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bound!”
    â€œDearest,” said Rosamond worriedly, straightening her skirts, “I cannot believe that! Deborah adored Hal. You know how she grieved. There must be some simple explanation, and when she comes home, she will tell us.”
    â€œSimple explanation?” echoed her aunt awfully. “How could there be a simple explanation for a young lady of Quality to have vanished for two whole months? Aunt Caroline has not seen the chit, for you recall how she harped and harped about Debbie not having had the courtesy to visit Copenhagen. We met most of the rest of the aunts and cousins and so forth at Maria’s ball and everyone enquired after Deborah—they enquired, miss! Had they seen her, they would have told us so.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    Estelle flung up one hand. “There is no yes. There is no but. Do you know what there is, Rosa? Do you know what there is? She has ruined herself, is what she’s done! Our little Debbie has ruined herself!”
    Mutually appalled, they stared at each other.
    Rosamond said miserably, “Never say so. Surely, ’tis just a misunderstanding, and when Cousin Louis brings her back from Italy, Deb will laugh at us for—”
    â€œAnd will she laugh at those letters, Rosa? Ah! You have forgot them, I see! Your dear papa and Violet Singleton both have had letters from the minx! Supposedly sent from the Hôtel de Fontblanque at a time when we now have learned she was not there! Debbie writ them, for I know her hand. So someone must have sent them for her!” She clutched her pale cheeks and, genuinely heartsick, moaned, “Is a long-considered plot, do you see? Oh Lud, oh Lud! Whatever am I to tell the colonel? He will be so enraged. So enraged! ”
    Rosamond bit her lip. It was utterly incomprehensible. Deborah was the dearest girl, not at all hoydenish, and so cast down over her brother’s death that one would think a romantic tryst the farthest thing from her mind. ‘If ’tis truth,’ she thought miserably, ‘and she has run away with some ineligible Parisian gentleman, ’twill break poor Charles’s heart!’ But it could not be true. There simply must be some reasonable explanation. She said in desperation, “Why must you tell my father anything, dear ma’am? As you yourself so cleverly pointed out, we are without maids to gossip about it, and—”
    â€œClever, is it?” Mrs. Estelle gave an indignant exclamation. “ Somebody will say something, wicked child! Mark my words, someone will speak. And how can you—the sister of a clergyman— Which is another thing, Rosamond. Think of poor Charles, gazing at Deborah like a sick calf every time he comes near her. Your papa knows your brother hopes to fix his interest with her. Much chance Charles will have now! Much chance he will have!”
    â€œAll the more reason why we must say nothing, best of all aunts. Not yet, at least. Charles has lost his dearest friend. He must not now lose his love. He has such hopes.” Rosamond wrung her hands and said anxiously, “If only we had delayed long enough to go down to Italy with Cousin Louis and see Deb! We could have learned what happened and brought her back with us.”
    â€œLouis will bring her back. If she is there! But suppose we had gone with him only to find she is cavorting off somewhere again? There would have been more money wasted—and I’ll confess I have already spent far more than your father allowed, so that I’ve had to borrow from Maria! Besides which, Lennox would have been properly in the mopes because we could not possibly have gone to Italy and still reached home in time for his birthday.
    Rosamond sighed. “Yes, bless him. For all his bluster, Papa is so soft-hearted. Only—dear aunt, I beg you not to tell him about Deb! After all, we really do not know—”
    â€œAre you sure we do not, Miss Slyboots? You and