"It's a wonderful library," Aurora responded. "Cally, how pretty you look," she told her sister. "I was worried about you."

"You need not have fretted," Cally replied. "How typical of you, Aurora, to spend all your time in a library. You will ruin your eyes and get wrinkles, I fear." She turned back to the dowager. "We must plan a ball, ma'am, if we are to launch my sister and brother onto the sea of matrimony. You know all the country folk to invite."

"Indeed I do. I thought, perhaps, Calandra, that the first of May would be a delightful time. All the villages celebrate with Maypoles, dancing, and bonfires. Would that suit you?"

"Can we not do it sooner?" Cally asked.

The dowager shook her head. "I am afraid not. There is a great deal of planning to a ball, Calandra, as you will see, since I expect you to help me plan it. Eventually you will plan all your balls yourself, but as this will be your first fete at Hawkes Hill, I will help you. There is much to do."

"Like what?" Cally was genuinely curious.

"Well, for starters," the dowager said, "the ballroom must be refurbished and thoroughly cleaned, the floors polished to a high gloss, the crystal chandeliers all washed and polished and set with freshly dipped candles. A menu must be selected and planned for those invited to dinner beforehand. We can seat only fifty. There are, of course, invitations to be issued, and they must all arrive on the same day else any guest feel slighted by learning another had received his or her invitation first. The gardeners must be certain that there are plenty of fresh flowers from the greenhouses for the hallway, the drawing room, the dining room, the ballroom. What cannot be supplied by our greenhouses must be begged from neighbors. We will have to hire young men and women from the village to help out as maids and footmen, and in the kitchens. And musicians, of course! Some of our guests may be invited to remain overnight, and so there must be bedrooms prepared for them."

"There is a great deal of detail to it, isn't there?" Calandra said, suddenly not quite so enthusiastic. "Can we not hire someone to do it all? And what of a seamstress? I will certainly need a new ball gown. I can hardly greet my guest in an old ball gown."

"Since none of our guests will have seen any of your ball gowns, Calandra, I do not understand why you need another one," Valerian said dryly.

She glared at him. "Do not be such a pinchpenny with me, sir. I will not embarrass myself by appearing in an old ball gown."

"Then you shall not," he said, "nor shall any of my ladies. A seamstress shall be called in to make ball gowns for you and Aurora and Grandmama. It is only fair, I think."

"What a fine idea!" his grandmother said, a twinkle in her eye.

"I do not really need another gown," Aurora said, "but I will not refuse your kind offer, Valerian. Perhaps, Cally, you will let me help you and Lady Mary Rose to repay my lord duke's kindness."

"Oh, yes! You were always better than I in matters like this," Cally said, delighted that her sister had volunteered her services. Perhaps she would not be angry at Aurora any longer. "Mama always said you were good at planning entertainments."

Well, thought the dowager, I will have some help in this endeavor, for she had quickly seen that Calandra was going to be absolutely no help at all to her. Aurora, on the other hand, would certainly be of value, and, the dowager suspected, probably had an eye for detail.

The following day was Sunday, and they traveled down into Farminster village to church. It was March, and a brisk breeze blew across the fields. Some of the trees were beginning to show signs of leafing, their buds plump and exhibiting green. Here and there, clumps of bright yellow daffodils were in bloom. The coach horses stepped smartly down the road, drawing up before St. Anne's. A footman jumped down from the rear of the coach where he had been riding, and opening the door, lowered the steps. Holding out his hand, he helped the ladies to exit the vehicle. The gentlemen had ridden, and were even now dismounting.

The dowager led the way, nodding to this side and that as the villagers greeted her, the women curtsying, the men doffing their caps as she and her companions passed. Now and then she would stop a moment to greet someone by name. As they reached the porch of the stone church, her sharp eye spied the women she had been seeking.

"Ahhh," the dowager said, smiling toothily, "my dear Lady Bowen. How'd ye do? And your lovely daughters too, I see, and Master William. A lovely day, isn't it? Have you met my grandson's wife, the young duchess?"

Lady Bowen was a tiny, birdlike creature with pale blue eyes and sandy-brown curls. She curtsied. "How nice it is to see your ladyship again," she twittered, for she found the dowager formidable. "No, I haven't met the duchess yet." Her eyes darted between the two girls.

Mary Rose Hawkesworth drew Calandra forward. "Calandra, Duchess of Farminster, Lady Elsie Bowen, the vicar's wife."

Lady Bowen curtsied while Cally nodded coolly as she had seen her London friends do when presented with someone of a lower station.

"And this is the duchess's sister, Miss Aurora Spencer-Kimberly," the dowager continued, more pleased when Aurora held out her hand, curtsied prettily, and greeted Lady Bowen politely, than she had been with Calandra's high tone and slightly insulting manner. She turned, calling, "Valerian, come and bid Lady Bowen a good morning before we go in to services, and bring George." And when the two men came and the duke had done his grandmother's bidding, the old lady introduced George to the Bowens. First Lady Bowen, and then her son, William, a freckle-faced lad, who if the gossip had it correct was a little hellraiser, and his mother's despair. "And here, dear George, we have Miss Elizabeth, Miss Isabelle, Miss Suzanne, Miss Caroline, and Miss Maryanne Bowen. Such pretty girls, Lady Bowen," she complimented their mother, "and all very accomplished, I am told. You are a fortunate parent indeed, and will certainly find husbands for them all when they are old enough."

"Oh," Lady Bowen twittered, "Betsy is quite old enough now!"

"Is she indeed?" the dowager purred, and then with a nod she beckoned her family into the church.

"Really, Mama!" Elizabeth Bowen was outraged, and not just a trifle embarrassed by her mother's enthusiasm.

"Well, you are old enough for marriage," her mother protested, "and I am told that Mr. Spencer-Kimberly is looking for a wife. He will return to the western Indies, where he has been raised to continue to manage St. Timothy island plantation when he finds a suitable mate. He has an inheritance and an income, I am told. Would it be so terrible if he found you attractive and offered for you, Betsy?"

"How on earth do you obtain all this information, and so quickly?" Betsy Bowen asked her mother. "Why, the duke and his family only just returned this week to Farminster, Mama."

"I have my sources," her parent replied smugly. "Remember, Betsy, you are not the only eligible in the neighborhood, and I have heard whispers of a ball in May at the hall. A fine young man like Mr. Spencer-Kimberly will be snapped up quickly, my girl, and your dowry is not so large that you can afford to turn up your nose at such a prize."

"Mama! Mama! The organist is about to begin the processional," William Bowen cried to his mother.

"Gracious, thank you, Willie. Come, girls! We are late!" And Lady Bowen, skirts flying, hurried into the church with her family. Quickly taking their places in the front two pews, opposite the duke's private pew, they took up their hymnals and began to sing. Betsy Bowen could not resist glancing over into the duke's pew at George. He did look nice, and he had greeted her, and each of her sisters, most politely by name. He didn't appear at all high-flown or overproud. If only Mama wouldn't embarrass her by pushing her at him. I had best take matters into my own hands before that happens, she thought to herself.

When the service was over and they walked from the church, Betsy managed to maneuver herself so that she was walking next to George Spencer-Kimberly. "Do you ride, sir?" she asked him. "We have such lovely countryside hereabouts."

"Perhaps you would show it to me," he responded, "if, of course, your parents would permit it, Miss Elizabeth." He liked this girl already. She wasn't silly or flirtatiously vain like the girls he had met in London. She was straightforward, and looked to be sensible.

"Mama, Mr. Spencer-Kimberly would like to ride with me one morning if he has your permission," Betsy called to her mother.

Lady Bowen was astounded. Good Lord, how had Betsy elicited that invitation? Pray God she hadn't been forward, and Mr. Spencer-Kimberly thought her a lightskirt. "I shall have to speak to your papa, Betsy," she told her daughter, and then, "Will you come to tea today, Mr. Spencer-Kimberly? We should be so pleased to receive you. Five o'clock, at the vicarage."

"I should be pleased, ma'am," George answered Lady Bowen.

"Oh, Lord," Betsy muttered beneath her breath.

"I promise not to hold your mama against you, Miss Elizabeth," George murmured with a low chuckle.

Startled, her eyes met his, and Betsy blushed, then said, "You understand, don't you?"

He nodded. "I have a doting and anxious mama too." Then he bowed to her, tipping his hat. "Until this afternoon," he said.

He is really too good to be true, Betsy thought, amazed at her good fortune. If he really is wonderful, we shall be engaged by the time that ball is held in May, else I lose him to some other girl! She stood watching as George rode off with the duke.

"How did you get him to ask you riding?" her sister Isabelle asked, coming to stand beside Betsy. Isabelle was fifteen. "Mama is ready to have an attack of the vapors, else he think you loose."

"I simply asked if he rode and said we had pretty countryside," Betsy said, linking her arm in Isabelle's as they walked to the vicarage.

"Do you think I'll be invited to the duke's ball?" the younger girl wondered. "Oh, I should so like to go, Betsy! I've never been to a ball in my whole life, and it's bound to be elegant."

"Well," her sister considered, "you will be sixteen on the thirtieth of April, sweeting. If you are included in the invitation, I will take your part with Mama. Papa is always easy to manage."

"Oh, Betsy! You are the very best sister possible!" Isabelle said. Then she waved at the dowager as the ducal coach passed by on its way back to the hall.

Mary Rose Hawkesworth waved back. "Pretty chits, aren't they?" she said to her two companions. "Of course, Isabelle is too young for George, but Elizabeth would be most suitable, and I believe she likes him. Did you notice how cleverly she managed to get him to ask her riding, and now he is to go to tea at the vicarage this afternoon. I am most pleased," she finished, and, smiling, sat back in her seat.

"The church is small," Calandra noted.

"It is a country church, Cally, and quite charming," Aurora said. "Certainly there are none larger on Barbados, I'm certain."

"Who cares about Barbados" was her answer. "We've never been anyway, so we cannot know. The churches in London, however, are much bigger than St. Anne's, and far grander."

"Did you go to services in any of them?" Aurora teased her sister. "I mean, before George and I arrived. In fact, if memory serves me, you did not go with us at all while we were in London."

"You couldn't expect me to get up and go to church after having been dancing until dawn most nights," Cally said irritably.

"How fortuitous, then, that you shall not have that problem here in the country," the dowager said sharply. "We attend church each Sunday, Calandra. It is up to us to set an example for our people."

"I thought the vicar's sermon quite good," Aurora said.

"He preaches well," Lady Hawkesworth agreed.

"It was short," Cally said.

Aurora bit her lip to keep from laughing.

The days flew by. Spring had come in all its glory. George had made a success with the Bowens and now rode daily with Betsy, staying away from the hall, and spending more time at the vicarage as the weeks progressed. It was obvious that romance was in the air even if their brother had not said anything yet to confirm their suspicions.

"I think he means to offer for her," Aurora said to Calandra one afternoon as they wrote out the invitations for the ball. "I will miss him when he returns to St. Timothy, won't you?"