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“Ma says men’s always makin’ up bad names for girls, whatever we do. Ain’t worth botherin’ over, she says.”

“But why?”

June gave that some thought. “To make us feel little,” she suggested, “so they can feel big. Like us with our dollies.”

That made sense to Reina. “You’re so clever, June.”

“I know,” June said, crumpling the empty paper cone before tossing it in the gutter. They linked arms and turned the corner onto Walters Street.

The neighborhood looked like any other part of Mayfair. Elegant houses were faced in brick or stone and bracketed by swirly wrought-iron fences. Footmen dressed in plush and powder attended ladies as they went out for tea or shopping. Fine carriages drawn by matched teams proceeded to Hyde Park for fresh air served with a side dish of gossip.

But an invisible barrier separated them from the rest of the district. It might as well have been an area of quarantine, although the thing to be contained was not a disease. Walters Street was an enclave of the demi-monde—a half world where wealthy men kept their mistresses and illegitimate children.

By the time the girls arrived home, June seemed to have forgotten all about the encounter at the chestnut seller’s cart. She and her mother, Lizzie, the cookmaid, lived at a lodging house in Marylebone, where the bombardment of rough talk was so frequent, June had developed thick armor against it.

For Reina, however, the new word lingered like a scald, glowing hot and cold. Somehow it promised to make sense of things she’d only vaguely wondered about.

Reina went to the bookcase in her room and pulled out the dictionary.

BASTARD, sb. & adj. (băs′-tard).

Illegitimate, false, mongrel, partaking of two natures.

Derived from Old French bâtard. Des arbres bâtards = wild trees.

The definition left her perplexed. She went to find her mother, who had just awakened from her afternoon nap.

Mamaíta was languid and sleep-flushed, stretched out like a cat on a velvet chaise longue. A smile tipped the outer corners of her eyes as she drew back the edge of a brocade blanket invitingly. Reina went to cuddle with her.

The curtains had been drawn back to let in a slant of afternoon sun. Discarded garments—a green negligee, pink silk stockings, a blue embroidered shawl—lay in shimmering puddles as if a stray rainbow had melted onto the carpet.

A portrait hung over the mantel, painted when her mother had been a principal dancer at the Teatro del Principe. Dancers were usually painted as delicate figures dressed in white and posing en pointe, like moths ready to take flight. But this artist had captured Mamaíta dancing a flamenco a bulería, her arms arched with the tensile power of an eagle’s wings, the skirts of her blue dress lashing the air.

“Mamaíta,” Reina said, “while I was out with June today, a man called me a wild tree.” She paused. “I think that’s what he meant.”

Her mother was silent for a moment. “What was the word?”

Reina told her and felt her mother’s slim hand caress her hair and back.

Eventually, Mamaíta said, “It was a compliment, mi corazón. A wild tree shelters all the plants and animals around it.”

Although Reina was momentarily reassured, a burr of doubt stuck in her mind. She couldn’t forget the way the man had looked at her when he said it.

A day or two later, Reina’s papa came to take her on a drive in his brougham. It was a stately vehicle meant for long journeys rather than pleasure outings. Although Reina didn’t like the enclosed carriage nearly as much as her mother’s glass-front landau with large sash windows on the sides, she never complained. Papa was an important man, Mamaíta had told her, a bank director with many responsibilities. When he came to visit, they had to be pleasant and amusing.

To Reina, he was a mystery, this father whose impeccable façade demanded a certain distance. His pomaded gray hair and waxed mustache and perfectly pressed clothes must never be disheveled by a playful child. Papa was a dignified man, sure of himself and his place in the world, and equally sure of the places other people should have. Reina was only able to love him as someone loved a godlike figure, from whom tributes and sacrifices might someday be required.

After Papa arrived at the town house, the sight of the heavy brougham waiting outside the entrance had annoyed Mamaíta.

Reina, who was still upstairs tying the laces on her shoes, heard her mother’s fretful voice floating up from the entrance foyer.

“Why do you always bring that carriage? The poor child can see nothing from those little windows.”

“I can only take Reina on an outing if she’s concealed from public view,” came Papa’s regretful but firm reply. “If we were seen together, it would humiliate my wife and children.”

A shock went through Reina. The shoelaces slipped from her nerveless fingers. It was the exact sensation she’d once felt when she’d been about to tumble down a flight of stairs.

Papa had a wife and children? But what was Mamaíta, if not his wife? What was she?