Prologue

1840

T he last lingering streaks of twilight lit the sky as the carriage slowed. It came to a halt in front of what was truly a proper castle—something she certainly had not anticipated when agreeing to take a position sight unseen—Miss Philippa Thomas tried not to gape. It wasn't grand in the way one might anticipate a castle might be. Instead, it was fearsome. The house was terrifying. Large and imposing with multiple towers of varying heights, it shot up from the crest of a hill like a clawed hand thrusting forth from a grave.

"Clawed hands and graves, Philippa!" she chided herself—quietly, of course. The driver of the carriage, who was retrieving her bags from the rack on top of the coach, watched her with no small amount of curiosity. In a whisper, she directed herself, "Pull yourself together, girl."

"Here you are, miss. Your bags."

Philippa blinked in surprise. Did he truly expect her to ferry her own luggage like some sort of pack animal? "I will pay you to carry them to the house for me, sir. I know it is an inconvenience."

The driver shook his head. "Miss, there isn't enough money in the world." With that, he climbed back atop the box and drove away.

Stunned, Philippa watched him go. She was still more than a hundred yards from the house, and her bags, while not overly large, still contained the sum total of her worldly possessions and were quite a burden. After a moment to collect herself, she picked up her bags, fighting a wave of dizziness as she did so. Exhaustion was taking its toll on her.

Nine and a half hours by train from London to Leeds. Then a night spent at the Saint's Arms before she could catch a train the next morning that would take her to Whitby. The night spent at the inn had hardly been restful, though. Jagged stones would have offered more comfort than the bed that had been provided for them. What should have been only a brief trip by train from Leeds to Whitby had turned into an all-day journey as the train had suffered some sort of engine malfunction. At the end of the day, she'd caught the very last public stage that would take her in the direction of Peregrine Hall.

Now, after an hour and a half on the crowded stage—trying to avoid leering stares from fellow passengers—to reach Peregrine Hall after a sleepless night, Philippa had never been so exhausted in all her life. And yet, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Being away from London, being away from the constant fear of discovery, was a respite, even if she'd had to travel to the ends of the earth to find it.

With her small bag in her left hand and the larger one in her right, she approached the heavy wooden door, black with age. But before she could even lift her hand to knock, it swung inward, seemingly of its own accord. The wind, she told herself. Never mind that the door had to weigh no less than ten stone.

*

"Hello?" she called out, stepping into the entry hall.

A woman appeared then, rail-thin with hawkish features and a bird-like frame. She wore a simple black dress that marked her as a housekeeper. A maid, a girl of no more than seventeen with bright red hair and a swath of freckles, stood quietly at her elbow and seemed positively cowed in the presence of the much smaller housekeeper. "You must be Miss Thomas, the new governess. I did not hear you knock."

The woman's cold and slightly snappish tone was unexpected to say the least. "That's because I did not, ma'am. The door opened as I approached it,"

The maid, already naturally pale, blanched while the housekeeper's expression remained utterly stoic. "It's an old house. The door itself is near five hundred years old. Likely the latch stuck in the cold when last I went out."

"Indeed, Mrs....? I'm sorry, I did not catch your name," Philippa said.

"Because I have not yet offered it. Before we become bosom companions, perhaps you should have your meeting with Mr. Falconer. The one that was scheduled to take place hours ago. You may find yourself unemployed before you've done a day's work here. After all, a governess's job isn't merely to teach academics, but also morals. Women traveling the roads alone after dark are surely suspect," the woman said with cool disdain.

Philippa had never been met with such immediate and unmistakable hostility. Electing not to address the woman's misguided assessment of her character, Philippa said, "I see. Well, I shall make my apologies to Mr. Falconer when we meet."

"Sarah will show you to his study," the woman said. "And she will mind her loose tongue along the way."