloe’s reaction.

Chloe’s ears burned, her hands shook and so did her fan. The cameras were on her. She fanned herself, quickly, and an idea came to her. She could bend all her fingers down and leave the middle one. “Do you know what that means, Lady Grace?” She would say, shoving her middle finger toward her, just for emphasis. But instead she just continued to fan herself. “How kind of you, Lady Grace, to teach me all this. But I’m sure there must be something positive you can say with your fan, is there not?”

Grace dropped her fan.

Chloe looked down at it. “Dropping your fan means ‘I’d like to be friends.’ And of course, I’d love to. The pleasure’s all mine.”

Mrs. Scott lifted her vinaigrette to her nose. “Oh my, oh my. How can I bear it? I do regret that the lovely Miss Gately had to leave! You two are like oil and water.” She breathed into her vinaigrette. “Miss Tripp?”

Julia was practicing the dance steps off to the side with her chaperone, who looked quite worn-out and happy to sit down.

“You will resume Miss Parker’s fanology lesson in your spare time.”

Grace sighed. “Thank goodness. If you will excuse me, ladies, I really must get dressed for my excursion with Mr. Wrightman. I see the stable boy has already brought our horses, Lady Martha.” She nodded toward the window.

Mrs. Scott crossed her arms. “Ahem. There will be a fanology test soon. I expect everyone to know the terms.”

A chestnut Thoroughbred and a creamy mare shook their manes in the courtyard.

Lady Martha pressed the sheet music against her dress with a crumple.

Chloe stepped toward the door, but Mrs. Crescent yanked her back. “The woman of highest rank always enters and exits a room first,” she whispered in Chloe’s ear.

“Perhaps they don’t have such customs in America,” Grace said. “From all accounts I hear, Americans seem quite wild. It’s no wonder we’re at war with them.”

Chloe put a hand on her hip. She was surprised Grace would be smart enough to reference the war of 1812. “It’s war, all right. And the Americans declared it against the English on June eighth—just a few weeks ago. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I wonder who will win?”

America won, and Chloe was sure Grace knew that, too.

Grace turned her back on Chloe, bustled out of the drawing room, and Lady Martha scuttled after her.

Mrs. Scott sat up, snapping her vinaigrette closed. “Miss Parker, I’m not done with you yet. You will dance with me these next three hours. You need to learn this dance to earn your Accomplishment Points, and so you’re all mine.”

Chloe pressed her ink-stained fingers against the window, looking out on the horses tied to the post in the courtyard. If she had known that this was going to be boot camp in ball gowns, she might not have enlisted. Just half an hour ago she was all about dancing, but Grace had ruined that for her.

Beyond the courtyard, past the sculpted shrubs, along the country lane curving in the distance, Mr. Wrightman, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman, rode in on his white horse, galloping toward the house, his greyhounds barreling behind him. He wore a black hat, a tan cutaway coat, a cravat in a ruffle at his throat, and riding boots. He moved up and down in the saddle in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Chloe clenched her fan in her left hand.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Scott, fully recovered. She came to the window. “Carrying the fan in the left hand means you desire his acquaintance.”

Chloe felt color rise to her cheeks.

“Yes, but it’s going to take more than a morning of archery practice and a few dance lessons to earn an introduction,” Mrs. Crescent said.

Earn an introduction?

Mrs. Crescent looked at Chloe as if she were a schoolgirl. “First impressions are so very important, don’t you agree, Mrs. Scott?”

Mrs. Scott nodded her head. “Oh yes. Absolutely, dear. Crucial. There has to be that spark—that je ne sais quoi—right from the beginning.”

Chloe’s shoulders slumped. If Mrs. Crescent was depending on a good first impression, well, they were screwed.

Alongside Sebastian, the film crew rode in an ATV, cameras rolling. Hanging off the back of the cart, in his blue jeans, sunglasses, and baseball hat, was George.