Dedication
This novel is dedicated to KBR and KC—with gratitude
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Acclaim for Sarah E. Ladd
Also by Sarah E. Ladd
Copyright
Prologue
Denton School for Young Ladies
Lamby, England
Autumn 1811
Harboring anger against a woman on her deathbed was wrong. Cassandra Hale knew it to be true. How could any sensible, benevolent human feel anything but compassion for the dying?
Yet as she stared down at the woman who had been like a mother to her, indignation flared within Cassandra’s chest. The words spoken just minutes ago had confirmed the unthinkable.
She’d been betrayed. Lied to. For her entire life.
One might surmise that Mrs. Denton had been speaking from her fever or was delirious with sickness. And yet, despite her illness, she was quite lucid.
A biting wind whipped its way through the open bedchamber window, as if eager to divulge its opinion of the current situation. It fluttered the curtains and stole into the room’s corners. Eager for a diversion, Cassandra stood from her chair next to the bed and moved to the window. She nudged the heavy wool curtain aside and gripped the painted sash, preparing to close it, then stopped. The black murkiness of a stormy night met her. She squeezed her eyes shut as the cool air buffeted her face, her neck, her arms.
She shivered in spite of the fury raging within her.
This can’t be true. None of it.
“Come here, Cassandra.” The voice, even in its frailty, boasted an authority that would snap even the most iron-willed to attention. “I’ve more to tell you.”
“More?” Cassandra scoffed and slammed the sash closed with more strength than she’d intended, then pivoted away from the window. “I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
“Even so, it must be said. And you need to hear it before I’m gone.”
Summoning fortitude, Cassandra returned to the bed and made herself gaze upon Mrs. Denton once more. The gaunt woman, a mere shadow of her former self, lay beneath thin white linens. She’d always been petite and wiry, but now those physical attributes worked against her, making her appear feeble and weak.
Life would not linger in her long.
Grief seized Cassandra in its numbing grip, forcing her anger at bay.
Oh, if only Mrs. Denton had shared this information sooner!
It had been nineteen years since Cassandra first arrived at Denton School for Young Ladies when she was but five years of age. In all the years she’d been acquainted with the headmistress, first as a student and then as a teacher, she’d known—nay, believed—Mrs. Jane Denton to be honest, loyal, worthy of every esteem. Never had Cassandra known her to misrepresent the truth or bend facts to suit her needs.
Until this moment.
A struggle raged within Cassandra—a devastating struggle between the need to respect the woman who’d raised her and the compulsion to demand the truth.
“You’re furious with me. ’Tis understandable. But what have I told you time and time again? Such emotion will only cloud your judgment and diminish your ability to react rationally. You must listen to me now.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Cassandra faltered, willing her tone to remain steady when it so earnestly insisted on brashness. “You told me you didn’t know who my parents were or if they were even living. You declared so numerous times.”
Mrs. Denton’s sparse eyebrows rose, even as her chin remained tilted proudly, defiantly. “I told you only what was necessary. To protect you. To protect . . . others. I made a vow.”
“A vow? To whom?”
Mrs. Denton’s icy eyes sharpened with conviction. “That, I cannot say.”
Cassandra’s heart pounded. “Then why say anything if you are unwilling to divulge the entire truth? All these years I trusted you when you said—”
Airy coughs racked the older woman’s body, silencing Cassandra with their severity. In a single instant Mrs. Denton’s vulnerability and fragility reappeared, reminding Cassandra of just how afflicted the woman was. She retrieved a fresh handkerchief, drew close to her former headmistress, and pressed the embroidered fabric into her wrinkled hand.
After the coughing fit subsided, Mrs. Denton’s head lolled back against the pillow. “There, on the bureau. That letter is for you.”
With her attention redirected, Cassandra approached the mahogany chest of drawers. The missive’s red wax seal was broken, and when she lifted the letter, money shifted from within, nearly dropping to the ground.
“That is yours,” whispered Mrs. Denton. “Take it.”
Cassandra stared at the banknotes balanced on her palm. “But I—”
“Take the money, read the letter, and I’ll say no more on the matter.” Violent coughs seized her body, and she pressed the cloth to her mouth. “Now I’ve nothing to regret.”
Cassandra cringed at the sight of the crimson stain on the handkerchief.
Blood.
“Mr. Duncan!”
The surgeon, who’d been waiting in the corridor, rushed in at Cassandra’s call, pushed past her, and hastened to the bed. “You must leave now, Miss Hale.”
She heard the order but could not move. Panic, even more powerful than betrayal’s sting, paralyzed her.
“Leave, now! And send the housekeeper for the vicar.”
Cassandra staggered backward, as if the earth shifted beneath her feet. She promptly located the housekeeper, sent the woman on her task, and retreated to the darkened corridor outside of the sickroom. For where else could she possibly go?
As she paced the narrow space, the uneven wooden floor groaned beneath her weight, as if commiserating in her agony. She strained to hear anything from within the chamber, but all was quiet.
Now, with nothing left to do but wait, a rare, solitary tear slid down her cheek. In the last quarter of an hour, everything Cassandra thought she knew about her life had changed, and in the coming hours, there would be no returning.
She swiped away the moisture with her long cambric sleeve, unfolded the letter, and held it up to the candlelight flickering from the sconce.
My Dear Cassandra,
You must forgive the silence these many years, but surely you understand that some situations are delicate. I have a great deal of information to share with you about your family. Circumstances have evolved, and now the time has come when we may speak of such things. I sincerely hope that doors that have been closed may open.