speculative to grateful. Suddenly, she felt like an animal stepping into a foreign herd.
Their hostess announced supper. Doors at the end of the ballroom were thrown open to reveal laden buffet tables in an adjoining room. “Shall we go in together?” asked the duchess. She took Miss Sinclair’s arm in a way that worried Randolph slightly and led the way. There was nothing to do but follow.
Robert moved faster and snagged a pair of tables that he and Sebastian pushed together to accommodate them all. The ladies sat down—Flora, Georgina, and Emma ranged around one end and Miss Sinclair next to his mother at the other.
At least Olivia Townsend was far away, Randolph noted. There was no sign of Rochford; she sat with a group of young people. Miss Sinclair’s mother was on the far side of the supper room at a table full of older ladies. She was looking toward them, but didn’t seem disapproving.
The gentlemen had remained on their feet. “Shall we do the honors?” asked Randolph’s father.
“Cream cakes,” replied the duchess.
“As if I don’t know, after all these years?”
His parents exchanged a smile. They were kind people, Randolph thought. There was no need for concern. Except he didn’t like the glint in his mother’s eye. She looked that way when she was ferreting out some transgression. Of which there was none in this case, he assured himself. All was well.
Randolph went off with his male relatives and a young man he didn’t know, who was squiring Emma apparently, to procure food.
He made it back in record time, having filled two plates rather randomly. “What did you think of the place?” his mother was saying when he sat down and placed the second plate in front of Miss Sinclair.
“Which place?” asked Randolph.
“Miss Sinclair attended a school for the daughters of senior clergymen,” answered his mother.
“Is there such a… Well, there must be.”
“In Lincolnshire,” said Miss Sinclair. “I thought it an admirable establishment.”
“Admirable,” echoed the duchess. “And congenial?”
“For the most part. Miss Brell, the founder, decreed that we should study only subjects related to the church or church work.”
She wasn’t looking at Randolph as she spoke, but he remembered her remarks about narrow-minded country clergymen. “That could cover almost any topic,” he observed.
Miss Sinclair shrugged. “Miss Brell’s motto was: resolution, rectitude, industry.”
At the other end of the table, Emma made a face. Everyone was listening to this conversation, Randolph saw.
“Many of my fellow students became missionaries.”
“It sounds absolutely dire,” said Emma.
“Not that,” Miss Sinclair replied. “No one was unkind. We weren’t deprived. But we were expected to be serious, always. Which was all very well for Latin class—”
“You know Latin?” asked Flora from the other table.
Miss Sinclair nodded. “And ecclesiastical history and moral philosophy.” She shifted in her chair as if uncomfortable.
His family could be overwhelming in such an unadulterated dose, Randolph thought. “It sounds like Oxford,” he offered. He wondered what music she’d been allowed to play. Church music, no doubt.
“And how much better than an education limited to embroidery and sketching and a smattering of Italian,” Flora declared. “Very few girls have such a chance.”
“True,” replied Miss Sinclair. “And yet, I think girls should have opportunities to be frivolous and…a bit wild. Isn’t that why they have all those games at boys’ schools?”
All the other ladies looked at Verity Sinclair. Randolph tried to catalog their expressions—Georgina amused, Emma bored, Flora arrested, his mother speculative. He felt an odd spurt of pride. Miss Sinclair was holding her own in this formidable group.
“I’ve established several schools for penniless girls, you know,” said the duchess. “Perhaps you’d like to visit one with me.”
“Oh.” Abruptly, Miss Sinclair looked like a lamb thrust into a flock of goats. No, she didn’t, Randolph immediately told himself. That analogy was wrong on any number of levels—not least that it made his mother inappropriately caprine.
“I’d welcome your opinion,” the duchess added.
“I don’t know that I would… Of course I’d be happy to—”
Before Randolph could intervene, his mother did. “Splendid. What about next Wednesday?”
As Miss Sinclair agreed, perforce, the other gentlemen returned with their spoils. Randolph’s father had a footman in tow bearing a whole platter of cream cakes, with bottles of champagne under each of his arms.
Plates were distributed. Corks popped and glasses poured. The conversation became more general.
“What is this?” Miss Sinclair asked, poking at a brown mass on her plate.
“Oh, er…” Randolph had no idea.
“Pickled mushrooms,” said his father.
Miss Sinclair drew back her fork. “I cannot eat mushrooms.”