Chapter 1

Woodford House, October 1817

"Faster! Gertrude! Run faster!"

"I can't," the childish voice of a little girl protested. "You catch her."

"Come on!" Eleanor yelled. "I'm right here. Come and get me." She paused, giving the children—just four and six years old—time to catch up with her. She grinned, a delightful feeling of joy welling up in her as the two small children who ran after her pattered on down the hallway in earnest. Her bare feet gripped the wooden boards, and she ran on, hurrying ahead of them.

"Faster!" Little Johnny, the eldest at six, was urging his sister on, all the while racing ahead. Eleanor paused, letting the boy come within a few inches of her and then took off, her bare feet fast down the hallway.

"No! I almost had you!" Johnny yelled delightedly, then pattered on after her as she took off round the corner. She raced past the parlor door, colored ribbons that she held in her hands like streamers trailing along, a target for the children to catch. Her mother's voice stopped her in place.

"Eleanor! Not so fast! And those children are making a frightful ruckus."

Eleanor sighed, hanging her head. Her pale brown hair flopped over one eye, and she paused to tuck it out of the way. She frowned, her strong, squarish face transforming from delight to sorrow and then back to contentment as she exclaimed. "I have an idea! I'll take them outside."

Mama sighed. "If you insist. But do calm down a little—they will be overwrought all day if you play with them like that."

Eleanor let out a long breath. She shut her hazel-green eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Very well, Mama," she said slowly. "I'll take them outside and we'll play something different. Come on, Johnny! Come on, Gertrude. Where's little Rebecca?"

"She has just woken," Mama commented, gesturing to the hearth, where a small child lay curled up on a chair. At almost three, Rebecca was the youngest of the family, and the smallest of Eleanor's nieces. She grinned at the small child, who grinned back.

"Ewwa," the child murmured.

"Yes! I'm here," Eleanor said with a smile. Rebecca could talk very well for herself, but the lisping nickname she'd given Eleanor had stuck. Eleanor lifted her off the chair and carried her to the door, pausing to glance at her brother, Jonathan, and his very tense-seeming wife, Rachel, who sat at the tea-table. Eleanor frowned as she carried the little child into the hallway.

There's something bothering them in there , she thought to herself confusedly.

Her brother Jonathan and his wife, along with their three children, had arrived unexpectedly from London—just an hour's drive in the coach—the previous day. Her parents had welcomed them, but Jonathan was not himself, and Rachel had barely spoken a word since they arrived. Eleanor had taken care of the children for the day, but the other adults had remained in the parlor, white-faced and interested in little else besides huddling at the tea-table talking in hushed tones. She had not had the opportunity to join them to inquire about it—the entire day from the previous afternoon had been filled with tending to the children.

"Look, now!" She grinned at the older two children, who had followed her outdoors. They stood in the middle of the lawn, which was soaked with late autumnal sunshine. It was chilly outdoors, but in the sun and sheltered from the breeze it was glorious. She breathed in deeply, breathing in the cool, fragrant air. "There are some chestnuts over there. Does someone want to collect them?"

"Chestnuts? Hurrah!" Little Johnny, eyes wide and round, ran to the proud chestnut tree in the corner of the garden and fell to his knees. Eleanor watched with delight as he scrabbled about, collecting as many as he could. His younger sister joined him, shrieking delightedly and doing her best to collect as many nuts as she could as well. Eleanor stood and watched, little Rebecca in her arms, peering out curiously. She stroked the child's downy, pale hair.

Her gaze moved about the garden, the sunshine bright on the lawn around them. Woodford estate was a large property, settled on an acre of land. Her father, who had made his fortune in industry, had procured it when her brother was just three and she had just been born. The family had lived there for one-and-twenty years, enjoying the peace and beauty of the setting.

Rebecca stirred, drawing her attention back to the present. "Look at that. What are they doing, eh?" she asked the child softly.

"Nuts," Rebecca informed her briefly.

"Indeed," Eleanor said with a laugh. "They are collecting nuts. Do you think they'll find the magic chestnut?"

"Magic?" The little girl's eyes widened in amazement.

Eleanor laughed. "Yes. There's a magic chestnut, that, if you say a little rhyme when you hold it, it turns into a coach. Then you can get up into the coach and travel wherever you like."

"Really?" Rebecca inquired, enthralled.

Eleanor chuckled. "It might be so," she told her. "It's a story I heard from the old witch in the woods."

"Witch in the woods?" Rebecca asked, gazing up at her with apparent fear.

"Not a bad witch," Eleanor assured her, patting her head fondly. She walked closer to the other two children, who were holding up their chestnuts to the light, rubbing and polishing them.

"You have to find the magic one!" Rebecca informed her siblings firmly.

"Magic?" Johnny asked, looking up inquiringly at his aunt, Eleanor.

"Yes. If you say a magical rhyme when you hold it, it turns into a coach," Eleanor told them, biting her lip. She hadn't planned the rest of the story yet—she'd have to make it up as she went along.

"She heard about it from the witch in the woods," Rebecca said, her voice a shrill squeak.

Eleanor chuckled but the two older children gazed up at her in fear.

"A witch?" Johnny asked. "Really?"

"Um..." Eleanor tensed. She hadn't really intended the children to believe her story—witchcraft was an uneasy topic, and she didn't want them to be too convinced of the existence of a witch living nearby. She swallowed uncomfortably, trying to think of a way to both refute the statement and keep on telling the story, but she was saved from the awkwardness by her mother coming down the path from the house.

"Eleanor! Children! It's time for tea. Go inside, children! Look at your hands! They're filthy!" Mama chided gently. "You have to go and wash straight away."

"I'll take them, Mama," Eleanor assured her, looking down at her own hands, which were not much cleaner. Her mother sighed. "You're not exactly presentable either, Eleanor."

Eleanor smiled. "It won't take me two minutes to tidy up, Mama. I promise. I just need to wash, tidy my hair and put some proper shoes on." She glanced down at the outdoor boots she'd hastily pulled on, the soles of which were buried half in the mud.

"I know," Mama sighed. "You're a good girl, Eleanor."

Eleanor felt herself relax. Rebecca wriggled in her arms, and she hoisted her a little further up on her hip. She looked around the garden, her gaze moving from the stand of chrysanthemums in the corner, their bright blooms a splash of color against the tall grass of the lawn, to the herbs that grew beside the patch of vegetables by the kitchen. She loved plants and worked hard to make the garden as beautiful as she could.

"I'll take you up to wash now, Becca," she promised. "We're going to have some nice cake. Aren't we, Mama?" She smiled at her mother, who ran a hand through her graying blonde hair.

"Yes. Yes, we are," she assured the child. Eleanor, glancing at her, could see how tense she was. She rested a hand on her mother's shoulder, trying to put her at ease.

"I'm sure we'll all have a fine tea, Mama," she said, sure her mother was worried about hosting five more people. The household was small—Papa was a prosperous industrialist, but, after all the other expenses like the carriage and the horses, they could only afford one housekeeper, two maids, and a man who came in once a week to tend to the gardens. Much of the work about the house she and Mama did themselves, including tending the kitchen garden.

"You're a dear," Mama murmured, as they reached the house. "And look at you," she said with a sigh, glancing down at the child on her hip, who was sleepily chewing her thumb. "You have a talent with children."

"I like children," Eleanor admitted. She kissed Rebecca on the head and lifted her so that she could wash her hands in the kitchen sink.

"I know. I hope you have plenty of children of your own soon," Mama said seriously. Eleanor tensed, little Rebecca's hands still in her own.

"I don't think I shall, Mama," she said carefully, setting Rebecca down on her feet. "After all, I am unwed. And it's not so seemly to have them without being so." She giggled.

Her mother sighed, looking serious. "Of course, Eleanor. But were you to wed, I mean..."

"An unlikely occurrence, Mama," Eleanor said lightly. "I am one-and-twenty, and, as yet, I have found no man who appeals to me in the slightest. They're all drunkards or fools—I mean, besides Papa and Jonathan, that is." She blushed.

"You often say so," her mother said dryly. "But, my dear, if you were to wed, I mean..." she began, drying her hands on her apron. Eleanor frowned.

"Mama, I don't know why you say that. As I've said, I want a man like the ones in the novels I read—someone adventurous and bold, someone who'll sweep me into a life of unpredictable delights. And I don't think they really exist. I can't marry a man who only exists in my head." She chuckled at that.

"Eleanor...what if Papa found you a suitor?" Her mother's eyes held her own. "A serious one?"

Eleanor frowned; her mouth dry. "Papa wouldn't do that," she said at once, dismissing the unpleasant thought immediately. "You know that you and he have always said that you wish for me and for Jonathan to marry for love. You did, you always said that. Since we were tiny." she felt tense suddenly, without knowing why.

"Sweetheart...he has no choice." Mama's voice was serious. She looked up at Eleanor. She drew in a breath. Her mother's eyes, the same green as her own, were tight at the edges with worried lines. Her stomach twisted and she leaned back, gripping the table.

"What, Mama?" she whispered. "What do you mean?" She tried to hold herself upright, feeling dizzy. The world suddenly made no sense. Her father, her dear, funny father who had always wanted the best for herself and Jonathan, would never do that. He would never force her into anything, she knew that. Nothing made sense to her, and she gripped the table, holding onto the firm solidness in a world that had suddenly become shifting and unpredictable.

"He had to, daughter. The judge left him no other choice. He had to."

"The judge?" she whispered. "What in...what's happening, Mama?" The tension of the past day suddenly made sense, but she would never have guessed that it had something to do with her. Nothing made sense.

Her mother drew in a breath. "It's difficult to explain. I wish your father was here," she added, looking around tensely. "But it's Jonathan. Something he did in the business—I don't know what it was—but it caused a lot of trouble."

"Trouble?" Eleanor asked with a frown.

"Yes. He was up before the court, and he would have been sentenced to a long time in prison. He was terrified for Rachel and the children—what would happen to them, without his income? It would be the workhouse for them."

"No!" She stared at her mother in horror, imagining the three little children trapped in the workhouse, starving to death while they were forced to sort rags or pick oakum.

Her mother rested her hand on her arm, quieting her terrified outburst. "It will not be like that. It's all well now. A friend of your father intervened. He spoke to the judge. The judge acquitted him."

"And the judge..." Eleanor whispered. "What does he want? He wants to...to..." She couldn't get the words out.

"No. Not the judge. Your father's friend," her mother explained, her voice soft as if she was talking to a scared child. "He wants you to wed his son."

Eleanor stared at her mother in horror. She felt sick. She tensed her spine, trying to stay upright. She swayed for a moment on her feet, then caught herself. She would not let this bring her low. She would face it, whatever it was. If a life with a horrid, fusty merchant or accountant was what was in store, then she would find some way to face it. Or she could face it and then run away. She would find some way for them all to get out of this safely.

She had to.