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Octavia had not consulted Harriet about what to wear, and the girl’s choice, a high-waisted gown of pale pink aflutter with rose-colored ribbons, looked distinctly out of place among the shining dark silks and lush velvets the other young ladies wore.

Octavia alternately beamed and scowled. There were enough guests, young friends of the Luxboroughs, to make seven couples, and every gentleman asked Octavia to dance once, but no gentleman looked at her again after fulfilling the obligation of politeness. At a break in the dancing only Mr. John Jowers, their acquaintance from the Royal Institution lecture, approached Octavia. He came bearing a cup of steaming punch.

Standing next to Harriet’s chair, Octavia appeared not to see him, her gaze focused on a lively group around Anne and Camille Luxborough. “They’re all just being polite, aren’t they?” she observed to no one in particular.

Mr. Jowers held out the cup for Octavia. “That’s because you bounce too much.”

“What?” she asked sharply, no longer ignoring him.

“You bounce, you know. The other girls glide. A fellow doesn’t like to get...” His glance dropped to the cup in his hand. “So distracted.”

Octavia frowned darkly. “And are you such a great dancer, Mr. Jowers?”

“At least I know the difference between a country reel and the quadrille.”

“Well you needn’t dance with me again if you don’t like my dancing.”

Octavia walked off leaving him holding the cup of punch, its little curl of steam dissipating in the air while he looked for some way to rid himself of the evidence of his dismissal.

Harriet said, “I’ll take the punch if you like, Mr. Jowers.”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.” He handed the cup to Harriet and turned back to stare at the others. “Someone has to tell her, you know. She doesn’t know how to get on in London.”

“Yes,” Harriet agreed.

“And she wants partners, doesn’t she?”

“Very much.” Harriet understood his confusion. Whatever hurt had driven Octavia to London was making her blind to John Jowers’s notice.

“I didn’t say anything about her dress. She looks like a Maypole in that gown.”

“Very wrong for this occasion.”

“So...” He turned to Harriet directly. “Why wouldn’t she listen to friendly advice?” In his voice Harriet heard the baffled lament of a young man newly come from school, where one was rewarded for being right without the necessity of being tactful as well.

“Ah,” said Harriet. “She is, as you say, new to London, and feeling unsure of herself. She may not be ready to hear her errors proclaimed so directly.”

He made no reply. The musician returned to his instrument, and the dancing master summoned his pupils. Mr. Jowers sighed. “Will you take her to another of the Royal Institution lectures?”

“I will,” Harriet assured him. He bowed and returned to the crowd of young people arranging themselves in two lines for another set.

Harriet smiled to herself. If John Jowers meant to pursue his interest in Octavia, there was time for the girl to recover from whatever misery made her unseeing at present. She might be weeping, or more likely, gritting her teeth and resolving to gain the notice of her new friends by some reformation of her appearance, but she had made a conquest. One she might despise, but one that would do her no harm and might even steer her toward more comfort in London society.

John Jowers’s directness had no doubt pricked the girl’s pride, but Jowers saw only the easily corrected flaws. His words would prompt Octavia to change her dress and her steps. The bigger project, as Harriet saw it, belonged to her, to help the girl think of others rather than only of herself. Someone had made her feel flawed, and she had lost the confidence to be her natural self.

Harriet rose to go in search of her charge and came face to face with Wynford. He wore a striped green-and-gold waistcoat that halted her in her tracks.

He bowed, surveying the room with a searching gaze. “Where’s Octavia?” he asked, the sharpness of his tone at odds with the pleasant scene of innocent enjoyment.

“Hello,” she said. “I’ll fetch her. She needed a moment to collect herself.”

“She’s quite safe?” he asked.

Harriet frowned, puzzled by his anxiety, which seemed out of place in such comfortable domestic surroundings. “In Lady Luxborough’s drawing room? It is only that Octavia made some mistakes such as young ladies are apt to make their first time in company.”

“You didn’t stop her?”

“I didn’t. She must be permitted to make a few missteps if she is to learn how to get on in London.”