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“I shall meet with Mrs. Flitwick now,” she told him.

She wasn’t looking forward to it. When Leonora left, the cook had brought her meal plans every week, but of course Torie couldn’t read them. To her relief, Mrs. Flitwick took her through the kitchen and the pantry without pulling out a single piece of paper or even discussing numbers, other than to remark how quickly wax candles burned down.

Thanks to Dominic’s warning, presumably.

“The house hasn’t had a mistress for years,” Mrs. Flitwick said, head deep in a cupboard. She popped back out with a stack of linens. “His lordship never had time to consider such questions.”

Torie smiled, trying to look as if she knew what the question was.

“These are all frayed, as you can see. If you approve, I’ll send a groom down to sell them to a secondhand cloth merchant.”

Her new husband didn’t need the money. “I suggest we donate them to the Chelsea Orphanage,” Torie said.

Mrs. Flitwick beamed at her. “May I do the same with the rest of the frayed linens?”

“Certainly.”

“Shall I summon a linen merchant, my lady? A friend of mine, a housekeeper in the Duke of Lindow’s household, brings an Italian man in yearly to select the new linens. It won’t take more than a day to go over all the fabric needed in the house and country.”

A day? A whole day spent selecting new linens?

Mrs. Flitwick must have read her expression because she said quickly, “Or I can do that for you, my lady. I do know what suits this household’s needs, after all.”

“I would appreciate that,” Torie said, smiling. “My sister managed my father’s house, and my mother died when I was young. I shall lean on your guidance, Mrs. Flitwick.”

She couldn’t have said something more guaranteed to please. Mrs. Flitwick turned pink and chattered about the difference between French and Italian linen until Torie finally managed to escape.

When she walked into the nursery, Florence and Valentine were seated at their desks, doing sums set by their tutor. On seeing Torie, Florence jumped up and sang, “She’s gone! She’s gone! The wicked witch is gone!”

Torie had just enough time to brace herself before Florence cannonballed into her, clutching her around the waist.

“Sorry, but I must finish,” Val said, scribbling at a sheet of calculations.

Torie came to look over his shoulder, but all she saw was a page of marks that dipped to one side.

“Can you read numbers?” Valentine asked, looking up at her. “Oh, sorry!” He jumped up and bowed. “My lady.”

Torie held out her arms. Valentine froze, surprised, and then stepped into her hug. “Good morning,” she said, giving him a squeeze. “I cannot see numbers; they drip off the page like spilled tea.”

“That is so interesting,” Valentine said, gazing at her forehead as if he could crack open her skull and diagnose her inability to cipher.

“I thought we might go to Smithfield Market today,” Torie suggested.

Valentine glanced back at his calculations.

“Taking advantage of the sunshine,” she said firmly. “You’ll like Smithfield. I have heard that it’s muddy and noisy.”

“All things that people of quality like ourselves are supposed to avoid,” Florence said happily.

“On the Prohibited List!” the twins chorused, giggling madly.

“I thought we would buy a live rabbit,” Torie said. “We’ll bring him home and let him hop around the nursery so we can sketch him for a few hours.”

“Is that how you learned to paint their hind quarters?” Valentine asked. He waved at the rabbit on his easel, who looked vaguely like a cat with long ears. But only vaguely, as no cat had dishpan paws.

“As a child, I spent my time out of doors looking at wild rabbits,” Torie explained. “I have any number of sketchbooks full of wild animals. Since Parliament is in session, we can’t go to the country just yet, so the country will come to us in the form of a rabbit.”

“Will he sit still long enough to be drawn?” Valentine asked. “That book you gave me, Compendium Animalium, shows hares leaping, just as in your painting. We’ve begun Latin, but we’re not good enough to read the descriptions yet.”