Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Norfolk, England, Summer, 1818.

"Mama … oh … where are you, Mama? Papa? No … don't let … I don't want to go … where are you? Don't … no … it's … oh, goodness me," Phoebe exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed, reeling from the awful dream she had just awoken from.

The morning sunlight was streaming through a gap in the curtains, and Phoebe took a deep breath, reminding herself it was only a dream – the same dream she had been having since she was old enough to remember. It was always the same – the carriage, the sound of horses, the voices of her father and mother, and then the shots …

"Only a dream," she told herself, pulling back the blankets and getting out of bed.

It was still early – the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed six, and it would be an hour before her maid, Sophia, came to wake her. Phoebe liked to be up early when the house was still quiet, and there was no chance of her being disturbed by her aunt or uncle.

Pulling back the curtains, Phoebe pulled up the window sash and leaned out, breathing in the cool scent of the summer morning and smiling as she watched the birds flitting between the trees in the garden, singing merrily to one another.

"What a simple life it must be for a bird," Phoebe thought, watching a robin hopping across the lawn below.

It was going to be a beautiful day. The gardens were looking at their best – the flower borders bursting into an artist's palette of colours and the countryside around Hindringham Hall lush and verdant.

Phoebe watched the birds for a few moments longer, wondering what the day would bring. She would try to avoid her aunt and uncle as much as possible – just as she did every day – and wondered about walking into the village or by the brook that wound through the meadow.

"I should visit the graves – take some flowers," she said to herself, for she often did so on days when she had awoken from the recurring dream.

Phoebe's parents had died when she was very young – just three years old. Robbers – highwaymen – had attacked the carriage she and her parents had been travelling in. Both her parents had been killed in the robbery, and the thieves had taken jewellery worth a fortune, along with a sum of money.

"It's under our charity you live, Phoebe," her aunt often reminded her, and Phoebe would nod and agree, telling her aunt how grateful she was for everything she and Phoebe's uncle had done for her – what else could she say?

They had taken her for their ward, moving into Hindringham Hall immediately following the tragedy. Phoebe's uncle had assumed the barony – there being no male relative to inherit – and ever since, Phoebe had lived under their auspices, doing as they told her and usually trying her best to keep out of the way.

Phoebe's aunt and uncle had no children of their own, but they had not lavished the same love and affection on Phoebe as her vague memories of her parents suggested they had before their death. Phoebe remembered smiles, laughter, and love. With her aunt and uncle, she received nothing of the sort.

"I will go and visit the graves," Phoebe said to herself, and dressing hurriedly, she slipped out of her bedroom and along the corridor to the landing.

Her aunt and uncle slept in another part of the house – the grander part – and the servants would be busy below stairs, readying the hot water and tea tray for their master and mistress. Phoebe liked to go out early – in the summer, when the days were long, and dawn broke early. She preferred her own company to that of others, and she liked visiting her parents' graves on mornings like this.

"I'll take some flowers from the garden," she thought, and having crept quietly downstairs, she let herself out of a side door into the garden.

The sun was already warm – it was going to be a hot day – and Phoebe picked a bunch of flowers from the far end of one of the beds, where the missing blooms would not be noticed. Phoebe's aunt prided herself on her garden, and she would not have been happy to think Phoebe was picking flowers from her prized borders.

Glancing back to the house – an ancient manor, timber-framed, with tall chimneys and leaded windows – Phoebe sighed. It should not have been like this. Had the horrific circumstances of her parents' death not occurred, Phoebe's life would have been very different.

"But it happened, didn't it? And there's nothing you can do about it," she told herself, as now Phoebe turned and made her way through a small gate in the hedge at the far end of the garden.

It led into a meadow, where a path wound towards woods beyond. In the distance, about a mile or so further on, the spire of the village church rose above the flat Norfolk plain – the highest point for miles around – and it was towards the church Phoebe made her way, following the path through the woods and along the side of a meandering stream, known locally as "The Walsh."

As she walked, she hummed to herself. A tune she remembered from long ago, one her mother would lullaby her to sleep with. It was comforting to recall it, and she was so absorbed in her memories she almost collided with a figure coming towards her over one of the stiles, where the path turned through woodland by the stream.

"Oh, goodness, you startled me," she exclaimed as the man appeared before her.

He was handsome, smartly dressed in breeches, a shirt, and a waistcoat with a gold pocket watch hanging on a chain from his lapel. He wore a top hat, but Phoebe could see his hair was jet black, and he had deep hazel-coloured eyes. Now, he looked at her curiously, with a slight smile as she blushed, having not expected to meet anyone out so early.

"Or did you startle me? You were rather lost in your own thoughts, I think," he said.

Phoebe was somewhat taken aback by his words. They were bordering on rude, and she fixed him with a glare.

"You're walking on my uncle's land. That means you startled me," she retorted.

The stranger laughed.

"Actually, I'm walking on my land. You're standing on the border of the two estates. The stile marks it," he said.

Phoebe's eyes grew wide with astonishment and fear as she realized who she was talking to. This was Thomas Cunningham. The new Duke of Walsingham. He had a fearsome reputation, and it was said he had turned his own stepmother and half-siblings out of Walsingham Hall on the very day of his arrival to claim the inheritance after his father's unexpected death. She had seen him at church, but not up close, a distant figure in the family pew, sitting on his own. Phoebe had been somewhat scared of him when she had seen him during matins – an aloof, distant figure, cold and reclusive. His appearance had done nothing to dispel the rumours about him. If anything, it had only served to confirm them.

"Well … are you going to tell me I can't cross the stile? I've been doing so all my life," she exclaimed, but the duke only laughed and shook his head.

"No, I'm not. I'm going to cross over myself. One for one, if you like," he said, and now Phoebe stepped hurriedly aside as the duke mounted the stile.

"I still say your startled me," she said, and the duke turned and tipped his hat.

"Very well, good day to you, Miss …" he said, and Phoebe drew herself up, determined for the duke not to think he had the upper hand.

"Miss Phoebe Pollard. Good day to you, sir," she said, and turning, she hurried off along the path, her heart beating fast at this unexpected encounter.

***

Walsingham was the name of the village. A collection of timber-framed cottages, pebble-dashed in the tradition of the local area. The church, Saint Mary's, stood in the centre, and the bells were just striking seven o'clock when Phoebe reached the entrance to the graveyard.

She had calmed down a little since her unexpected encounter with the duke, telling herself not to be so foolish as to be afraid of him. But the rumours about him were scandalous, and her aunt had spoken disparagingly about his treatment of his stepmother.

"Though perhaps my aunt's displeasure is reason enough to think there might be another side to the story," Phoebe told herself as she crossed the graveyard, the hems of her skirts growing damp with the dew.

A lark was singing in one of the trees as though calling a choir of birds into song, and Phoebe paused for a moment, enjoying the sound as she smiled.

"I do like the early mornings," she thought, making her way to where her parents were buried side by side.

"Here lieth John, the Baron Greenwood, beloved brother and father, and his wife, Margaret, beloved mother, who died on the 25 th May 1800."

The letters were growing faded now, the stones worn by the weather and covered by moss and lichen. Phoebe did her best to keep them clean; she took a stick and worked the end across the letters, scratching the dirt away to make them readable. She liked to visit the graves, for though she had few memories of her parents, she liked to think they had listened to troubles and woes over the years and knew something of her life, even from beyond the grave.

"They're talking about marriage – I don't know why. I've got my own income. I don't need to marry," Phoebe said out loud, brushing the last dirt from the graves.

Over the past few weeks, her aunt had mentioned the prospect of marriage on several occasions, though with no specific suggestion of who the match might be.

"You need to marry, Phoebe. You can't live here forever," she had told her, though Phoebe knew differently.

Her parents had put a large amount of money in trust for her – it provided an income sufficient to last a lifetime if necessary. And there was Hindringham Hall, too. It was Phoebe's home. It had belonged to her father as the Baron Greenwood, and only cruel circumstances had placed it in the inheritance of Phoebe's uncle.

Phoebe had lived there her whole life, and the thought of leaving it to marry filled her with deep sorrow. She did not want to leave that familiar world behind, as much as she would gladly leave her aunt and uncle behind …

"I don't want to marry just anyone. But it's as though I won't have any choice in the matter. Perhaps I won't," Phoebe said out loud, sighing and shaking her head.

She liked to come to the graves and think. There was never any answer, of course. But to sit with her parents was to be reminded of what might have been – a very different life from the one she lived now. Phoebe spent most of her time with the servants.

They were kind to her, and they understood something of the trials she had suffered at the hands of her aunt and uncle – trials the servants knew all too well. Phoebe had laid her flowers, and now she kneeled in front of the stone, her eyes closed, knowing she would soon have to tear herself away and return home.

"And I thought I was an early riser," a voice behind her said.

Phoebe startled, letting out a cry as she spun round to find Richard Gordon, the Viscount Thornton, standing behind her.

Richard was a friend – a few years older than Phoebe – an acquaintance in whom she had often confided her troubles. Richard had grown up in the district, tutored at home, before being sent to Eton and then going on to Cambridge.

His family owned an estate on the far side of the village, with land stretching in the direction of the coast. He was a pleasant and amiable man – dependable – and in their youth, Phoebe and Richard had spent a great deal of time together, finding common interests in music and art. He smiled at her as she rose to her feet and dusted herself off.

"You startled me, Richard. I didn't think anyone else would be here at this time," she said, blushing at the thought of his having overheard her talking to her parents.

"I'm sorry … I was just doing the same as you. Visiting Sally's grave," he said, nodding to the far side of the graveyard.

Phoebe shook her head. Their friendship was formed over shared tragedy. Richard had lost his sister when they were both young. She had drowned in a deep pool on his estate. He blamed himself for it, and punished himself by frequent visits to the grave, where he would sit and weep. Phoebe had always felt sorry for him, and she knew he felt the same towards her – sorrow at the shared tragedy they both endured, a sorrowful wound never to be healed.

"I have a dream sometimes, you see – I'm there in the carriage on the way home with my parents. It's the day of … what happened. I'm there, but I can't do anything about it. I'm just a child. I hear the pistol fired, and then … nothing. I wake up. And when I do, I have to come here," Phoebe said.

She knew she was punishing herself – forcing herself into greater sorrow. But as for when she would no longer have to live with this recurring dream …

"I understand. I have the same sort of dreams. It's nearly twenty years ago, but still the same dream. Poor Sally," Richard said, glancing across the graveyard and shaking his head.

"But you weren't to blame, Richard. You tried to save her," Phoebe said, placing her hand on Richard's arm.

He looked up and gave a weak smile.

"Yes … I know … and that's what my mother tells me frequently. No one blames me for what happened – except myself. But I'll only go on blaming myself. I know I will. Still, I'm glad I have someone who understands what it feels like. You know how difficult it can be," he said, and Phoebe nodded.

She knew just how Richard was feeling. There were times she blamed herself for what had happened to her parents – as irrational as she knew that was. What if she had not been there when it happened? Would they have got away? Did they die trying to protect her? Why was she the one to survive? Such questions took Phoebe down a rabbit hole, and she could spend hours lost in pointless speculation, upsetting herself more and more …

"Yes, but I also know we still have to go on living – and make the best of the lives we've been blessed with. Sometimes, I feel I should be living more than I am – for them," Phoebe said.

She knew she was not explaining herself very well, but Richard nodded.

"Yes, you're right. Whatever I do, I always imagine Sally being there – sharing in it. I try to see the world through her eyes, as well as my own," he said, and Phoebe nodded.

It was time to go home. Sophia would be wondering where she had gone, and her aunt would not be pleased to discover she was nowhere to be found.

"Will you walk with me? I should be getting back," Phoebe said, and Richard nodded, offering her his arm.

He was a true gentleman and had been a good friend to Phoebe in the years gone by.

"I'd be pleased to. I was going to call on the duke – but it's too early yet," Richard said, and Phoebe raised her eyebrows.

She presumed he was referring to the Duke of Walsingham, who she had just met on the path into the village.

Ever since his arrival, rumours had been spreading about this cruel and heartless man, who had evicted the dowager duchess – his stepmother – and her children from Walsingham Hall in an act of cruel retribution after his own mother had died when he was very young. But was this really the same man she had met just a short while ago?

"Yes, I just met him by chance crossing the stile onto my uncle's estate. The servants are always talking about him. They say he's a horrible man. That poor woman, the dowager – forced to leave her home and take her children with her. I think it's terrible," Phoebe said, shaking her head.

Her aunt and uncle were hardly saints, but even they had not behaved in such a terrible way, and though Phoebe knew little of the dowager and the circumstances of the duke's death, she could not imagine the newly inherited incumbent had any real reason for such cruel behaviour.

"It's not like that. We were at Eton together – and Cambridge. I've known him as long as I've known you. That awful woman deserved everything she got. If anything, Thomas was too lenient with her," Richard said, shaking his head.

Phoebe was surprised by the force of his words – a direct contrast to the rumours she had heard spread about the duke and his cruel behaviour towards the dowager and her children.

"Do you think so?" Phoebe asked, and Richard nodded.

"Absolutely. After his mother died, there was no question of his being welcome at Walsingham Hall. Regina made sure of that. That's why he was sent away to school. She was desperate to legitimize herself in the eyes of society – she wanted her own son to inherit the title.

Fortunately, the duke died without having changed his will – perhaps he sensed his wife's true intentions. She was furious, but Thomas did what was right. But even from afar, she continues to spread her vicious rumours – that's why your servants all think what they think," Richard said.

Phoebe did not know enough about the matter to make a proper judgement. She was only going by what she had heard. But if Richard was right, then her opinion of the duke was wrong. They had reached the edge of the village now – where the footpath crossed the meadows towards Hindringham Hall, and they were about to cross the stile when Richard pointed to the far end of the village green.

"Who is it?" Phoebe asked as a figure now approached them.

"It's the duke," Richard replied.

Phoebe's heart skipped a beat. What should she do? She knew the duke had not long since returned to the village, and it was only natural he should want to walk on his own estate. But to encounter him again after their previous exchange felt awkward. What would she say? What would he say?

"I should be going. I'll see you soon – and thank you," Phoebe said, and before Richard could protest, she had climbed over the stile and was hurrying across the meadow in the direction of Hindringham Hall, her heart beating fast.

Phoebe did not know why she had hurried away. Richard had been adamant that the rumours about the duke were not true, yet Phoebe remained wary, not knowing what to make of the new duke and fearful of saying the wrong thing in his presence. Now, she paused, turning back to where Richard and the duke were now conversing with one another, the latter casting a glance across the meadow to where she stood.

"He must think I'm being rude," she thought, but despite Richard's assurances, Phoebe could not help fearing the rumours about the duke might be true as she wondered what would happen if she chanced on an encounter with him again.