Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

“Have the heavens parted and sent down an angel to me? What rare creature is this, walking amongst mere mortals? Should I shield my eyes, lest I be cursed for looking upon such a divine being?”

Rose and Agnes Weston had barely taken a step out of the carriage, aided by two burly footmen, before Lady Finch’s plaudits bombarded them.

One of them, anyway.

“You are too generous,” Agnes Weston teased, knowing the compliments were not for her. “I did fashion my hair for your delectation and delight, for it rather resembled a bird’s nest when we departed Snowley House.”

Lady Finch faltered, her keen blue eyes creasing in confusion for a moment, before she erupted into rich hearty laughter. “Oh, sweet Lady Agnes, how amusing you are! Were you as radiant as your sister, there would not be a gentleman in all of England—or Scotland for that matter—who could resist your charms.”

Agnes refused to be stung by the backhanded praise. It was nothing new to her. “Alas, that is my curse to bear, My Lady—to be so very entertaining yet lacking the beauty to be anything other than the court jester.” She glanced at her younger sister, Rose, who had only just turned eight-and-ten and had her chin glued to her chest. “I assure you, Rose is equally amusing. She is merely shy of new acquaintances.”

Lady Finch approached the younger girl and took hold of her by the shoulders, looking her up and down with a discerning eye. As one of the most famous—or infamous, depending on who gossiped—ladies in polite society, there was nothing, and no one, that Lady Finch did not know in regard to navigating the ton and its various seasons. Indeed, at the ripe age of four-and-sixty, the Dowager Marchioness of Finch had seen her fair share of society and its ever-changing circus.

“I can assuredly make a diamond out of you, Lady Rose,” Lady Finch asserted, a minute or so later. “Many rough gems come to my door, little more than costume jewelry, and I know there is only a small hope of their success, but you are already half-faceted and certainly the real thing. A diamond you shall become, indeed.”

Agnes’ heart swelled with pride, feeling relief as if she were Rose’s own mother. “I must be a sapphire or an emerald, then. An unusual ruby, perhaps.”

“You, Lady Agnes,” Lady Finch began with a chuckle, “are a jewel they have no name for yet, much like myself.”

Agnes smiled. “Ah, how splendid to be in such fine company.”

“I fear I shall hurt my neck,” Rose chimed in quietly, “concentrating upon the back and forth between you. I had heard that when two sharp wits encounter one another, it can be akin to a battle. Now, I understand.”

Agnes’ insides seized for a moment, hoping that Lady Finch would not take Rose’s remark as an insult. It was not intended as one, Agnes knew, but while Agnes had a knack for amusing delivery, Rose’s soft voice could often be misinterpreted.

Fortunately, Lady Finch clapped her hands together in obvious delight. “You were right, Lady Agnes! She is equally amusing! Oh, this is wonderful. Truly wonderful. Beauty, charm, and humor does, without fail, provide a winning recipe.” She rubbed her dainty chin with the knuckle of her index finger. “But there is work to be done. We must improve your confidence, Lady Rose, so your voice is not washed away by the chirps and chirrups of your rivals.”

Just then, the hopeful threesome was invaded by a fourth participant, who stepped down from the carriage with the hurried assistance of a footman who clearly had not realized there was someone else inside.

“Lady Snowley, how precious it is to see you again!” Lady Finch cried, though she also seemed surprised by the newcomer’s presence. “In your letter, I thought you intended to remain at Snowley House?”

Agnes and Rose’s mother smiled thinly. “That was my intention, but then I realized it would be remiss of me to be elsewhere during my daughter’s entrance into society.”

You mean, you thought you ought to act like a mother, for once, Agnes held back her bitter words, letting the history of her mother’s neglect roll off her back as she had done for a decade.

Of course, no one made any mention about Agnes never properly debuting. She had attended one ball for all of twenty minutes when she was six-and-ten, seven years prior, and that had been it: a cursory debut, nothing more.

“Well, it is a pleasure to welcome you to my humble residence.” Lady Finch offered Agnes’ mother her arm. “We shall journey into London at the week’s end, I think, to begin Lady Rose’s introduction. Until then, we shall be at our leisure here, ironing out any wrinkles in the young lady’s presentation of herself. Now, let us have some tea so that you may all refresh yourselves after your adventure from the north.”

There was nothing humble about the Dowager House of the Finch Estate, which was almost as large and grand as Snowley House. Nor was Agnes entirely sure why Lady Finch did not reside in the main house—an enormous Tudor pile, just visible through a sea of forest. After all, her son, the Marquess, was alive and well with his wife and two bonny children. Perhaps, Lady Finch enjoyed the peace and independence of living alone, at liberty to visit her son whenever she pleased but only on her terms.

“Am I invisible?” Rose whispered as the two older women went on ahead, crunching the gravel underfoot on their approach to the beautiful manor with its diamond-latticed windows and intricate wooden exterior where the decorative diagonal beams and walls were painted in alternating black and white. It made her wonder if King Henry VIII had feasted on geese and swans there, long ago.

“Hmm?” Agnes drew her gaze away from the intriguing design.

“Not you, too.” Rose rolled her eyes, smiling. “I asked if I was invisible. I suppose that answers my question.”

Agnes chuckled. “Apologies, dear sister. No, you are not invisible, but when it comes to our elders, we must pretend as though we are here to be seen and not heard. You must, at least. I may say what I please, for, as you heard, I am the entertainment.”

“I can never tell when you are teasing,” Rose mumbled, squinting at her sister.

“My dearest, I am always teasing. Lady Finch is merely making her measure of you. Indeed, she is likely talking to herself most of the time, so you must not be offended if she speaks as though you are not there,” Agnes explained, feeling sorry for her sweet younger sister.

“Is talking to oneself not a sign of madness?”

Agnes stifled a chuckle. “You must certainly not say that aloud, my dear sister. Some say it is a sign of madness; others say it is a symptom of advancing age when the wise must pour their wisdom out to anyone that might hear. If that happens to be themselves, so be it.”

“I wish Mama had not come,” Rose mumbled, fidgeting with the lace daisies upon her blue velvet reticule. “Is that unkind to say? I love her, as a daughter should, but her instruction in the ways of society concerns me.”

Their mother had chattered throughout the journey from Snowley House, regaling Rose with thousands of “things to remember” and lectures in how to behave with gentlemen and superiors, not realizing that her instructions were at least two decades out of fashion. The new ton was a mystery to their mother, and though Agnes could not claim to be an expert either, she had a better grasp of the way things were now done.

“Is it true that I should not dance with any gentleman more than once?” Rose asked, chewing her bottom lip, a nervous habit she had possessed since she was a child.

“Twice,” Agnes corrected, sensing there would be a lot of correcting during the season, undoing the damage that their mother had done. “If you are engaged to be married, dance as often as you please with your betrothed. Dance the whole night if your feet can stand it.”

“And I should only speak to a gentleman through his mother or father?”

Agnes rolled her eyes. “My sweet sister, forget everything that Mother has told you. Listen only to Lady Finch. That is why we are here, for she is to be your society governess, and I have no doubt that she will make you the diamond that she has already decided you are. Not that I needed to be told that—you are perpetually a diamond to me.”

“As you are to me,” Rose urged, resting her head upon her sister’s shoulder for a moment. “I am sorry that you did not have your true debut. I am sorry that… you have missed out on so much.”

“Hush, darling Rosie,” Agnes replied softly. “I could have had the grandest debut in society’s history, and I would still be a spinster. There are ladies in this world who are born to be beloved, and there are ladies who are born to be observers. I know which I am, and I know which you are, and I have no desire to be in your shoes. So, please, do not pity me, for I do not pity myself.”

Rose mustered a nervous smile. “Are you certain?”

“As the sun rises and sets, dear Rosie,” Agnes assured, for there had never been a moment to think about another manner of life.

Since the age of three-and-ten, she had been the only mother that Rose had ever known while their true mother haunted the hallways of Snowley House like a ghost so lost in the grief of a deceased husband that she could not see that she still had two children who needed her dearly. Having realized that their mother was unlikely to break out of her fugue state, Agnes had known that someone would need to take on the mantle of parent, and she had put that cloak onto her own shoulders, letting go of any hopes and dreams she had possessed for herself.

It is better this way, Agnes told herself, for while she would never mention it to Rose, she rather liked the freedom of not being beholden to society and the institution of marriage.

Once inside the Dowager House, Agnes halted in the grand entrance hall, marveling at the way the crystal chandelier splintered the light, spilling droplets of a thousand colors onto the ancient wood floor. It smelled of a rich, mahogany history, but it was not suffocating in the past. Lady Finch had made the house her own, brightening the walls with silky wallpaper of white and gold and yellow, covering the worn oak floor with Persian rugs that looked rather expensive, filling Agnes’ mind with visions of distant, exotic shores.

“I thought we might have tea and then dine together, if that would not be an unpleasant notion to you all?” Lady Finch announced, pausing in front of a grand stairwell, watched over by the somewhat menacing head of a dull-eyed stag.

Agnes put on her brightest smile. “Unless you intend to serve pea soup, that would not be unpleasant at all. I cannot abide those troublesome green balls.”

“I shall make note of your aversion to peas,” Lady Finch replied, chuckling warmly.

Now, why could you not have been our mother? Agnes sighed at the thought, wondering how different their lives might have been.

Agnes’ mother sniffed. “I feel the beginnings of a headache,” she said, as Agnes had suspected she might. “If you do not mind, I shall retire to my chambers for the rest of the evening. When a headache comes upon me, I find that rest is the only way to prevent it from lasting several days.”

“Oh, what a pity,” Lady Finch said, with a subtle note of disapproval in her voice. “Well, I would not want you to be unwell. The housekeeper, Mrs. Richards, shall show you to your chambers, and the footmen and maids shall bring your luggage in due course.”

Agnes’ mother nodded, already heading up the staircase, though the housekeeper—a short, portly woman with a shock of curly, gray hair—had not yet begun to guide the way. The poor woman hurried past Agnes’ mother, expelling a breath that almost sounded like a sigh of annoyance as if she sensed that these guests would prove to be difficult.

“Shall we dine immediately then, or have you a hankering for tea?” Lady Finch turned her full attention to the sisters.

Agnes patted her stomach. “I, for one, am famished. If it is not an inconvenience to your staff and kitchens, I would not argue with dining now.”

“Nor would I,” Rose agreed, relaxing in the absence of their mother.

Lady Finch flashed a grin. “Splendid news! I do prefer young ladies with an appetite though I am aware it is not the fashionable thing to say.” She swept out her arm, her elegant hand gesturing toward a hallway on the right. “If you would follow me, I think we shall dine, rather rebelliously, in the Morning Room.”

“I do relish a rebel, Lady Finch.” Agnes grinned back, hoping that this rapport between guest and host was a sign of great things to come. After all, the sisters could not rely on their mother to make lasting connections when their mother could barely remember to run a comb through her hair. And though Agnes had pitied and sympathized with her mother for years, her patience had finally run out.

* * *

The three ladies were enjoying a fish course of cod fillets in a cream sauce, slyly discussing the latest scandals to strike the ton, so Rose would not make the mistake of associating with any disgraced ladies or gentlemen, when the butler—a severe-looking giant of a man who wore livery that barely closed across his barrel chest—stepped into the Morning Room and cleared his throat, awaiting permission to speak.

“What is it, Welch?” Lady Finch asked, dabbing a smudge of cream sauce from her wrinkled lips.

“There is a guest, My Lady,” the butler replied.

Lady Finch frowned, but Agnes thought she saw a glint of mischief in the old woman’s eyes. “A guest? Who is it? I am not expecting anyone, I do not think.”

“His Grace, George Buxton, the Duke of Crampton,” the butler announced, also looking rather shifty. “Shall I have another place set at the table?”

Lady Finch smiled. “Why, of course you must. Send him in.” As the butler left to obey the command, she turned to Agnes and Rose. “My apologies, ladies. I hope you do not mind an additional guest?”

“Not at all,” Agnes replied for them both, taking a mouthful of cod before it got cold, and the cream started to congeal.

But as the newcomer entered the Morning Room, Agnes quite forgot to chew… and certainly forgot that it was rude to stare, for the Duke of Crampton was a Greek statue come alive. Indeed, like the sun itself, she feared she might go blind if she kept gawping at him, but no matter how hard she tried to distract herself with cod or wine or anything else that might divert her, she kept right on staring.

Only when his eyes met hers, and his expression darkened into a scowl, did she finally look away. It was the worst habit of her life, in truth, but she rarely made a good first impression.

Then again, his was not too promising either.