Prologue
Boston, Spring 1812 (or a variation thereof)
Nathanial Caswell, younger brother to the Earl of Pembroke by no more than a few minutes, stood in his study, hands linked behind his back and his eyes directed out the window. His gaze moved over the busy street running by the proud townhouse he’d always called home, touching upon familiar sights.
People moved up and down the street, heading to their places of work or to the market. Women walked in small groups, chatting happily as men drew their hats, offering a bow, a smile on their lips. Children raced down the sidewalk, their faces aglow.
Everything looked as it always had.
In truth, nothing had changed, and yet, the world was no longer the same.
Not to Nathanial.
With a deep sigh, Nathanial turned from the window and sat down at his father’s old desk. A part of him wished that his parents were still here as he still longed for their comfort, their advice. Always had he turned to them whenever the world had made him stumble…
…and always had they caught him.
Each and every time.
As parents were wont to do.
Another part of Nathanial, however, felt great shame at the thought of his parents seeing him in such a desolate state, knowing what he had done, what he had not seen coming, what he had been unable to prevent.
In his mind’s eye, Nathanial could still see his father’s ring. It had been a thin gold band with a sparkling emerald in its center, flanked by two smaller diamonds. All his life, Nathanial had seen it upon his mother’s finger, a symbol of their love. Upon her passing, their father had given it to his twin sons for safekeeping to be passed on to the next generation.
Nathanial sighed. If only he hadn’t.
Many years ago, on the day their father had left England behind and traveled to America, his own mother, Nathanial’s and Zachary’s grandmother, had given the ring to him as a farewell gift. Often had their father spoken of his mother, tears in her eyes as she had embraced him for the last time. Often had Nathanial wondered about the grandmother he had never met and now never would. Often had he pictured his father’s aristocratic family an ocean away.
A family who had told him he would fail and come crawling back within the year.
As the second son, Nathanial’s father had broken with tradition and sought to make his own way in the world. He had always been fascinated by machines and new inventions, intrigued by how they could serve to facilitate people’s lives. He’d come to Boston and worked hard to build something for himself.
And he had.
Today, Caswell Iron Furnace was a flourishing company with connections up and down the entire east coast. It was his father’s legacy, and Nathanial had always worked hard to make him proud.
If only I hadn’t been such a fool.
Hanging his head, Nathanial let his gaze sweep over the empty parchment in front of him. The thought of sharing his greatest shame with his brother, the new Earl of Pembroke after their uncle had died without an heir, broke his heart and brought with it a sense of deepest mortification. He had failed them.
He had failed them all.
Inhaling a deep breath, Nathanial reached for the quill, gently setting the tip to the soft parchment. His thoughts ran rampant, but he knew he needed to focus. His brother deserved to know. He was the only one who might be able to retrieve their father’s ring.
Dearest Zachary,
In all likelihood, you opened this letter, expecting to read details with regard to my upcoming nuptials. Unfortunately, quite the opposite is the case, and I apologize for placing this burden upon your shoulders. I wish I could share with you good news, but life will not have it so.
Nathanial’s hand tensed on the delicate quill as his thoughts strayed to his former fiancée, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. They had known each other for many years as her father owned another equally successful iron furnace company down the coast. Always had the two families been close, no sense of competition between them, but rather the idea of one day uniting the two companies.
It had seemed like Fate herself had spoken when Nathanial and Abigail had lost their hearts to one another, the future shining more brightly than they had ever thought possible.
Perhaps too brightly.
Gritting his teeth, Nathanial turned his attention back to the words on the page, determined to finish this painful letter today and not prolong the misery it brought him to another.
Words cannot express the sorrow and shame that now live in my chest. I’d thought Abigail a different woman, indeed. I’d thought her heart mine, mine alone. Unfortunately, it seems I was thoroughly mistaken.
As I would make a request of you, dear brother, you deserve to know the fullness of this devastating affair.
A few weeks past, an English lord came to Boston and was paraded around society with the utmost delight. He possessed a charming smile as well as pleasing manners, but as has become clear now also a black soul.
As far as I was able to deduce, he flattered Abigail, complimented her and whispered to her of marriage and taking her back to England to be his lady. I know now that Abigail was not the only woman he said these words to; neither was she the only one who believed them.
This man, who goes by the name of Lord Mortimer, asked for a token of her affection and, to my great shame and utter sadness, Abigail offered him the ring I’d given her.
Father’s ring.
Then she severed all ties with me, certain to be an English lady before the year was out. However, as far as I was able to ascertain, Lord Mortimer left Boston not three months past—without Abigail or any of the other young women he had courted.
Shame is now my constant companion, for the thought of Father’s ring in that man’s possession turns my stomach and chills my blood. Please, Brother, if possible, do what you can to retrieve it. Not for me, for I do not believe I shall attempt to open my heart to another ever again. Nor do I believe I deserve to have Father’s ring returned to me.
But you do.
Retrieve it and offer it to the woman of your choice. I pray it will be a wiser one than my own.
Your brother,
Nathanial
Leaning back in his father’s old chair, Nathanial felt fatigued. His heart was hammering as though he’d spent his day working in the iron furnace, familiarizing himself with each step of the production process as his father had taught him. Still, there was no sense of pride mingling with the physical exhaustion he knew well.
Instead, the by now familiar bitterness lingered upon every thought, especially those that could not help but turn to the woman who’d broken his heart in the worst possible way.
How had this happened?
Always had Abigail seemed like the sun to him, her golden tresses aglow with light and brilliance. Her radiant smile had often threatened to bring him to his knees, and he remembered well the way her eyes had misted when he’d presented her with his father’s ring and asked for her hand. A deep smile had come to her lovely face, and she’d thrown herself into his arms with a joyful sob escaping her lips.
They’d been happy, had they not?
How could he have been so mistaken? How could he have not seen that her heart had not belonged to him? Not truly, at least. Had he merely been a consolation prize? Had her father pressured her into accepting his hand?
After Lord Mortimer had returned to England without making good on any of his promises, Mr. Spencer, Abigail’s father, had paid Nathanial a visit. He’d apologized on his daughter’s behalf and assured him that all had merely been a mistake. He had wanted for their nuptials to go ahead as planned.