“Speaking of the school, shall we go there again?” she asked.
“Why not? I could kick something.”
“What?”
“A ball, I mean.”
“Oh. In that case, let’s go.”
They donned their outdoor attire and set out for the school. As they walked up Fore Street, they came upon Miss Marriott, herlovely face framed by the fur-lined hood of her cloak, a parcel in hand.
“Ah, Mr. Hutton, a pleasure to see you again. And you, Georgiana.”
Colin bowed. “Miss Marriott.”
“What a fortuitous meeting,” she said. “My father was saying only this morning how much he enjoyed your last visit. I am sure he would be pleased to see you again. I am on my way home now with some queen cakes from the bakery to have with our tea. Would you care to join us?”
“Very kind of you. But Miss Summers and I are on our way to the Sidmouth School. We hope to read to the students and join them for games in the yard. You might accompany us, if you like. The more readers the merrier, and all that.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. My parents are expecting me. Are you sure you can’t come for tea? You could easily visit the school another day.”
Georgie steeled herself for his agreement. For him to abandon their outing as he had before.
She said in an undertone, “Colin, if you want to accept, then—”
“Not at all. I am eager to return to the school with you.” He turned back to the young woman with a smile. “Though I appreciate the invitation, Miss Marriott. Perhaps another time?”
She lifted her chin, and her eyes turned frosty. “Perhaps.”
His smile did not waver. “Thank you again, and please do greet your parents for me.” He tipped his hat and gestured for Georgie to walk on.
When they were out of earshot, Georgie said, “You could have gone with her. You need not feel obligated to go with me if you don’t wish to.”
“But I do wish to.” He gave her a teasing grin. “Now, come on—no more dallying. Young minds and feet await!”
Sarah iced the Twelfth Night cake with layers of first almond, then sugar icing. She could not rival the intricate sugar work decorations of a pastry shop, but she did manage to cut out festiveshapes—crowns and stars—from almond paste to adorn the top and sides of the cake.
Early during the party, the cake would be cut and served to guests. The person who found the bean became the Bean King. And the woman who found a dried pea would be the Queen of Twelfth Night. The king and queen reigned for the evening, no matter their normal status in society.
As she worked, Sarah thought again of Mr. Bernardi, the duke’s pastry chef who had stayed with them last winter. He had recently written to let her know he had taken her advice and was nowchef de maisonof a small hotel in Mayfair that served French and Italian cuisine.I invite you to visit and enjoy a meal gratis should you ever find yourself in London.She had no plans to travel to London, but she was pleased for the man.
While Sarah decorated the cake, her sisters were busy with other preparations for the party. Emily had bought a large sheet of paper from the stationer’s and cut it into slips. She and Claire worked together, Emily writing Twelfth Night character names and introductions on the slips, and Claire illustrating them with funny little drawings.
Since guests would not learn which character they were to be until after they arrived, Georgiana and Effie spent time digging through trunks in the attic storage room and visiting the secondhand shop to compile a selection of costumes. They also made crowns of felt adorned with gold ribbon and paste gems.
Who, they wondered aloud, would be this year’s king and queen?
After dinner that evening, Sarah returned to the workroom to prepare jellies and pastries for the party and to put the final touches on the Twelfth Night cake. The party was only two nights away now. Mr. Henshall’s words echoed in her mind once more,“I will leave ye in peace until after the party. But when it’s over,I hope ye will be ready to discuss ... our future.”And she would be ready.
Late that night, most likely after the others had gone to bed, Sarah finished her tasks. When she finally ascended the stairs, quietstrumming caught her ear along with a low, familiar voice. She changed course and, instead of continuing up to her bedchamber, diverted to the parlour.
She paused outside its open door. Callum Henshall sat alone by the light of a dying fire, softly strumming in experimental fashion: stopping and starting again, trying different chords, singing a few words, pausing, and then singing them again in modified form.
As she listened to him pottering about with a new song, her heart burned within her and her throat tightened painfully.
“My darling one, my jo,
Will we ever meet again?
