“Mama,” he admitted after she had told another episode of an ongoing bedtime story and tucked him in for the night, “it is good to be back. I like having my little room all to myself.”

Yes. It was good to be back. And there would be much to do in the coming days. Susanna was going to Barclay Court with Frances and the Earl of Edgecombe, and so there would be only Anne and Claudia to amuse the girls. And there were classes for the coming year to prepare. There were letters to write-of thanks to the Duchess of Bewcastle, of simple friendship to Lady Aidan and her aunt, to Lady Rosthorn, and to Miss Thompson and the other Bedwyn wives.

It was good to be back.

Tired as she was after the long journey and the teeming emotions with which she had left Glandwr, Anne sat up late in Claudia’s sitting room, the quartet of friends complete again with her return and Frances’s visit. Frances was staying the night at the school despite the fact that the earl had taken rooms at the Royal York Hotel. He had come to dinner but had then left, telling the ladies that he realized his presence would be decidedly de trop for the rest of the night, besides which he needed his beauty rest but realized they would all sit up talking for at least half the night.

Anne liked him. They all did, and they all rejoiced in Frances’s happily-ever-after.

They talked about Frances’s travels and singing successes on the Continent, about Anne’s month in Wales-minus all reference to Sydnam Butler-about the school holiday in Bath, and about numerous other topics. They had always been able to talk to one another about anything and everything. It had always seemed to Anne that they were far more like sisters than mere friends. They still missed Frances’s constant presence among them, even though she had been gone for two years.

It did feel good to be back.

Anne hugged Susanna and Frances the following morning when the earl came for them in his carriage and waved them on their way from the pavement, Claudia at her side. And then they smiled at each other and went back inside the school to organize the girls for their planned walk and picnic in nearby Sydney Gardens.

Two weeks passed with busy holiday-time activities, including walks and picnics and games in the meadow beyond the school and treasure hunts within the school itself. Sometimes Anne sat with the girls, in the common room or in their dormitory, talking with them, listening to them, trying to give them some sense of family, some realization that there were adults who cared about them. But inevitably the new school year approached. There were to be a number of new girls. Indeed, the total number of both boarders and day pupils was to increase, since the school was prospering. Lila Walton, a promising senior pupil from last year, had stayed on in order to become a junior teacher-just as Susanna had done four years before. Anne spent several hours with her, helping her to prepare.

And finally Susanna returned, relaxed and bronzed and full of energy and stories of her holiday at Barclay Court.

Claudia was engaged to dine that evening with the parents of one of the new day pupils. Anne and Susanna sat up alone together in Anne’s room after everyone else had retired for the night, Susanna seated on the bed, her arms clasped about her raised knees, Anne on the chair beside her small desk.

“I hated to lose Frances when she left here two years ago to marry the earl,” Susanna said with a sigh. “But, oh, Anne, she made the right decision. I am so very envious. The earl is very charming. And he is terribly proud of her. He does not at all resent having to travel such long distances so that she can sing. Indeed, I believe he revels in her fame.”

“And he is as much in love with her as he always was when he pursued her so relentlessly,” Anne said. “That was obvious when he dined here with us.”

Susanna sighed again. “Was it not like a fairy tale, their romance?” she said. “He would not let her go, would he, even though he was Viscount Sinclair and heir to the earldom and Frances was a lowly teacher at our school. But she was so beautiful. She is even more so now. Marriage and travel and a singing career obviously agree very well with her.”

They were quiet for a moment, both glad of Frances’s happiness, both rather melancholy for their own sakes.

“And what of you?” Anne asked. “Did you really have a lovely time? Did you meet anyone interesting?”

“Like a duke to sweep me off my feet and bear me off to his castle as his bride?” Susanna laughed. “No, not quite, alas. But Frances and Lord Edgecombe were very obliging, Anne, and made sure there was some entertainment for me to attend almost every day, even though I am sure they would have been just as happy to relax and be quiet together after being away for so long. I met some amiable and interesting people, most of whom I knew from before, of course.”

“But no one special?” Anne asked.

“No,” Susanna said. “Not really.”

Anne raised her eyebrows.

“Only one gentleman,” Susanna admitted, “who made his intentions very clear, and they were not honorable ones. It was the old story, Anne. Yet he was very handsome and very amiable. Never mind. And you? You told us a great deal about your Welsh holiday the evening before I left, but nothing that was very personal. Did you meet anyone interesting?”

“The Bedwyns,” Anne said, smiling, “are all quite fascinating, Susanna-and that is actually an understatement. The Duke of Bewcastle is every bit as formidable as he is reputed to be. He has cold silver eyes and long fingers that are forever curling about the handle of his quizzing glass. He is quite terrifying. And yet he was unfailingly courteous to me. The duchess is a delight and not at all high in the instep, and it is quite clear that he adores her though he is never ever demonstrative in public. He also adores their son, who is a cross, demanding little baby-except when his father is holding him. And he holds him rather often. He is a strange, mysterious, fascinating man.”

Susanna rested her chin on her knees.

“All this talk of married dukes is depressing me,” she said, her eyes nevertheless twinkling. “Was there no one who was unmarried?”

“No dukes.” Anne smiled too, but she had a sudden, unbidden memory of sitting on the stile at Ty Gwyn, smiling down at Sydnam Butler and setting her hand in his before descending. And of the perfect summer day that had surrounded them.

Susanna was looking very directly at her.

“Oh, Anne,” she said. “Who?”

“No one really,” Anne said quickly, shifting position on the chair. But she felt instantly contrite. “Oh, what a dreadful thing to say of another human being. He very definitely is someone. He is the duke’s steward at Glandwr. He was alone and I was alone, and so it was natural enough that occasionally we walked out together or sat together on evenings when he was invited to dine. That is all.”

She willed herself not to blush.

“All,” Susanna repeated, still gazing steadily at her. “And was he tall, dark, and handsome, Anne?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “All three.”

Susanna continued to gaze.

“We were merely friends,” Anne said.

“Were you?” Susanna spoke softly.

“We were.” Anne could not quite bring herself to smile. And she could no longer sit still. She got to her feet and crossed to the window. She pulled back one curtain and looked out onto the blackness of the meadow. “We were very…dear friends.”

“But he did not make an offer,” Susanna said. “Anne, I am so sorry.”

There was a lengthy silence, during which Anne did not contradict her friend.

“Do you think,” Susanna asked as last, “life would be easier, Anne, if one had parents and family to take one about, to make sure one met suitable people, to arrange for one to meet eligible suitors? Would it be easier than living at a girls’ school as one of the teachers?”

“I am not sure,” Anne said, closing the curtains again, “that life is ever easy. Very often girls and women make disastrous marriages even while surrounded by family to help guide their choice or make it for them. I think given the choice between a bad marriage and life here, I would choose being here. In fact, I am certain I would.”

She set her forehead against the curtain for a moment before turning back into the room.

“It was so ungrateful of me,” Susanna said, “even to ask that question. Good fortune was smiling on me when I was sent here to school, and I was blessed beyond belief when Claudia offered me a position on the staff. And I have such very good friends here. What more could I ask of life?”

“Ah, but we are women as well as teachers, Susanna,” Anne said, sitting down again. “We have needs that nature has given us for the very preservation of our species.”

Needs that could sometimes be horribly damaged but not destroyed.

Susanna stared at her for several silent moments.

“And sometimes,” she said, “they are very hard to ignore. I was very tempted this summer, Anne. To be a man’s mistress. Part of me is still not convinced that I made the right choice. And will I be able to make the same choice next time? And the next?”

“I don’t know.” Anne smiled ruefully at her.

“What poor, sad spinsters we are,” Susanna said, laughing and pulling herself off the bed. She brushed out the creases from her skirt. “I am for my lonely bed. The journey has tired me out. Good night, Anne.”

Three days later all the boarders returned to school from their holiday and greeted one another-and their teachers-with boisterous good cheer and noisy chatter, and all the new girls arrived with stiff apprehension on their faces, especially the two charity girls who came alone, without even the comfort of parents, sent by Mr. Hatchard, Miss Martin’s London agent. The fees of one of them were being paid by Lady Hallmere-though Claudia did not know her identity, of course.