Prologue
Lushill House
Bromley, England
June 1799
Footsteps, firm and steady, sounded on the stairs. Each one tore at Georgana Woodall’s young heart as she waited in the hall outside the nursery because they brought Papa’s goodbye closer and closer. She brushed her tears away quickly, in case Grandmother was following Papa. Grandmother had no tolerance for tears—from girls of seven or their mothers.
Papa’s handsome face appeared above the steps, then his blue uniform with the gold trim, then his smart black boots. He stopped at the top of the stairs. She held his gaze for a moment, then dropped her eyes back to their comfortable spot on the floor.
Her father went down on one knee. She didn’t look at him until he cupped her chin in his hand. “What are these tears, George?”
Against her will, the corner of Georgana’s mouth ticked upward. “Grandmother does not like it when you call me that.”
“Then it shall be our secret.” He put a finger to his lips, which forced a full grin from her. Papa rarely went against his mother’s commands, and then only by order of the Admiralty.
“Mama doesn’t like it, either.” Georgana didn’t especially like it herself, but she wouldn’t tell him that.
His face softened. “Well, if Mama wishes me not to call you George, I will try to remember.” His hand fell to his side, and he rose to his feet.
Georgana’s throat tightened. It was time for goodbye.
“Come, Georgana,” he said. She waited for him to tell her to be brave. Sometimes he added that to his practiced farewell.
Instead, he caught her up and lifted her to his shoulder.
Georgana let out a squeal, then a giggle through her tears.
“We have time for one last sail before I leave.” His eyes twinkled, the way they sometimes did when Grandmother wasn’t around.
He glanced about to be sure they were alone, then walked quickly to the servants’ stairs. She held on tight, one hand on his epaulet and the other around his head. They emerged from the servants’ quarters into a sun-bathed and silent garden.
“Ready, Captain?” he asked.
Georgana extended her arms out to the sides like yardarms on a mast. Papa stalked forward, slowly rocking back and forth to imitate a ship. She drew in a breath still shaky from her tears. There wasn’t much wind, but she imagined a stiff breeze off the ocean pulling at her dark curls and billowing her dress like a sail.
Someday Papa would take her to sea. Until then, she had to pretend.
A white lace cap appeared above the bushes, cutting a swift path toward them through the rose garden. Georgana’s heart leaped into her throat.
“Storm off the larboard bow.” Her voice came out in a squeak.
Papa halted when he saw Grandmother’s cap. “Hard to starboard,” he said softly.
They were escaping? “Hard to starboard,” Georgana echoed.
Papa wheeled around and dashed for the edge of the house. She bounced against his shoulder, turning her head to see if Grandmother had spotted them. The old woman’s drab gray dress came into view just as Papa rounded the corner.
“Alfred? Georgana?” The shrill sound grated on Georgana’s nerves.
Papa didn’t stop but slowed his pace as they reached the kitchen garden. He started to sway again, exaggerating the motion. “Captain, the wind is too much!”
Georgana giggled as she was tossed from side to side. “Hold steady!”
“I can’t. The gale’s caught us!” He tilted harder, his actions more and more wild until Georgana slipped from his shoulder and into his arms. Her laughter shook loose the tightness in her stomach that had grown in anticipation of the looming goodbye.
Cradling her to his chest, he sat on a nearby bench. “You have a wonderful laugh. Like sunshine on a winter day.”
She liked his laugh, too. She liked the way it made Mama smile. Her smile didn’t come out very often when Papa was gone. Grandmother chased it away.
“Don’t ever lose that laugh, little one.”
Georgana pressed her face into his waistcoat so the words wouldn’t come spewing out. She did lose her laugh. Like Mama’s smile, her laugh stayed locked away when they were left to Grandmother’s charge. Mama said Georgana should never tell Papa about what happened when he was at sea. Mama didn’t want him to worry.
Papa kissed her forehead, his eyes wet. “I love you, George. Someday I will not have to go.”
Someday. It seemed an impossible promise.
He squeezed her tightly and rocked her, gentle as a ship in a quiet harbor. He chewed the corner of his lip. Georgana followed suit until she drew a sad smile to his face with her imitation.
She closed her eyes. For a moment, she forgot his departure, forgot Lushill House, forgot the cruel words waiting on Grandmother’s tongue. She focused on the feel of Papa’s strong, safe arms around her.
All too soon, she was standing on the front steps, holding Mama’s trembling hand, as Papa grasped the carriage door. He paused, then looked back. He tipped his bicorn hat, and Mama choked down a sob.
Then Papa vanished into the coach, and the horses lurched forward, dragging the carriage and Georgana’s father toward Portsmouth and the ocean.
She gritted her teeth against her tears. Perhaps if Grandmother saw her efforts to remain composed, she wouldn’t shout.
The carriage hadn’t cleared the yard before it began.
“Inside.” There was no kindness in Grandmother’s tone. “Back to your studies, Georgana. I will not have the stupidest girl in England for a granddaughter.” Her hard eyes flitted to Mama. “Compose yourself, Susan. Ridiculous outbursts have no place in this house.”
Someday . . .
A flash of gray sleeve preceded Grandmother’s slap. Georgana stumbled back. Mama’s grip on her hand kept her from falling. The stinging flesh of her cheek brought new tears to her eyes.
“Please,” Mama whimpered, “let her alone. She is only—”
“I said to go inside!” Grandmother shrieked.
Georgana looked back to the road as Mama pulled her obediently into the manor. She shuddered as she tried not to cry. If only her father had seen. Maybe they wouldn’t have to live like this.
But Papa’s carriage had turned a corner and was lost in the trees. And all happiness with it.
Chapter 1
Eleven years later
Portsmouth, England
July 1810
Lieutenant Dominic Peyton tried to feel sorrow over his departure, but his efforts were in vain. The ocean’s siren song called him to the window of his study, where he strained for a glimpse of the waters he knew he couldn’t see from this distance, though he thought he could pick out the tips of HMS Deborah’s masts above the rooftops.
Not long now, he told his impatient soul.
The anticipation of boarding a ship again stirred up an excitement he’d striven to quell the last few weeks, in order to not pain Mother.
He regretted leaving his mother, of course. She had no one else but him. Only his concern for her kept him returning to land.
Dominic tucked his bicorn under his arm and took one last look around the study with its neglected books and rows of seashells, rocks, and driftwood lining the shelves. One token for each time his ship had docked since his second year in the navy. Fourteen years of this silly tradition, but his mother still loved it, placing each gift with care.