Chapter 1

L
In which a sensible young lady must choose between e
peril of a careening carriage and mud . . . deep mud

ad Miss Lydia Whitfield of Roseberry Hall been of a

skittish nature, the sound of a rapidly approaching carriage would have caused considerable anxiety. As it was, the clatter
behind her did nothing to stay her steps. Besides, she recognized
the bells on Esmes harness and Turnips nicker of protestpoor
creature hated to canter. The vehicle could be none other than
the family landau.
However, as the nickering changed from protest to panic,
Lydia was certain the carriage was now descending the steep hill
too quickly. The road from Spelding was rocky and rutted, especially in the spring, and it made for a rough ride. Most drivers
took it at a walk.
But not this driver.
With a glance over her shoulder, Lydia ascertained that said

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person was none other than Uncle Arthur. While the distance
between them prevented a close examination of his facial features,
there was no doubting the tension in the rigid way he held himself.
Uncle was in a mood.
With a sigh, Lydia frowned at the pretty rill beside her as it
babbled its way down to the bottom of the hill. She was less than
enthused with the idea of stepping off the road and into the deep
mud. Instead, she quickened her pace. The rill veered away from
the road around the curve, a more promising spot to allow a carriage to pass. She was confident she could make it to the turn
before the landau barreled down on her.
As she hastened to safety, Lydia was surprised by a small sound
as it broke through the noisy approach of her uncle. But then,
the sound wasnt really that small.
It was a shout.
Lifting her head, Lydia examined the road ahead of her.
The scene was nature at its finest, for not a house, chimney, or
steeple was in sight. Even the sizable gates to Roseberry Hall were
hidden around the corner. Past the entrance, the road rose again,
coming back into sight from where she stood, and it was there
that Lydia spied a carriage and an occupant.
It was a smaller vehicle than the one rumbling behind her . . .
a gig, perhaps; it was hard to tell exactly from this distance. And
the driver appeared to be a gentleman of indiscernible ageagain,
because her squint could not render the figure any clearer. Still, it
was definitely not a woman.
There seemed to be a problem of some sort, for the man was
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standing in his gignot a wise thing to do even on the smoothest of roads. And he was waving. Rather frantically.
Lydia waved back to acknowledge the hail and increased her
pace even more. As she did, she noted that the stranger dropped
back onto his seat and flicked the reins, setting his horse at a quick
trot. Trying to understand what necessitated this untoward
greeting, Lydia considered the possibility that he might be lost or
injured in some way. She would know soon enough, for their paths
would meet just around the corner.
However, Lydia could tell by the increasing noise behind her
that she did not have enough time to reach the dry ledge before
the landau would be upon her. She was forced into the ditch
and the mud. Though she saved her skirts from the worst of it by
lifting them higher than was seemly, her boots were covered in
sticky brown goo clear up to her ankles. She was not best pleased.
As Lydia watched her uncle rush past, she was surprised he
did not slow for the corner, taking it at a dangerous clip. Surprise
turned into concern when she realized his anger was affecting his
driving erratic and ill-considered. Did he see the other carriage
up ahead? The narrowness of the road would require one driver
to give way, but at that speed, would either be able to react quickly
enough?
The answer was not long in coming. The sound of a collision
reached Lydia just before she rounded the corner. Horrified for
men and horses, Lydia lifted her worsted Pomona green skirt even
higher and ran.
The sight of the two carriages sitting on opposite sides of the
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road was at first a great relief. Both men were atop their seats, and
the horses were neither down nor screaming in fright. However,
with closer scrutiny, it became clear that the gigwhile veering
righthad broken its wheel on a collection of rocks and was listing rather dramatically, threatening to dump the driver onto the
road. The stranger jumped of his own accord, likely preferring to
land on his feet rather than allow gravity to deposit him in an
undignified sprawl.
Uncles carriageor rather the Roseberry Hall landauhad
fared better when it veered off the road, although its cargo had
not. A large box, which must have been on the seat beside him,
had slid to the ground, throwing the cover and contents into
the rill. It was to this that Uncle Arthur was pointing when Lydia
hastened toward him.
There, Lydia, I hope you are happy. I was bringing you a surprise, a pretty little peace offering, a gift for your birthday. And
you ruined it. Yet again your obstinacy and disregard for anyone
but yourself has brought about a disaster.
Other than slowing her pace, Lydia did not know how to react
to such a speech. It was laden with so much injustice that she could
only stare in wonderment and question Uncles grasp of reality.
The accident had not been her doing; it had been his excessive
speed. Had the road been clear of pedestrians or other carriages,
his speed would still have made negotiating the turn without mishap near impossible.
Then there was his reference to obstinacy and disregard for
others. Never had she been so accused. Her sister, Ivywho was
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as stubborn as the day was long carried that trait proudly on

her ten-year-old shoulders. And as to disregard for otherswell,
perhaps he should look in the mirror, for he himself wore that
characteristic, and it fit like a glove.
As to the peace offering/surprise/birthday gift, well, that, too,
made no sense. It could not be all three things at once. . . . And
to make matters worse, the gift was nothing more than an allusion to what he perceived as her immaturity. For as Lydias gaze
followed the pointing finger, she saw that a large, exquisitely
dressed porcelain doll stared up at her with its one unbroken eye.
This was not a present for a young lady about to turn eighteen
but for a girl of ten or eleven. In short, it was a mockery.
Anger and insult fought for supremacy and control of her
tongue, leaving Lydia momentarily at a loss for words. Fortunately,
Uncle was too wrapped up in his own emotional swirl to take
advantage of Lydias unusual speechless state.
There. Its all yours. I hope you enjoy it, Uncle Arthur
shouted in hypocrisy. And then with a great huff, and in complete indifference to the young man he had just run off the road,
her uncle dropped back onto the seat and flicked the reins. Esme
and Turnip reacted immediately, trotting through the Roseberry
Hall gates and quickly disappearing down the long drive.
I am terribly sorry your, um, present has been ruined.
Lydia started. She had momentarily forgotten about the
stranger and looked up with surprise. Finding him standing a little
too close, Lydia back-stepped off the side of the road and would
have rolled her ankle had he not reached out to steady her.
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It was all so naturally done that when she met his eyes, she
was comforted rather than embarrassed by his touch. Im sorry,
he said again, only this time Lydia was certain he was referring
to scaring her rather than sympathizing about the disastrous doll.
The well-dressed gentleman looked to be twenty at most, with
dark, wavy hair brushed forward in a windswept look. The style
served to accent his square jaw and Grecian nose. A classic example of tall, dark, and handsome, and yet it was his eyes that were
his most arresting feature. It wasnt the colorfor they were an
ordinary shade of brownor the shape. No, it was the emotion
emanating from them. Deep set under heavy brows, his kindness
shone through, blanketing her, filling her with the calm she had
struggled for not minutes earlier.
Charming fellow. Relative of yours? The stranger jerked his
head toward the gates. Seems a might dicked in the nob.
Yes, Im afraid I have to claim him. An unclemy mothers
brother.
Drives like a demon, but he did bring you a present. Pivoting,
they both stared back down at the figure on the soggy ground.
Very nice of him. Do you collect dolls? Large, frilly ones?
The poor thing was covered in mud, the delicate lace dress
was ripped, and the right side of its face was smashed. There would
be no recovery from this accident.
I did once.
Im afraid shes quite done for.
His words sounded so tragic that Lydia looked up to reassure
him . . . and noticed his laughing eyes. I think the doll was not
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bought out of charity but spitemeant to put me in my place, so

to speak. Reestablish the pecking order, she said with no little
asperity.
Not terribly subtle.
No, but then tact and delicacy have never found a home in
Uncle. Lydia didnt usually speak so freely.
Strangers were few and far between in this little corner of
Somerset, but Lydia found the unfamiliar territory quite pleasant. In fact, Lydia might go so far as to say exhilarating. She quite
enjoyed the intensity of the strangers gaze whenever their eyes
met, and her sudden shortness of breath was not in the least alarming. Perhaps she should cultivate more encounters with strangers
if this were to be the result.
They stood some moments watching the dirty water seep
farther up the dolls white lace, and then Lydia sighed and turned
toward the mans gig. It was a functional sort of carriage
ratherthan showy. With burgundy leather seats and a folded black
hood, it was well adapted to reasonable distances in a variety of
weather conditions. However, one of its two wheels was splintered and wedged up the side of the incline; the man would not
be traveling any farther todayat least, not in this vehicle.
I am not an expert, but I do believe your carriage is in need
of repair. Lydia scrunched up her nose and shook her head for
emphasis. Were you going much farther? The village of Spelding
is within walking distance, but it will take you the better part of
half an hour to get there. I can offer you a pause at Roseberry,
should you wish us to attempt the repair. It is the least we could
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do considering UncleWell, our coachman, Mr.Hodge, is quite

handy with this sort of happenstance.
This sort of happenstance? Pushing strangers off the road?
Does it occur that often?
No. You would be the first traveler abjectly affected by my
uncles ill humor.
My luck, I suppose.
Lydia shrugged with a hint of a smile on her lipsan
apology of sorts without using words. He seemed to be the sort
of young man who understood these types of indications. Then
she recalled the waving and his hurried approach. Was there
some sort of urgency to your journey? His expression indicated
confusion, so she quickly explained. When I first saw you across
the vale, you were standing in your gig, wavingin what I thought
was a worrisome manner.
Ah, yes. That.
That? Was there a problem?
Oh, most definitely. I was trying to warn you about the carriage, the one behind you. I could see it racing down the road. . . .
And your back was turned.
Oh, you mean the large, heavy carriage that clattered and
clanked and rumbled so noisily that it might have woken the
dead?
Yes, that would be the one.
I was somewhat aware of its approach.
Yes, so I gathered.

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I do appreciate the gallantry, though.

The stranger bowed. It was my pleasure.
Lydia shifted her stance and tried to ignore the flush that was
working its way up her cheeks. She did not lean toward the stammers and blushes of most young ladies her age and was surprised
by her racing heart. Likely caused by too much sun . . . or an
awareness that time was passing. Yes, that was it. She could dawdle no longer by the side of the road; if she didnt return soon,
there would be abject consternationwell, curiosity at the very
least.
With renewed focus, Lydia turned the conversation back to
the problem of the carriage wheel. Would you like Mr.Hodge
to take a look at your gig?
She waited, giving him time to decide. She rather hoped that
he would take up her offer; he was quite personable and didnt
upset her sensibilities whatsoever. There would be shock and disapproval at Roseberry should she return with a stranger in tow,
but an occasional deviation from the norm was good for ones
character . . . as long as ones actions never hinted of inconstancy.
Lydia was certain she could never be so accused.
Hunkering down, the man checked the underside of his gig.
It might not be an easy fix; the axle might need to be replaced
as well.
All the more reason not to try for Spelding. Lydia leaned
across the gigs seat. She grabbed the reins and then secured them
to a nearby bush. Ill have Jeremy fetch the horse, and we can

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leave the carriage in Mr.Hodges capable hands a very competent man in regard to coaches and carriages. He wont steer you
wrong.
Standing back up, the man dusted his hands together in a
slow, deliberate move. When he looked up, meeting her gaze, he
nodded. Well, it would be most convenient as Roseberry Hall
was my destination.
Lydia frowned, straightened her back, and unconsciously
lifted her chin. Really, sir? You are expected at Roseberry Hall?
Might you be Miss Lydia Whitfield?
I might be. Lydia was uncomfortable with such a personal
question issued from the lips of a stranger, no matter how handsome and gallant. It just wasnt done.
Excellent, most excellent. The gentleman nodded, seemingly
unaware of her sudden uneasiness. I had hoped for a proper
introduction. This is a little awkward, but one must make the best
of a bad . . . or rather an inelegant . . . situation, dont you think?
As he spoke, the stranger reached inside his caped coat.
I have here a letter of introduction. I was expecting to give it
to your uncle, Mr.Kemble. Glancing at the gate again, where
Uncle Arthur had disappeared, the young gentleman hesitated a
moment and then continued. But I think in these circumstances,
I had best give it to you directly.
Indeed? Lydia was flummoxed. This was highly irregular;
all delicacy dictated that she . . . that she . . . bother! The situation was such that she had no precedent on which to lean. She
was quite at a loss.
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From Mr.Alfred Lynch.

Lydias hand went out instantly, but she slowed it just enough
to take the letter with great dignity and solemn interest. Mr.Lynch
of Bath? My solicitor?
One and the same.
The letter was not long and took mere seconds to peruse. You
are Mr.Newton? Mr.Robert Newton? Mr.Lynchs clerk?
Mr.Newton leaned forward, looking down at the paper as
if he were going to read it upside down. Clerk? Is that what he
calls me?
Edging back, Lydia instinctively pulled the letter to her bodice. Are you not his clerk?
Well, I am. But he offered me an apprenticeship just
lastweek. Though I will admit he did not state exactly when
it was to begin. Still, he might have referred to me as an
apprentice-in-waiting.
A somewhat unwieldy title.
True enough. Though its more likely that he forgot.
Seems unlikely. The mans mind is as sharp as a tack.
Been a while since youve seen him?
At my fathers funeral, three years ago. Not that long.
Yes, well . . . a lot can happen in three years.
Lydia thought about how much her life had changed and
reluctantly agreedthough silently. Mr.Lynchs letter does not
explain why you are here to visit us.
No, it does not.
Lydia waited for him to continue, but he didnt seem disposed
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to enlighten her. So why have you come all the way from Bath
to Roseberry Hall, Mr.Newton?
Bath isnt all that far. It only took me a couple of hours. He
glanced over at his gig and shrugged. Would have been faster on
horseback, but Mr.Lynch did insist. Thought it looked better.
More official.
Lydias heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed with a little
difficulty. Do you need to look official?
In some eyes, yes, I would say so.
You arent being very clear, Mr.Newton. Rather cryptic.
Mr.Lynch said you were clever.
And so it was that Lydia stood on the side of Spelding Road
just outside her own gates, observing that the day had grown chilly
and that the splash of the rill was rather boisterous, in a less than
charming manner. Had she been of the right disposition, she might
have snapped at Mr.Newton for his uninformative conversation.
She was now overburdened with thoughts of tardiness and broken
wheels while her solicitors emissary thought nothing of being
mysterious.
Perhaps Mr.Newton didnt realize that an official visit from
a solicitor had preceded the retrenchment of several households
in the area. Or he might not know that Mr.Pibsbury, the estate
land agent, had just retired and that a ninny had been hired in
his stead. Still further, he might not know that arriving without
an invitation or warning was highly irregular and boded ill.
And as those thoughts passed through her mind, Lydia hit
upon another possibilitya reasonable and nonapocalyptic
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reason for his visit. It was just a seed at first, but it grew until it
blossomed in the form of a smile and brought out the sun again.
My letter about Mr.Drurythe new land agent. Mr.Lynch sent
you in response to my letter.
In part, yes.
The sense of relief was such that Mr.Newtons hesitation
barely registered.
Oh, excellent. Most excellent. Come, Mr.Newton, let us
wend our way to Roseberry.
With a quick step back to the gig, Mr.Newton grabbed his
satchel, pulling it free. Joining her by the estate entrance, he halfraised his arm toward her and then, likely realizing they were too
newly acquainted to offer such an intimacy, he dropped it back
to his side.
However, Lydia found that she was not disinclined to take his
arm; in fact, the prospect was rather exciting, in a daring sort of
way. Feeling somewhat roguish, she stepped to his side and placed
her hand in the crook of his arm. He smiled down at her in a
manner that caused a strange flutter in her belly, and then he led
them through the gates.

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