“So that is the way the wind blows, is it, Sinclair?” a more astute friend asked with a grin.

It was indeed.

The two months until the end-of-year concert at Miss Martin’s school in Bath seemed interminable. And of course they were fraught with anxiety for Lucius since there was no assurance that Frances would be pleased to see him again or that she would have him even though he would be arriving armed with the blessing of every single member of his family.

One never knew with Frances.

In fact, just thinking about her stubbornness could arouse severe irritation in him.

He was just going to have to kidnap her and elope with her if she said no again. It was as simple as that.

Or go down on his knees and plead.

Or sink into a romantic decline.

But he would not think of failing. His grandfather, who was ready to try the Bath waters again, and Amy, who was mortally tired of London, were going with him. So were Tait and Margaret, who would not miss the action for worlds, they said. At least Tait said that. Margaret was far more genteel and declared her eagerness to see Bath again, since she had not been there in five years.

And Mrs. Melford and Miss Driscoll were going, since Bath was not far off their route home and they were eager to see their dear Frances in the setting of her school. And they had always wanted to meet her friends there, including Miss Martin, and to hear her choirs.

Lucius strongly suspected that they had decided to go there after hearing that he was going. They wanted him to marry their great-niece.

And he, heaven help him, was more than willing to oblige.

The last month of the school year was always frantically busy. This year was no exception. There were examinations to set and mark, oral French examinations to administer, report cards to make out, prizewinners to select—and the final concert to prepare for.

That last was what consumed everyone’s energies through every spare moment that was not taken up with academics and eating and sleeping—and even those last two activities had to be curtailed during the final week.

Frances was perhaps the busiest, since all the musical items with the exception of the country dancing were hers to prepare and perfect. But all the teachers had a part to play. Claudia was to be the mistress of ceremonies, and she had her own final speech to prepare. Susanna had written, cast, produced, and stage-managed a skit on school life and rehearsed with her girls for long hours and in great secrecy—and with much laughter, judging by the sounds that drifted down from her classroom. Mr. Upton had designed the stage sets for the whole concert, and Anne had a group of girls—plus David—producing them in the art room every afternoon and evening when they could escape from study and homework.

Frances had given Claudia notice effective the end of the year. She had not been running away when she came here more than three years ago. She had come to make her life better and to find herself, and she was proud of the success she had achieved at both. But if she stayed, she had decided after several sleepless nights and several frank talks with her friends, then she would be hiding from reality.

For reality and dreams had finally coincided, and if she turned away this time she would be denying fate and might never again have the chance to fulfill her destiny.

She was going to find Lord Heath. She was going to put herself in his hands and discover where her singing voice could take her.

She was going to follow her dream.

Anne and Susanna had both shed tears over her, though both vehemently declared that she was doing the right thing. But they would miss her dreadfully. Their life at the school would not be the same without her.

But they would never speak to her again, Susanna told her, if she did not go.

And they would hear of her progress and her fame, Anne told her, and burst with pride over her.

She was simply not going to accept the notice, Claudia declared. She would hire a replacement teacher until Christmas. If by then Frances wished to return, her position would be open for her. If not, then a permanent replacement would be made.

“You will not fail whatever happens, Frances,” she said. “If you go on to sing as a career, then it will be what you were born to do. If you find that after all the life does not suit you, then you will return to what you do superbly well, as numerous girls who have been at this school during the past three years will testify for the rest of their lives.”

And so the day of the concert dawned and progressed in the usual pattern, with every possible disaster threatening and being averted at the last possible moment—dancers could not find their dancing slippers and singers could not find their music and no one could find Martha Wright, the youngest pupil at the school, who was to be first on the stage to welcome the guests and who was finally found shut inside a broom closet, reciting her lines with tightly closed eyes and fingers pressed into her ears.

Susanna was peeping around the stage curtain shortly before the program was to begin to see if anyone had come—always the final anxiety of such evenings.

“Oh, my,” she said over her shoulder to Frances, who was arranging her music on a music stand, “the hall is full.”

It always was, of course.

“Oh, and look!” Susanna continued just when she had seemed about to drop the curtain back in place. “Come and look, Frances. Six rows back, left-hand side.”

Frances always resisted the temptation to peep. She was too afraid that someone in the audience would catch her at it. But she could hardly refuse when Susanna looked at her with such saucer eyes and flushed cheeks—and then impish grin.

Frances looked.

Strangely, though they were more to the middle than the left, it was her great-aunts she saw first. But before she could react to the joy that welled up in her, she realized that Susanna had never met them and would not therefore recognize them. Her eyes moved left.

The Earl of Edgecombe sat next to Great-Aunt Martha, and then Lady Tait and Lord Tait and then Amy and then . . .

Frances drew a slow, long breath and allowed the curtain to fall into place.

“Frances.” Susanna caught her up in a hug despite the curious glances of a few of the girls who were busy in the wings. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Frances, you are going to be happy. One of us is going to be happy. I am so . . . happy.”

Frances was too numb to feel anything except bewilderment.

But there was no time for feelings. It was seven o’clock, and Claudia always insisted that school functions begin promptly.

Anne appeared with Martha Wright, squeezed her thin shoulders and even kissed her cheek, and sent her out onto the stage.

The dress rehearsal during the afternoon had proceeded as badly as it possibly could. But Miss Martin had cheerfully assured girls and teachers alike that that was always a good sign and boded well for the real performance during the evening.

She was proved quite right.

The choirs sang in perfect pitch and harmony, the dancers were light on their feet and did not get tangled up in their ribbons even once, the choral speaking group recited with great verve and dramatic expression as if they were one voice, Elaine Rundel and young David Jewell sang their solos to perfection, Hannah Swan and Veronica Lane played their duet on the old pianoforte without hitting a wrong key, though it must have been clear even to the least musical ear in the audience that the instrument had had its day and was not likely to have many more, and the skit Susanna’s group performed, depicting teachers and girls preparing for a concert, drew laughter from the audience and applause even before it was finished.

The evening ended with a speech by Miss Martin, outlining some of the more significant achievements of the year, and then the presentation of prizes.

Frances never afterward knew how she had got through it all. Every time she was on stage conducting a choir and turned to acknowledge the applause of the audience, she saw either her great-aunts beaming up at her or the earl and Amy. She never once glanced at Lucius. She dared not.

But she knew he was smiling at her with that gleam in his eyes and that tight-lipped, square-jawed expression that demonstrated pride and affection and desire.

And love.

She no longer doubted that he loved her.

Or that she loved him.

The only thing she had doubted was the possibility that there could ever be any future for them.

But the Earl of Edgecombe was with him. So were Amy and Lord and Lady Tait. So were her great-aunts.

What could it mean?

She did not dare answer her own question.

She tried not even to ask it. She tried to concentrate on the concert, to give the girls the attention they deserved. Unwittingly, she gave them even more than usual, and they performed for her even better than they usually did.

But finally the last prize had been presented and the last applause had died away, and there was nothing left to do but go out into the hall with the girls and the other teachers to mingle with the guests while trays of biscuits and lemonade were handed around.

Great-Aunt Martha and Great-Aunt Gertrude were there waiting to hug Frances and exclaim over the loveliness of all the music. Amy was right behind them. Lord Tait bowed to her and Lady Tait smiled with something more than just graciousness in her manner. The Earl of Edgecombe, looking a little more stooped than usual, took both her hands in his, squeezed them, and told her that she appeared to be just as good a teacher as she was a singer—and that was saying something.