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Debutantes favored temporary self-serving alliances over friendship. Close competitors formed sets, each pleased to see her own sparkle increased by her radiant company. Each ready to claw her confidantes when the moment came to distinguish herself. That was the law of the jungle. Not the jungle. High Society’s human zoo.

Cora, Agnes, Elise—they’d tittered after her broken engagement. After her papa went to jail, they’d turned their backs. Showed her their hard, jutting backsides.

This Season, bustles were de rigueur. And for the very first time, she hadn’t been able to afford a visit to the dressmaker. The other girls grew larger, built out with cushions and steel hoops, and she diminished in contrast. Her silhouette advertised her sudden, mortifying poverty.

If Cora had been the unfortunate instead, or Agnes, or Elise, Lavinia would have been the one to titter, to sweep past, backside swaying like the hindquarters of a horse.

Those were the rules. Winners rarely questioned them.

She could remember—barely—days when she didn’t calculate, when the world wasn’t divided into rivals and conquests. And she could remember with stark clarity the day she’d scraped her palms swinging in the linden trees with Effie.

Her mother had confined her to the nursery for an entire month.

You’re not to think of playing outdoors until your hands are white and smooth and you can prove to me they will stay in that condition. A duke’s daughter can run about like an urchin because her breeding is in her blood. You, Lavinia, must always remember that you are only as well-bred as you appear. Show me that you can be prettier than Effie, and I will take you to the milliner’s to pick out whatever you like.

How she’d missed clambering in the garden with her favorite playmate! It wasn’t the same afterward, hanging back, watching Effie exert herself fiendishly. Hoping she’d tear her stockings or smudge her face, so she, Lavinia, could parade past the adults. Pretty. Perfect.

Where had being the prettiest gotten her?

She turned from the window and surveyed the empty room. If she were alone here, it wasn’t because of her silhouette, or her papa’s theft. She needed to figure out how to relate differently.

She tucked her notebook under her arm and walked slowly toward the kitchen. She’d not spent much time in kitchens. This one was cavernous and warm with a good, savory smell. Steam and smoke mingled. She entered tentatively, stubbing her toe on the uneven slates. An enormous chimney rose over an oven topped by a great stone slab on which pots bubbled. Dried beef and herbs hung from a ceiling rack. Oak sideboards filled with cups and willow-patterned dishes flanked the long table.

The three Traymayne women stood by the fire, where Tomas’s wife, Kelyn, was stirring curdled milk in a brass pan. They fell silent as Lavinia approached.

Lavinia came up to them and cleared her throat. What to say?

I’m sorry might be a good start. I’m sorry, Emmeline, that I taunted you about your dress. If I still could, I would take you to hobnob with the nobility in Belgrave Square, and you should see for yourself how it compares to your country pastimes.

Suddenly, she ached to tell them the truth, to tell them who she was, the whole story of all she’d had and all she’d lost. She didn’t want to be excused but understood.

No words came. She forced open her lips.

“I thought I’d see if I could help with anything,” she said, surprising herself. And, from the looks of it, the other women as well. They exchanged glances. Emmeline responded first.

“Soufflé isn’t on the menu.” She folded her arms. Lavinia saw that she’d cast her sewing on top of the wood in the wood bin. Kelyn stepped away from the fire, face flushed, and fanned herself.

“I’ve no need of help,” she said. “Though I thank you for asking.”

“Oh,” said Lavinia. She looked from woman to woman. Loveday and Emmeline resembled each other strongly at that moment, with their straight backs and the fire picking out the tawny lights in their brown hair. Kelyn was round and dark, cut from a different cloth. But all three shared something, an intimacy that manifested in the way they stood, an easiness among them.

A lump rose in Lavinia’s throat. “Well,” she managed. “In that case.” She couldn’t go on.

As she turned away, Kelyn spoke again.

“I don’t need the help,” she said. “But if you’ve an interest in Cornish baking . . .”

Lavinia turned back eagerly. Kelyn was smiling. Her dimples made sweet dents in her cheeks. Kitchen work hadn’t spoiled her looks or her disposition, or depreciated her innate quality, which was undeniable, and refreshingly distinct from her consequence.

“A great interest.” Lavinia made the affirmation with such fervor that she believed it herself. Which made it almost true.

“When I’m finished with the cheese, then.” Kelyn nodded. “You and I will bake the saffron buns. We’ll find a spare apron.”

“She can use mine.” Emmeline piped up with suspicious enthusiasm.

Lavinia smiled. She’d have to check the pockets for hornets.

“Thank you,” she said, to all three of them.