Chapter One
Brighton, England, 1820
My fingers held the last chord on the pianoforte a beat longer than necessary. Another morning filled with Father’s song. When he was alive, I’d play the music over and over while he read his correspondence in the morning, and he’d hum along to the rise and fall of the melody. If I played just right, I could almost hear him still, almost feel that same exhilaration that comes from childhood, where worries are few and the future full of hope.
But the end of the song and the strike of the clock meant it was time to prepare for my stepfather, Lord Gray, who would be returning soon from his daily bath in the sea, and I was loath to give up my freedom.
Tucking in the bench, I picked up my stitching basket from the window seat where I’d been working earlier. I carefully collected each wayward thread, making sure to leave the cushion as clean and as plush as I’d found it.
Golden light streamed through the glass, beckoning me to tarry. Lifting my face to feel the sun’s warmth, my eyes instinctively sought out the Royal Pavilion framed inside the uppermost right corner of the window. The building sat upon the hill a quarter mile from Gray House, its exotic domes and minarets piercing the clear England sky. What I wouldn’t give to walk inside those walls, to feel the security and ease that must come from a life of such grandeur.
“Brighton is a bit different from London, is it not?” Clara’s reflection met mine in the window.
“A bit more eccentric, to be sure.” I turned to face my younger sister. “But far less crowded, I’ll give it that.”
Clara sighed. “Would you believe I miss the Season already? The society, the dinners, dancing until morning . . .” A smile touched her eyes, a first since we’d arrived back in Brighton three weeks before.
I let out a happy sigh of my own. “And falling asleep in the coach to the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone.” When had I ever fallen asleep so easily? Years ago, perhaps. Before life struck us with spades and dug up our roots.
Clara bit her lip. “I thought for sure we’d hear from . . . someone.”
“We shall.” I squeezed her arm, offering her my most genuine smile. But the words rang false to my ears. Three weeks with no calls. We’d met plenty of eligible gentlemen who lived within easy distance to Gray House, but still, our door was silent.
“Amelia,” Clara’s voice was small. “What will we do if . . . What will happen if neither of us marries before—”
“Do not worry over such things.” I tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Worrying was my responsibility.
“Lord Gray has worsened since our return. His coughing never ceases.” Clara’s eyes were pained, her voice dejected.
“He promised Mama he would see to our security. For all his faults, and for all his resentment toward us, he loved her. We must trust he will see his promise through.”
Clara looked down, unconvinced.
“Did he not give us a Season? And your dress—we haven’t had new dresses like these in years.”
Heaven knew I’d endured headaches for a week from all his shouting when I’d pled our case. But if I could convince the man to fund both our Season and new gowns certainly I could convince him to use his connections to our benefit. Couldn’t I?
Clara tugged on a loose curl by her ear. “Aunt Evelyn nearly ripped my silk gown to pieces when she saw it.”
“Do not call her that. She is hardly our aunt.” I frowned. Lord Gray’s family did not claim us so why should we claim them?
Evelyn had been our chaperone, meeting us in London only because Lord Gray paid her royally for the task. Yet she’d kept us behind her heavy elbow at every introduction, her prized daughter directly in front of us. I had to crane my neck around Catherine’s curls every night to carry any semblance of a conversation, forcing smiles while Evelyn told nearly every gentleman who’d inquired after my dance card that I was either too sickly or too overtired to exert myself. Catherine, however, willingly obliged every one of my suitors.
My cheeks colored at the memory. Why had I been so quiet? So timid and so easily tossed aside? Never again.
Straightening from the window, I refocused my thoughts. “Where have you been this morning? I did not hear you come in.”
“Mary accompanied me on a walk along the shore. I thought perhaps the ocean could lift my spirits. The sunrise over the Channel was breathtaking.” Clara’s smile faded, and I caught her gaze lingering on the Pavilion for a moment. Her eyes looked sad and hopeless.
My heart fell at the thought of her longing for something out of her reach. Knowing my sister—the peacekeeper, the kindest, gentlest woman I’d ever met—felt trapped in a life forced upon her was nearly more than I could bear. Mama had married Lord Gray after Father’s death to relieve us of such burdens. Only it hadn’t worked that way; our worries only escalated after she too was taken from us. And now it was my job alone to ensure Clara’s happiness. Clara’s success in society. Clara’s future.
“Lord Gray is not far behind me, I’m afraid,” Clara said flatly, breaking the trance that held us at the window.
I drew a heavy breath, and the familiar scent of stale smoke in the air brought me back to the present. “Then we must be quick.” I squeezed her arm and tugged her alongside me.
Preparing for our stepfather was like preparing to walk onto a battlefield. His newspaper needed adjusting, his pillows fluffed, and his cigar box at the ready. The slightest misstep—from dropping a book to walking too heavily across the floor— could anger him.
Sewing basket in hand, I scanned my surroundings for anything out of place. No one could find fault in this room. But Lord Gray would. That much was certain.
As though on cue, the drawing room doors flew open with a bang that echoed through the house. Lord Gray stomped in with shoulders hunched, eyes set on his dark chair in the back corner.
“Where is my cigar?” He bellowed hoarsely.
“Just here.” I set my basket on the window seat and fetched Lord Gray’s cigar box from under the newspaper beside his chair. His habits were the same every afternoon, but he’d only started smoking in the drawing room since our return from London. Though I hated the smell of the smoke, and even more how it lingered on my clothes and in my hair, neither Clara nor I dared mention a word to him.
“How was sea bathing today, Stepfather?” I asked, my shoulders tensed.
“Cold,” he muttered. Barely bothering to clip the head, he lit a match and took a long pull from his cigar. He finally seemed to relax as he fell into his gray velvet chair.
“Shall I fetch some tea?” Clara’s voice sounded small, pinched.
“No,” Lord Gray growled. Without warning, he curled into himself, an alarming wheeze lifting his back up and down, up and down, followed by a deep, retching cough that rattled his breath. All was silent for a beat, and then, like the rush of an ocean wave, his voice crashed upon us. “What on earth are you doing standing around? Is there not work to be done? Look at this room, the absolute shame of it! If anyone of matter came into Gray House, they would think we live like rats.”