The Headstrong Ward by Jane Ashford

time. But my new maid has been a great help, and the mother of one of my friends.”
    â€œWho is that?” Lydia cocked her head.
    â€œMrs. Castleton.”
    â€œCastleton.” As Lydia considered this information, Anne was irresistibly reminded of one of the Wrenley dogs from her childhood. That hound had been celebrated for its discriminating sense of smell, as well as for the way it delicately tested the scent, then raised its head and seemed to compare it to all the others it had ever tried. “Is that the Dorset family?” concluded the other girl.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAh. A very good line, and extremely wealthy, I believe.”
    Anne nodded silently. “Speaking of them,” she said, “we must go. I promised to call there this morning, and we have taken up too much of your time already.”
    â€œNot at all,” answered Lydia, but she rose.
    They took their leave of her and of the silent, inexplicable Mrs. Branwell and went downstairs to the carriage. When they had climbed in, Laurence said, “You do like Lydia, do you not?”
    Anne hesitated. She had decided that she did not like Miss Branwell at all, and that Laurence was making a mistake. But to say this would only goad him into defending her and keep him from looking squarely at her deficiencies. She contented herself with, “She seems a thoughtful person.”
    â€œYes.” Laurence leaned forward. “It is very rare, you know, to find a girl who cares about serious things and can discuss them. Most of the London debs I have met are quite empty-headed. Lydia is exceptional.”
    â€œI’m sure she is,” agreed Anne.
    â€œCharles and Edward won’t see that.”
    â€œWell, their opinions don’t really matter, I suppose.” She watched him curiously.
    Laurence frowned. “No. No, of course not.”
    The Castleton town house was not far away. Again, they were admitted at once, but before they could mount the staircase, Arabella appeared on the landing and came running to meet them. “Anne!” she cried, hugging her. “Oh, how glad I am to see you. It seems an age. I called on you yesterday afternoon, but you were out.” She gazed reproachfully up at her friend.
    â€œI’m sorry. If I had known you were coming, I would have stayed home. Arabella, this is Laurence Debenham. Laurence, my friend Miss Arabella Castleton.”
    Arabella held out her hand, flushing a little at having betrayed such exuberance before a stranger. “Come upstairs,” she said. “Mama is there.”
    Mrs. Castleton received them cordially, and they had a quarter hour’s pleasant conversation. Anne retold the story of her visit to Tattersall’s, in much greater detail this time, and soon had Arabella and her mother laughing. Laurence looked on appreciatively, clearly finding Anne’s friend very pretty indeed, and occasionally added a comment on his brother’s judgment of horseflesh. A little later, however, he rose. “You will want some private conversation with Miss Castleton,” he told Anne, “and I have some business nearby. Shall I call for you in an hour, perhaps?”
    â€œYou needn’t trouble, if you don’t care to. I can go home alone in the carriage.”
    â€œNo indeed. In an hour, then.” He took punctilious leave of the Castleton ladies and went out.
    â€œWhat a nice young man,” said Mrs. Castleton. “So thoughtful. One hardly expects that these days.”
    Arabella nodded. “Come up to my room, Anne,” she added, “where we can have a comfortable coze.”
    Her mother laughed. “You may have the drawing room. I must speak to Cook. But really, Arabella, you mustn’t dismiss anyone besides me so abruptly. It would be very rude.”
    The girl’s dark eyes widened. “Mama! I wouldn’t…”
    â€œAll right, dear. Anne, good day. We will see you tonight.”
    When she