"Stay where you are," her uncle murmured, his tone acid with dislike. "We're not done with you yet."

"You can't order me about." She kept her voice firm with effort. Suddenly in the midst of enemies, her heart was beating furiously.

"Now, that's where you're wrong, my dear."

The menace in his voice wrapped around her like icy fingers, the wicked gleam in his eye mirrored in the others watching her. "Uncle Herbert, consider-this is my home now, I'm of legal age, as you're well aware, and you have no control over my life."

"As soon as you're married to Harold, he'll have control of your life. As God intended when he made women subservient to men."

"Married!" She turned ashen for only a moment before her cheeks flushed a blazing red. "You must be mad! My cousin Harold suits me not at all"-her voice rose as she surveyed the fleshy, overdressed man who fancied himself a dandy-"and if I should chose to marry, your son certainly wouldn't be a candidate."

"She's saying our Harold isn't good enough for her! Herbert, how dare she, when everyone knows her mother-well, it can't be mentioned, of course, in polite company. Now, you just listen to me, my high-flown missy," Abigail Leslie cried, shaking her thin finger at Isabella, "you should be honored Harold is willing to take you as his wife. He could have any number of wellborn ladies."

"Then he should marry them!" Isabella always bristled at allusions to her mother's unconventional background, as if sailing a ship around the world detracted from one's quarterings. Her mother had bluer blood than any of these bourgeois bankers.