By the time I prepared for the party, my hands were trembling. Flora helped me into the finished dress, then adorned my hair with strings of pearls. She argued in favor of flowers, but when I studied the pearls, they accidentally slipped from my hands to the floor. I looked at Flora triumphantly.

She sighed. “I suppose you will insist that is the right choice, then.”

“Of course.” I was not superstitious, but I did believe that sometimes decisions were ordained for us. To my estimation, young ladies should be careful (though Flora called it impulsive) to pay heed.

Her eyes shone as I departed, and she whispered in my ear that I should remember every fashion detail. She also squeezed my arm and warned me not to spend too much time with Uncle Toby, who would no doubt encourage me to more intellectual conversations than a young lady of my age should pursue.

Tobias Fitzwater, my uncle, had raised my sister Frederica and me but was better known as the dean of Christ Church at Oxford. Though he had never claimed to understand the dreams and whims of girls or young women, he had taught Freddie and me-just as he did his students-to reverence God first and education second. My sister scorned her knowledge once she reached her first Season, but I embraced it heart and soul.

If Uncle Toby knew nothing of proper behavior for girls, I could claim equal ignorance. When, as a child, I observed some of his students fencing, I demanded to take up the sport. My dear uncle readily indulged my desire, and I had no maternal figure to advise against its impropriety. Flora was as devoted to my uncle as she was to me, so she guarded our secret even when my practice grew more scandalous as I gained in age.

Uncle Toby and I rode in silence to the Ransoms’ until he squinted in the dim light of our carriage. He angled his spectacles further down his nose. “Do I see a new pair of slippers on your feet?”