Turnip exchanged an alarmed glance with Arabella. “Can’t persuade you to come along with me anyway, can I? Fascinating place, Farley Castle. Goes back to the Normans, dontcha know. It’s a pleasant drive, when the weather is nice.”

In the space of a few days, Farley Castle would be as distant as the moon as far as she was concerned. These pleasant blue and white walled rooms would comprise the whole of her existence, save for those half days when she would be set free to visit with the Austens four houses away or to make the vast journey across the town to see her own family in Westgate Buildings. There would be none of even the milder forms of entertainments, no supper parties, no concerts, no turns about the Pump Room.

There would certainly be no carriage rides with handsome young men.

It didn’t matter that he invited her only because he didn’t want to drive alone, or because it had been from her hand that the pudding had been plucked, or because he hoped that her presence as witness would satisfy his volatile little sister. It would be one last adventure before the walls of the schoolroom closed about her.

Arabella looked at Mr. Fitzhugh, who was extolling the pleasures of frost fairs, the mulled wine and crisp air, the refreshments and the entertainments. He was, she thought appraisingly, undeniably a fine figure of a man. He was also, despite his nickname, accounted a great catch on the marriage market. Arabella knew it was silly, but there was something very satisfying about the idea of walking into Farley Castle on Mr. Fitzhugh’s arm. She might know that their seeming intimacy was a sham, but other people wouldn’t.

What would Captain Musgrave think when she strolled in on the arm of Reginald Fitzhugh?

“All right,” said Arabella.