With a faint scowl just above the bridge of a pleasingly up tilted nose, Miss Henrietta Astell hunched over an open ledger resting on a delicately carved escritoire. Again she added the column of figures and, arriving at the same total, sighed.

“Mama, are you certain you wish for us all to leave this snug cottage and go up to London?”

Startled, Margaret lifted lively brown eyes from a dove gray morning dress she was refurbishing to deliver a gentle reproof to her firstborn, a needle-witted young miss of eighteen.

“Dearest, pray don’t try to wheedle out of our agreement. You gave your word if I invested in the annuities you thought prudent to ensure the boys’ education that you would fall in with my plan and make your comeout with good grace.”

“I know,” Henrietta admitted, then unable to forbear, added, “but our funds are so limited, I doubt your scheme can succeed.”

“I did not ask your opinion, Henrietta. Furthermore, I consider it poor-spirited of you to continue to tease me.” Margaret pressed a cool hand against her throbbing brow. “Did I not give you ample opportunity to air your views during our discussion? If you recall, while I agreed an annuity was necessary for Neil—after all he’s at Harrow and will want to go up to Oxford—I differed with you in Toby’s case. He’s only six. However, I haven’t nagged you, have I?”

“No.” Chagrin crept across Henrietta’s fair countenance. Her mother was convinced that if she could contrive to introduce Henrietta into London’s ton society, some eligible young nobleman would make her an offer. Once Henrietta married, Mama felt it would be a simple matter to launch the younger girls.

To Henrietta, such things happened in fairy tales, not real life. Still it was wrong to try and dissuade dear Mama, who truly believed her plan would work. “You are entirely in the right. I beg your pardon.”

“Which I freely give. Now I trust the matter is closed. Launching you into society will be difficult enough without you cutting up my peace with futile arguments.”

Girlish voices, raised in anger and gaining in volume as they neared the parlor, provided a timely diversion. The Astell twins, gangly thirteen-year-olds, filled the entrance arch. Both tugged on a disheveled garment, each determined to dislodge it from her sister’s grasp.

Two peas in a pod, Margaret thought. Fancy having twins! Even now, she could scarcely credit it.

“Let go!” Blue eyes flashing, Heather gave a defiant toss of flaxen curls. “It’s mine, I tell you!”

Hester wrinkled her pert, upturned nose, adorned with a scatter of light freckles. “It can’t be. It was hanging on my side of the closet.”

“Rose must have hung it there by mistake. It’s mine just the same,” Heather insisted.

“Girls, a little less heat if you please,” Margaret admonished. Contemplating the arduous task of converting the two wild hoydens into mannerly young ladies by the time they left the schoolroom—a scant five years hence—made Margaret’s spirits sink. A sick headache, looming in the background, now blossomed.

With the callow unconcern of youth, Heather, the bolder of the two, risked Margaret’s further disapproval by giving a fresh tug upon the disputed dress.

“Heather! Give me that gown before you tear it.”

Heather, realizing belatedly she’d tried her mother too far, would have gladly obeyed. However, Hester thwarted her twin by keeping her tenacious hold.

“Dare you defy me?” Margaret asked in a quelling tone of voice.

A speaking glance passed between the girls. Together, they advanced and deposited the wrinkled dress in Margaret’s lap.

“Thank you.” Margaret struggled to contain her temper. “Have you girls finished your packing?”

The twins exchanged a guilty look.

“No, ma’am,” Heather responded.

“I see. You will oblige me by marching to your bedchamber to do so.”

“I don’t see why we must share a trunk merely because we are twins,” Hester whined.

Patience quite spent, Margaret rounded off at her, “That will do. Go do as I bid. I give you fair warning, if I hear any more raised voices this afternoon, you’ll both take bread and milk at the nursery room table for supper!”

As it was now clear as polished crystal that Mama was in a rare taking, the twins retreated in haste.

The instant they’d gone, a surge of affection swept through Margaret. Perhaps she’d dealt too harshly with the twins. Living in each other’s pocket, the girls were bound to resent each other at times. She plucked the disheveled garment from her lap, setting it atop her workbasket.

“Henrietta, do you have any notion which twin this sorry relic belongs to?”

“No, ma’am. If they don’t know, I’m sure we can’t be expected to divine it. Considering its condition, it’s no great matter.”

“It is ready for the rag bag,” Margaret conceded. She finished sewing trim on one cuff of the gray gown and began to pin a row of lace around the other. “They’ve shot up so fast. They both need new gowns, now that we will be out of mourning for your father. I’ll run some up for them once we are settled in London, where I may take advantage of the marvelous bargains on material bolts at Grafton’s.”

Henrietta smiled. Her mother’s dressmaking skills had long been the talk of the neighborhood. Not only was Margaret a clever needlewoman, she possessed a discerning eye for fashion and had only to glimpse a new design before she would set to work adapting the trend to flatter the wearer’s figure and personality. Thus, Margaret and her daughters had always dressed in the height of fashion.

However, recent reverses had demanded all of Margaret’s attention, forcing her to neglect her needle. Indeed, Henrietta reflected, they were lucky to have retained ownership of the manor house and its surrounding acres, presently leased, which would eventually pass to Neil. Watching her mother’s comely features lighten at the mention of London, Henrietta observed, “Living so quiet all these years in the country, I collect you’ve missed the city bustle.”

“I have on occasion,” Margaret admitted. “It’s so much easier to dress stylishly when one lives in the hub of fashion. Though I am sure I don’t know what we Astells would have done if my own dear Papa had not retired from trade to become a country squire just when John found himself with pockets to let.”

While there were many admirable traits in her mother’s character, the quality Henrietta respected most was that Margaret never dwelt upon her deceased husband’s shortcomings. Though Henrietta had loved her father, she would be the first to admit that he’d lacked character and had never been more than a charming, irresponsible rogue.

The Honorable John Astell, a younger son of the Earl of Skye, had married Margaret, sole offspring of second-hand goods dealer, Tobias Hicks, because of her exceptionally generous dowry. Moreover, he had always treated his father-in-law in a condescending manner, even after he’d gambled away Margaret’s fortune and had been forced to accept the tradesman’s invitation to remove his family from town and reside with him on his country estate.

Though her grandfather had died when Henrietta was thirteen, she remembered him well. Indeed, she attributed her hardheadedness in business matters to Tobias, approving of how he had left the bulk of his fortune invested in cotton. No doubt, he had reasoned that this plan stood the best chance of ensuring that his daughter and her family would be kept in comfort, in spite of John Astell’s spendthrift ways. And but for the Napoleonic war and the trouble with the colonies, Grandpapa’s plan would have answered. Unfortunately, prolonged hostilities had rendered cotton worthless, due to the loss of the American market and the fact that the continent was controlled by the French army.

Of course, if Henrietta’s father had continued to farm the estate after Tobias’ death, they could have eked through in spite of the war. Instead, he’d let the fields lie fallow and found himself at a standstill. Not wishing to face debtor’s prison, John Astell had put a bullet through his brain, leaving his pretty wife saddled with five offspring.

“It was kind of Grandpapa to invite us to live with him up at the manor house, was it not, Mama?”

“Indeed it was,” Margaret agreed.

“I’ve always considered it home as I scarcely remember London.”

“It’s no wonder you recall so little of the city. When we came to live with Papa, you were a mere child. The twins were mere babes in arms.”

“I collect Toby wasn’t even born yet.”

“True. A pity Papa passed away so soon after his namesake’s birth.”

Margaret held the opinion that had her father lived a bit longer, he would have settled a larger portion upon Toby. As things stood, he would inherit only a modest legacy, whereas Neil, as the eldest son, would inherit, not only a legacy but the manor house and immediate grounds as well.

Henrietta regretted Grandpapa had not provided dowries for his three granddaughters in his will. Such a provision would certainly have paved the way for Mama, who was so determined to see all three daughters accepted into society. However, recounting the past never changed it one jot, so Henrietta decided to turn the conversation.

“What of Rose? Does she go with us to town?”

Rose had moved with them to the cottage, chiefly because their tenants at the manor house didn’t care to employ the aged servant.

“No, dearest. The family coach is not well sprung. Her old bones would never stand the journey. She’ll bide here at the cottage. The parson’s wife has promised to look in on her.”

“You’re joking me, Mama! Travel up to London in that relic? It’s positively gothic!”

Margaret smiled. “I own it will be an uncomfortable ride but since the wheelwright’s son is making the necessary repairs, we needn’t fear a breakdown en route. As he wishes to enlist, he has agreed to drive us up to London.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to take the mail coach?”

“I fear it’s not quite the thing. In any case, our purse won’t stretch to cover five fares.”

Inwardly, Henrietta sighed. She’d just verified the necessary sum by re-totaling the ledger column. Mama was right. Taking a public conveyance would set them down in London with too little ready cash. Thank goodness the cost of leasing a townhouse would be covered by the rental income from the manor. This sum must stretch to cover most of the household expenses as well.

However, once they arrived in town, Henrietta meant to pay a call upon at least two publishers in Fleet Street. In point of fact, she hadn’t received payment for literary essays she’d written for either The Critical Review or The Monthly Magazine, even though both pieces had been published. Residing in town would make it easier to call tardy publishers to account. In the past, Henrietta had depended on these small sums earned by her pen to keep the Astell family afloat. Extra earnings would be especially welcome in London where everything was reputed to be so much more expensive. She silently resolved to write more articles, at least until Mama became so discouraged by her lack of progress in launching Henrietta into ton society, that she consented to their return to the cottage.

As though reading her daughter’s mind, Margaret set aside the dress she’d been trimming and said, somewhat hesitantly, “Before I retire to the kitchen to help Rose with supper, there is another topic I feel must be broached. It’s in regard to your scribbling, dearest.”

Heart plunging, Henrietta scanned Margaret’s face. “Go on, Mama,” she said in a low voice.

“Dearest, I know how proud your papa was of your…uh…pastime. I freely own the monies you’ve earned from some of your published pieces have been a Godsend, especially after John’s death when I was at wit’s end trying to hold us all together.”

Margaret shot her daughter a worried look, faintly tinged with remorse as she hurried on. “But, Henrietta, it won’t do for you to continue your scribbling while you are making your comeout. You understand, don’t you?”

Henrietta fought a sensation of dizziness. She tried to check the mounting color flooding her cheeks as she recollected the barebones of a Gothic novel just beginning to simmer in her mind. How vexing of Mama to forbid her to set pen to paper at this juncture! London was probably as far as she’d ever get but with pen in hand she could vicariously journey to the ends of the earth. However, it would be a mistake to confess such an ambitious undertaking to her mother. Not only wouldn’t she understand, she’d be appalled.

Henrietta sighed. She had so wanted to try her hand with a heroine who traveled and had adventures like those of Mrs. Radcliffe’s. Obviously working on a novel was out of the question for the present, however, she might be able to persuade her mother to relent a bit by appealing to her practical nature.

“Where’s the harm if I continue to write for the periodicals? No one suspects I’m Anne Finch. It seems to me you’ll need the extra money for my comeout.”

“Dearest, I appreciate your desire to ease the family finances, but if even a hint, the tiniest rumor, reaches any tonnish matron’s ears, your reputation will suffer. I cannot allow you to risk ruining your chances. Of course you may write as much as you wish in your journal. Even the highest stickler cannot object to that. However, for the length of the London season…until you are married, I should like your word that you will submit no more articles for publication.”

“When I marry? What then?”

Sudden acute pain clouded Margaret’s countenance but it sped past, leaving Henrietta to doubt whether she’d seen that emotion reflected in her mother’s face or had merely imagined it.

Margaret, composure regained, replied, “Dearest, perhaps you will be fortunate and the gentleman you marry will not mind your scribbling once he comes to know you.”

Henrietta brightened. “Then, after a young man fixes an interest upon me, while we are becoming better acquainted, I may sound him out to see if he would object?”

“What a hubble-bubble creature you are! Such a discussion is bound to cause mischief. You’d do no such thing. Furthermore, you shall refrain from submitting any more articles for publication until you are safely wed. Is that understood, Henrietta?”

“But Mama, if I don’t broach the subject, how am I to know how my betrothed feels?”

Margaret sighed. She had enjoyed her own comeout to the hilt and didn’t understand Henrietta’s reticence at all. Come to that, though she dearly loved her eldest, she’d never understood what prompted the child to take up the pen in the first place.

Before Margaret could think of a suitable reply, a commotion in the scullery commanded her attention. Her ears picked up Toby’s childish voice, its pitch rising with his mounting excitement. She recognized her youngest child’s step as he clumped down the hall in his boots.

Bursting into the parlor, Toby exclaimed, “Mama, you’ll never guess what I’ve brought home from the pond. Pollywogs!”

Margaret braved a quick glance at the small boy and let out a low shriek. “Mercy! It’s a wonder I don’t go into a decline. Just look at you. You’re soaking wet. However did you manage to get every stitch you’re wearing mud-caked? What mischief are you embroiled in this time?”

“I told you already,” Toby said in an injured tone. “Pollywogs. Rose said I couldn’t keep them in the scullery but I can, can’t I?” He added in a conspiratorial whisper, “They change into frogs you know.”

Margaret’s heart melted. “Yes, I know,” she whispered back. “However, they’re ever so much more likely to do so outdoors.”

His face fell. “I know, Mama, but may I keep them anyway?”

Margaret hid a smile behind her hand. The little rogue was trying to twist her round his finger. Sometimes she worried about her lack of resolution. Mayhap, she wasn’t cut out to be a mother. Her late husband had always insisted she hadn’t the backbone. Resolutely she pushed his censure from her mind.

“I can, can’t I?” Toby pleaded.

She tried to look stern but despite all her efforts her lips twitched. “Yes, you may but not in the scullery—or anyplace else inside the cottage.”

“The barn then?”

“How about the pond behind the barn?” Henrietta suggested. “I could help you set up a barricade to keep them happily confined.”

Margaret sent her eldest a look of gratitude. “How about it, Toby? Will that answer?”

“Yes, it will. Thank you, Mama.”

Henrietta nudged her small brother. “Come, we’d better get started.” She smiled at Margaret. “Don’t worry about Toby. I’ll set his appearance to rights before supper.”

“Excellent!” Margaret enthused. But as they reached the archway, sudden recollection of the interrupted discussion prompted Margaret to call, “Henrietta, just a minute.”

Henrietta whirled to face her mother. “Yes, Mama.”

“In regard to your scribbling, I must have your word, dearest.”

Once again, Henrietta felt lightheaded. “Three more articles are due to appear shortly, Mama. I’ve already received payment.”

Margaret frowned. “That is rather ill-timed. We will just have to pray no one gets wind of your nom de plume. But after they appear, no more articles or essays. I’ll have your word, Henrietta.”

Visibly paling, she drew a long breath. “Very well, Mama, you have it.” She stumbled from the room, pushing Toby along before her.

“You’re a great gun for a female, Henrietta.”

“Thank you.”

“What was Mama talking about as we left the parlor?”

“Nothing that concerns you, dear.” Henrietta blinked frantically to stave off the tears she felt welling in her eyes. “Do hurry along, Toby. Mama will fly into a pet if you’re not presentable by suppertime.”

Margaret stared after her daughter. Obviously, Henrietta didn’t understand why she was making such a fuss. She hated to see her eldest looking so unhappy. Her mood brightened as she recalled her own comeout. Regrettably, the daring new waltz had been unheard of at the time but she’d had a wonderful season all the same. Papa had spared no expense on her gowns and, thanks to the exclusive boarding school she’d attended, she’d had all the invitations to ton parties she could want.

Brown eyes sparkling, she rose from her chair. She’d never breathed a word to her children but the Vicar’s dashing young wife had taught her the waltz step. Humming in three-quarter time, for a few blissful minutes, Margaret waltzed. She moved with the grace and verve of a young girl as she floated about the shabby parlor.

She felt positively giddy once she stopped. Not at all the proper behavior for a matronly widow with five offspring, she told herself sternly. At thirty-seven, she was too old to go kicking up larks! Still her headache had fled and she felt more optimistic than she had earlier.

Margaret smiled. Rigged out in the first kick of fashion, with several suitors dancing attendance, Henrietta would soon change her tune. Once she had formed an eligible connection, she’d thank her mother for insisting she have a comeout.