A strong character, Allie, despite her lack of years. At first her mother had thought the child was following her own footsteps in being fascinated by anatomy. Which, in a sense, she was-but only in that of animals. If it didn’t have scales, four legs, fur, or fins, Allie wasn’t interested in it. All living fauna delighted her, and should the subject be dead, she wanted to know why it had delighted her, why it flew, crawled, swam, or galloped. By the age of three, she had wept over the death of the jackdaw trained to perch on her shoulder-and then dissected it. By four, thanks to a local hunter, she was familiar with the muscles that made a deer run, the bones in the shoveling arms of a mole-a creature trapped mercilessly in the fens because its runs weakened the dikes that held back floods.

At the beginning of the journey Allie had been charmed by her two-year-old playmate. Yet, loving the train’s horses and mules as she did, she wanted to be the center of attention to their grooms-a breed she’d always got on well with. But the grooms were employed by Emma and, by extension, young Pippy, who, if there was a ride to be had at the head of the cavalcade, came first. Little Lord Wolvercote was fussed over not only by his mother and servants but by Gyltha and Adelia as well, and the green-eyed monster of jealousy began to show in Allie’s eyes and in the hits and pushes that sent the little boy to the ground. It came to the point at which the adults couldn’t turn their backs without a wail from Pip as Allie attacked him again.

Mortified, Gyltha lectured, without effect.

“Don’t like him,” Allie said, explaining why she’d pulled a switch from a tree and beaten Lord Wolvercote’s bottom with it.

“She’s a spoiled little madam,” Gyltha said to Adelia, having taken the switch from Allie’s hand and whacked the child’s behind in turn. “She won’t say sorry. You got to do something.”

Secretly, Adelia admired her daughter’s defiance in the face of condemnation and whipping, but Gyltha was right-something had to be done to correct her. She tried an indirect approach and made a doll out of sticks and bandages on which she drew a hideous face, calling it Puncho. She gave it to her daughter. “You are not winning friends with behavior like this, Allie, so when you feel like hitting Pippy, hit Puncho instead.”

Allie regarded the monstrosity with favor and tucked it under her arm. “I like Puncho,” she said. “Don’t like Pippy.” And she continued the assaults until it was impossible, during rests on the road, to allow both children to run around on the verge together.

Incurring Adelia’s gratitude, Emma was tolerant about the situation, though she made sure her son was kept out of Allie’s way. “I know how the child feels. At the convent, I used to pinch little Sister Priscilla when I thought Mother Edyve was favoring her over me.”

Yet she, too, was behaving badly. Adelia failed to realize why Emma, so understanding of Allie, showed resentment at the care lavished on Master Roetger, for whom she seemed to lack all sympathy. “Does he really need to be cooed over?” she would ask, as Gyltha and Adelia attended to their patient. She clucked with irritation when the grooms had to carry Roetger into the trees to help him with his calls of nature, and at the lengthy arrangements that had to be made for him on the ground floor of every inn at which they passed the night-Adelia refused to allow him to be carried upstairs in case his foot should encounter an obstruction in the process.

It was as if Emma’s champion’s needs embarrassed her as much as they did him.

Enlightenment eventually dawned during a rare moment of intimacy when, having reached Marlborough and seen the children to bed, Emma and Adelia were drawn by a lovely evening into the rose garden of their inn-one of the richest they had stayed at so far.

As they walked, Emma’s voice came to her companion out of a scented dusk. “Should you like more children, ’Delia?”

“Yes. Very much, but I’m unlikely to have them now.”

“You might marry.”

“No.” Having kept her independence by refusing marriage to Rowley, she wasn’t going to surrender it now. She said, lightly, “For one thing, any respectable man would regard me as spoiled goods.”

Emma didn’t disagree. They walked on. After a while, Emma said, “I don’t want more children. Another son, for instance, might complicate Pippy’s inheritance.”

Adelia didn’t see how it could; the laws of succession were strict, though she merely asked, “So you won’t marry again?”

“No.” Emma was sharp about it. “And thanks to you, I don’t have to. But…”

It was a lingering conjunction. Adelia waited to hear what it led to.

Suddenly, there was an outburst of anguish. “They talk about the joys of the marriage bed, but I never knew them-not with him, he did things to me… I was forced… I fought… I never consented, never…”

“I know.” Adelia took her friend’s arm. “I know.”

“Yet there must be joys,” Emma said desperately. “You knew them with Rowley. There must be gentler men, loving men.”

“Yes,” Adelia told her with authority, “there are. You may meet one, Emmy. You could marry again, this time by your own choosing.”

“No.” It was almost a scream. “I don’t trust… I shall not be subject again… You of all people should understand that.”

Nearby, a nightingale began to sing, its cadences refreshing the garden like silvery drops of water. The two women stopped to listen.

More quietly, Emma went on. “I am seventeen years old, ’Delia. If I live to be ancient, I shall never have known pleasure with a man.”

Adelia waited. This outpouring was heading somewhere; she didn’t know where. Emma was expecting something from her, but she didn’t know what that was, either.

“But suppose,” Emma said desperately, “suppose, for the sake of argument, one set one’s heart on a man, an unsuitable man, someone… oh, I don’t know, of a status below one’s own.”

She became irritated, as if she expected Adelia to answer a question she had not put. Going briskly ahead, she said over her shoulder, “Somebody one couldn’t marry, even if one wanted to, because his occupation and birth would bring social obloquy on one… and one’s child. Suppose that.”

Adelia tried to. Ahead of her, Emma’s figure was that of an elegant ghost in the moonlight, a pale shade that flicked petals from the roses it passed as if it disdained them.

Walking behind, Adelia attempted to follow the circumlocution that Emma had used to pose her question. What was it her poor friend wanted from her? No marriage, never marriage. No children, never more children. A life without physical love, yet a heart, such a sad heart, longing for the tenderness of a man… an unsuitable man…

Then understanding came. Adelia castigated herself. What a fool I am. Of course. I should have known. That’s it.

She quickened her pace, caught Emma by the arm, and led her to a seat in an alcove of roses, made her sit down, and sat down herself.

“Did I ever tell you my theory on how it is possible to avoid conception?” she asked, as if she was raising a different subject.

“No,” Emma said, as if she, too, found the matter a new one. “No, I don’t believe you did.”

“It’s my foster parents’ theory, in fact,” Adelia said. “They are an extraordinary couple, I think I’ve told you. They refuse to be bound by their differing religions-he’s a Jew, she’s a Christian, but their minds are free, so free, of laws, prejudices, superstition, imprisoned thinking…” She paused, overwhelmed by longing to see them again and by gratitude for the upbringing they had given her.

“Really?” Emma said politely.

“Yes. And they traveled, you see. To gain medical knowledge. They asked questions of different races, tribes, other histories, customs, and my foster mother, bless her, went to the women, especially the women.”