Page 3 of A Duchess for his Family

“Now put your foot where mine is, but do it very slowly.”

“I am excellent at climbing,” Marjorie informed her, though her voice wobbled.

“I have no doubt. At present, we shall discover whether you are equally excellent at descending.”

That drew the faintest spark back into the child’s eyes. Together, inch by careful inch, Sophia guided her from the treacherous height to the lower branches.

Once Marjorie was close enough, Sophia turned and helped her down first, then descended with much less grace than she had used to climb. Her slipper slipped on the last bit of bark, and she landed with a jolt that sent mud to the hem of her gown. For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Marjorie flung her arms around Sophia’s waist.

“Thank you,” she said, muffled against Sophia’s dress.

Sophia, startled almost as much by the embrace as by the fall, looked down at the disordered little head pressed to her. Something warm and unexpected moved in her chest.

“You are welcome,” she smiled gently.

Marjorie drew back at once, as if remembering she preferred boldness to gratitude. “I should likely have managed it myself eventually.”

“No,” said the other girl.

Marjorie glanced at her. “Possibly.”

“No,” the girl repeated, with quiet firmness.

Sophia bent to retrieve her bonnet, which slipped from her wrist and lay upon the grass in a defeated heap. “My name is Sophia Norton.”

“I am Marjorie Langley,” said the adventurous one, recovering magnificently. She gave something between a curtsy and a bounce. “And that is Amelia.”

Sophia tried to look stern and found it more difficult than expected. “Lady Marjorie, you should not climb trees from which you cannot safely descend.”

Marjorie’s answering grin was dazzling. “Then I shall practice descending.”

“That was not the lesson I intended.”

Amelia looked mortified. “We are very sorry for the trouble, Miss Norton. Truly. Marjorie did not mean to frighten anyone.”

“I meant to climb,” Marjorie grinned. “The fright was accidental.”

“There is a distinction,” Amelia added apologetically, “though not always a useful one.”

Sophia looked between them, with astonishment softening into delight. It was impossible that two children could possess the same face and make such opposite use of it.

Marjorie’s every movement seemed to announce itself. Her hands flew when she spoke, her eyes flashed toward every branch as if considering a rematch, and even her muddy shoe appeared proud of its disgrace.

Amelia stood close by, composed and careful, smoothing the ribbon of her bonnet with nervous fingers while watching her sister as one might watch a candle too near the curtains. Sophia felt, absurdly, as if she had opened a book at the most interesting chapter.

“You are twins,” she mused.

“Yes,” Marjorie replied. “But I am the older one.”

“By seven minutes,” Amelia said.

“Seven minutes is a great deal of time in an emergency.”

“It was not an emergency when you were born.”

“It might have been.”

Sophia laughed before she could prevent it. The sound surprised her. She expected to spend the afternoon invisible beneath a tree. Instead, she stood with mud on her hem, bark on her palms, and two strange children watching her as though she had, by accident, become part of their adventure.