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“M-Mr. Blodgett?” gasped Lord Dere, only to turn crimson because how could it be the old temporary footman Blodgett if he stood there in a dress, shawl and lace cap? But how could it not be him, unless Blodgett had a sister who resembled him in every particular except the particular of sex?

Any doubt that they faced one and the same person was dispelled the next instant, however, when Blodgett blundered backward in confusion, with the familiar sound of knees popping like gunshots.

“It is you!” exclaimed Frances. “But what is happening? Who are you, Blodgett?”

Head spinning, Sarah clutched the baron’s arm all the tighter. Blodgett was a woman? But why would Wrigley have been accompanied to Iffley by a woman ? A woman dressed as a man! Why, indeed—unless Wrigley had also been a woman? A woman, dressed as a man.

Wrigley, a woman!

In yet another blow, Sarah remembered Harker’s claim that he had seen Mr. Langworthy and Wrigley either kissing or struggling or both.

In some sort of entanglement which Mr. Langworthy had called a “physical altercation,” and which Mrs. Dere had ominously called “things which might and do take place between men at sea which really cannot be talked about.”

But it seemed neither grasped or told the truth.

For if Wrigley was female, as Blodgett was, then there might very well have been kissing on the Pettypont Bridge, whether Mr. Langworthy admitted it or not. And would he not have all the more reason to dismiss it as a “physical altercation,” if he were trying to protect a woman’s reputation?

Did Mary Pence know Mr. Langworthy carried on a dalliance with her servant? And if she did, did it make her as miserable as it did Sarah?

At least his kissing (Miss) Wrigley ruled out the sort of kissing Mrs. Dere feared, thought Sarah unhappily. Because this would have been plain old, ordinary kissing, such as took place between any pair of young lovers.

Lovers?

These thousand tangled thoughts passed in the seconds it took for the Barstows and Lord Dere to follow the retreating Blodgett inside, but before Sarah could overcome this shock there came a second.

“Who is it, Blodgy?” came a playful, rallying voice. “Are they back?”

“Blodgy” made a wordless gurgle in her throat.

“What did you say?” A head popped into the passage, a bright, red-headed one with keen, pale eyes and a charming grin.

A grin which metamorphosed into an O of astonishment before it was covered by her hand.

Now, the entire purpose of outfitting one’s servants in wigs and livery is to render them uniform and indistinguishable, and thus as invisible as possible.

Lord Dere, therefore, could be forgiven for not drawing an immediate connection between the young lady before them and the footboy Wrigley from Perryfield, Blodgett or no Blodgett.

But Frances had been seated beside Mrs. Dere at dinner, with Wrigley behind Mrs. Dere’s chair, and she at once straightened, her eyes widening. And Sarah—

Sarah had to put a hand to the wall to steady herself. Well!

That answers that question, she thought. Miss Pence would not, in fact, object to Mr. Langworthy kissing Wrigley, unless she objects to Mr. Langworthy kissing her very own self .

It explained more than that. It explained Wrigley’s animosity toward her at the children’s ball—even Wrigley’s presence in Iffley in the first place! She had come to see for herself.

Did this revelation make things better, or worse?

Was it worse to think of Mr. Langworthy kissing Miss Pence’s hoydenish servant, or Mr. Langworthy kissing hoydenish Miss Pence?

(For what other word could describe a young lady who dressed up as a footboy and traipsed across the country with only her aged companion?)

Miss Pence.

By far, it was worse that he had kissed Miss Pence.

He would not be obligated to marry a servant, if he kissed her.

Moreover, though it would undeniably reflect poorly on his character, troubling servants was sadly common behavior and would carry no consequences beyond that.

But kissing Miss Pence—surely they must be engaged again. What of the ensuing struggle, then?

Ah, it made her head hurt.

Her head and her heart.

Miss Pence, however (perhaps because she was far better versed in mischief), was the first to regain her composure, her eyes darting back and forth as she made her own swift calculations.

“My word,” she said cheerily. “Won’t you come in?

I’m sorry my mother is not at home. But I see you have met Miss Blodgett.

Sly Miss Blodgett. What adventures she has been on!

Blodgy, do come and introduce the guests to me.

I suspect they are in search of Horace—that is—Mr. Langworthy—and his little friend. Am I right?”

“Er—yes,” said the baron.

“I thought so. He has told me all about his Iffley acquaintances, and when this Harry Barbary showed up, he said he would write to—some of you—at once. Come in, come in. If Horace—Mr. Langworthy, I mean—has not told you about me, I am Miss Mary Pence.”

Her self-assurance, so complete, disarmed reproof.

Neither Frances nor Sarah found it possible to fly at her with accusations or even to pose challenging questions, and they numbly followed her into her cozy parlor.

Miss Blodgett played her role in this farce as stolidly as she had played her footman role in Iffley, leaving the guests with no alternative but to play theirs.

Because Lord Dere only had to stuff down his confusion over Blodgett, he was the least agitated, but Frances took the seat beside Sarah on the sofa, full against her, that she might relieve her discomposure by nudging and poking her sister-in-law almost continuously.

“You see me working on linens for Harry,” said Miss Pence, holding up various items. “He can hardly go to sea with only the clothes on his back. And boys grow so fast I thought I had better make them a trifle larger than necessary.”

“You—think Harry ought to go, then?” blurted Sarah. “To sea, I mean.”

Miss Pence seemed glad of an excuse to look at her, and it was an effort for Sarah to sustain her gaze. At least the hostility which had characterized Wrigley seemed absent, but Sarah marveled that a girl in Miss Pence’s predicament—in danger of discovery and scandal—should be so cool.

“Oh,” Miss Pence answered with a shrug, “I don’t think he ought to go at all, at his age. But he seems quite determined. And who can blame him? That siren call of adventure, you know.”

“What a lovely home you have here,” said the baron, in an attempt to smooth the unspoken currents in the room. “And in the heart of the town.”

“Thank you.” With a saucy smile she added, “If you’ve already been to Mr. Horatio Langworthy’s home, you know it’s in the heart of the town as well. Though perhaps it is a little less comfortable than ours.”

He gave a half-bow of acknowledgement. “It has been kind of you and your mother to keep Harry.”

“Ha! Well, Mr. Langworthy did not want to ask his uncle to do it because Harry is so harum-scarum. And Mr. Stolles couldn’t, because he’s in a shared room at the George. But tell me—what does Harry’s mother say? I suppose she must want him to come home, if she has sent such a force to recover him!”

Before Mrs. Barbary’s inconsistencies on the matter could be made intelligible, the street door banged open, and Harry Barbary and Mr. Langworthy were the next moment in the room.