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to draw on her quickly dissolving store of self-control in order to maintain the serenity of her countenance. She had just spent the last half hour listening to Sally exclaim at the elegant trappings she was unpacking. Indeed, Fanny reflected, there was no doubt whatever that her wardrobe was the envy of half the women in society—and its emulation, their despair. With an innocent smile intended to discomfit them a bit, however, she merely said, “Indeed?”
    “Why, yes,” Genie quavered, her cheeks flushing scarlet, “but be assured we are quite up to date on such matters, for we were at school with a number of young ladies whose mamas frequented both Bath and Sadler’s Wells. One of them even had a maiden aunt who lived in Brighton!”
    “Sadler’s Wells? How . . . heartening,” Fanny managed. “Why it is altogether clear, then, you are the very ones to instruct me.”
    At this encouragement, the twins launched into detailed descriptions of such finery as had come in (and out!) of fashion in the last two years. Fanny listened imperturbably to their recommendations as to line and color, as well as their none-too-subtle suggestion that a rouge pot might be employed to good effect.
    “Now,” Genie concluded, “we must set about furbishing up your wardrobe as best we can. What a shocking thing it is that we are such deplorable needlewomen, Mama, but it is a sorry truth. Somehow, we contrive to make a great muddle of everything we set our hands to, and end by pricking our fingers grievously, but I daresay Sally might—”
    “I imagine I can save us all a good deal of distress,” Fanny interrupted. The twins exchanged a worried glance.
    “I am well aware,” she continued, attempting to keep the irony from her voice, “that my attire is not ... er ... what you have been used to expect here. I did not wish to distress you with my dowdiness, for I suspected that you would be quite up to the nines, my dears. With that in mind, I petitioned my good friend, Lady Madden, to fit me out for this journey. She has quite exquisite taste, as you will see. Now, as to the rouge pot—”
    “Do not say you have not got one!” Genie exclaimed.
    “Not got one!” their mother equivocated. She did not, but, now she was having such fun, it seemed a shame to admit that her pallor resulted more from the combination of having been thoroughly chilled the night before and not sleeping at all well. “In an hour’s time,” she assured them, “you will not know me.”
    The twins looked at each other doubtfully, but said no more on the matter. Instead, as they hurried on to yet another topic, Fanny could almost see them ticking items off their list of ways to “Thwart Miss Walleye.”
    “We wanted also to talk to you about the Christmas masque,” Genie began.
    So she was correct. Masque had quite definitely been on that list, she remembered.
    “Yes?” she prompted. “A masque?”
    “It is quite a tradition here, as you must remember. In the past, Tavie and I have played parts in it along with the servants, but this year . . .” Genie looked at her sister.
    “As you are come home . . .”
    “And as it would be great fun . . .”
    “We wondered if perhaps you and Father would not play the roles.”
    Intrigued, Fanny asked, “What is the nature of the masque to be?”
    “Oh, do not worry, Mama,” Tavie assured her. “Genie and I shall write something for the two of you to perform. Now all we must do is ask Father.”
    This was altogether too good to miss, Fanny decided, although the notion of the twins continuing in any literary endeavor sent a cold chill up her spine. “Perhaps,” she said with a slight smile, “I shall ask him for you.”
    And perhaps, she added mentally, she might endeavor to discover more about this Miss Walleye.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Under the twins’ tutelage, Fanny dressed with such untoward elegance as she knew could not fail to raise eyebrows among her own set were they to see her thus clad