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I glance at the books in my basket. “I got to riding and lost track of time.”

“In that beautiful outfit?”

While still lovely, my cream skirt is soiled with bicycle grease. I stifle a moan—unable to immediately think of a single one of my tips and tricks guaranteed to get out that stain. “Yes, it wasn’t my best plan.”

“As Burns wrote, ‘The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men gang aft agley.’”

I blink.

“It means ‘often go awry.’” Her voice lifts in question, about my plans rather than the veracity of her translation.

“Yes, mine do,” I agree and point down the road. “I thought I saw Mrs. Beurton on my ride earlier. Have you been out here long?”

“I’d only just gotten out of the car when you pulled up, but I suppose she could have.” She follows my gaze. “It seems we have two industrious cyclists. Were you trying to catch her?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I saw her earlier, but I may have been mistaken.”

“Hmmm . . .” Lady Marchmont leans against her car and studies me. “I heard in conversation at the book club today that she’s teaching you to bake. It was a wonderful lemon cake you made.”

“She made most of it.”

“Did she? How generous of her. She must be a very good friend.”

“Yes.” The word comes out almost as a question, and I feel the disloyalty of it. “In many ways she has been.”

“Well, don’t give her all the credit, dear. You handled today’s meeting beautifully, and what an interesting selection for our first book. One would think we’d be tired of revisiting the war.”

“I wondered about that myself, then realized it makes some sense. I think we’re still sorting it out.”

“And reconciling ourselves to where we’ve landed.” The words come out quick and piercing. She regards me again, almost as if sizing me up. “Peace accords signed and we are still waiting. Waiting for a bomb to drop, waiting for that tension to either seize us again or finally let us go. Waiting for one side to pick up the guns again, and someone will someday. The Soviets are on the move. The West versus the East. Allies turned to enemies. And so we wait.”

She gestures to my bicycle. “I’m sorry. I’m keeping you from tea and a rest. Would you like a lift back? I do owe you a favor.”

“No, thank you. It’s only a few miles more.”

“You’d best be on your way then.” She straightens. “And thank you, both for the help and for listening so long. Goodness, next time tell me to put a cork in it.”

The image almost makes me laugh. Almost. Instead, I merely reply, “Have a good afternoon, Lady Marchmont.”

I’m back on High Street before I know it, park my bicycle in the store’s bicycle rack, and rush through the back door. Inside, Ursula stands talking with Mr. Hastings.

“Gemma,” he calls sharply. “Where have you been? I thought there must have been an accident.”

I set my stack of books atop the counter and shift my gaze between them. “I’m so sorry. I completely lost track of time.”

“This whole time?” He holds out his wrist. “Two full hours?”

“Peggy—” I stop as I realize I have no idea where Peggy has been these past couple of hours. “Peggy and I washed up and then . . .” A thought occurs to me. “Lady Marchmont was on the side of the road. Her car broke down. She’s okay. I helped to fix it.”

Mr. Hastings looks doubtful, but no more than doubtful, as it’s quite a gambit to throw out the viscountess’s name.

“As long as you’re fine now. We’ll talk about this later.” He gestures to Ursula. “You have a customer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ursula steps forward, calm and poised. Completely unlike the woman I saw earlier. “I came in to put my name down for a book. I’m terribly sorry I missed the meeting, but I heard Brideshead Revisited was chosen?”

“Let me get the order sheet to mark that down.” I circle the customer counter. “Why didn’t you come?”