with a pointer in hand. “I’ll read first, Your Grace.”
He read the lines he’d written, his pointer following the words:
Does Harry Hunt hunt heavy hares? If Harry Hunt hunts heavy hares, then where are the heavy hares Harry Hunt hunts?
“Your Grace?” Mr. Stanton asked.
“In ’Arry ’Unt’s belly?” Fancy guessed.
Mr. Stanton frowned. “I meant it is your turn, Your Grace. To repeat the phrase.”
“Oh, I see.” Clearing her throat, Fancy followed the crisp movement of Mr. Stanton’s pointer as it went from word to word. “Does ’Arry ’Unt…hunt ’eavy…heavy ’ares? If ’Arry ’Unt ’unts…hunts…heavy ’ares, then where are the heavy ’ares ’Arry ’Unt hunts?”
She peered hopefully at her teacher.
He sighed. “Again, if you please.”
By the time the lesson was over, poor Mr. Stanton looked ready to tear out what little hair he had left, and Fancy wished she’d never heard of Harry Hunt and his fat rabbits. Luckily, it was time for luncheon; she was starved and ready for a break.
She arrived at the cavernous dining room to see Aunt Esther already seated at one end of the long table. The lady wore her customary black and an impatient expression. The only other setting on the table was to the right of her.
“You and I will be taking lunch without the others in order to minimize distractions,” Aunt Esther said crisply. “Today I will be covering the fundamentals of proper dining. I have asked Harvey to set our places for a formal supper. Don’t dawdle, Francesca. Come have a seat next to me.”
Fancy obediently headed to the chair, halting halfway at Aunt Esther’s command.
“No, gel, don’t rush about like a milk maid. You are a duchess; walk like one.”
“’Ow…how does a duchess walk?” Fancy asked.
“At her own pace, to begin with. As you are not a puppy, you do not need to scamper at anyone’s command. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Aunt Esther.”
Fancy took a cautious step forward on the parqueted floor, freezing when Aunt Esther snapped out another order.
“No, no. Are you carrying something heavy, gel?”
Fancy gave the other a puzzled look. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why are your shoulders slumped forward? After lunch, you shall practice proper posture by walking with a book balanced upon your head,” Aunt Esther said decisively. “When I was your age, I could walk up and down stairs balancing all of Shakespeare’s tragedies.”
The image floated through Fancy’s mind.
“That’s amazing,” she said wonderingly. “My brothers learned similar tricks to earn money at the fairs. Godfrey can walk with a dozen plates on ’is ’ead while juggling apples—”
“I am not a circus performer,” Aunt Esther said coldly. “Neither do I wish for your debut at Princess Adelaide’s salon to be a vulgar exhibition. Now, come here, gel, with your shoulders back, your back straight but not too stiff, and your head balanced on your neck, not to the right, not to the left, but aligned with your spine.”
Fancy managed to make it to the chair. “’Ow…how was that?”
“Like a performance given by a foxed puppeteer.” Aunt Esther sighed. “Never mind. Sit so that we may review the use of utensils.”
Fancy looked down at the battalion of gleaming silverware…and gulped.
It was nearing three o’clock by the time Aunt Esther declared that she had had enough for the day. While the lady went up for a nap, Fancy decided to get a breath of fresh air. Guilt prickled her when she remembered that she hadn’t visited Bertrand for two days, and she decided to kill two birds with one stone and head to the stables behind the house.
On her way out, a sound caught her attention. It came from the half-open door of the library. She hesitated, and when she heard the noise again, she went in.
The library was a high-ceilinged room that smelled pleasantly of parchment, wood polish, and leather. Tufted seating occupied the area in front of the hearth, and shelves of books lined the walls. Fancy followed the sound, like that made by an injured puppy, to the leather divan. Toby was sitting on the floor behind it, hugging his knees to his chest, his dark head buried in his arms.
His head jerked up at Fancy’s approach, and her heart ached at his reddened eyes, the wet tracks running down his cheeks.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He wiped his sleeve over his face and only succeeded in smearing snot over the fabric. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” Easing herself to the ground—which wasn’t the easiest thing with her voluminous skirts and tight lacing—she sat beside him.