Prologue

Kent, England, 1812

T he Earl of Kincardine was dead. It had happened suddenly and unexpectedly. A fever caught after a ride through a rainstorm confined the elderly aristocrat to his bed, where he had died two days later, surrounded by his wife, Lady Louisa, and three daughters, Mabel, Sara, and Clare. Mabel was the eldest, and with her mother in a state of devastation, and her two younger sisters unable to understand the true implications of what had happened, it had fallen to her to be both comforter and mother. Even as her own grief was bitter and deep.

“It’s just too dreadful,” her mother repeated, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mabel put her arm around her and helplessly tried to comfort her. Her parents’ marriage had not been like that of so many other aristocrats. It had been a genuine love, born of true friendship and affection. With her husband’s death, Lady Louisa had lost her closest friend, her lover, and the man she had vowed to honor and obey until death did them part.

“Oh, Mother. Come and sit down. You’ve paced up and down the drawing room all afternoon,” Mabel said, leading her mother to a chair by the fire.

Kincardine Hall – the rambling old house in Kent which Mabel’s family had occupied for generations – felt terribly empty without her father. He had been a larger-than-life character. His empty chair by the fire, opposite where her mother now sat, was a reminder of the loss they now endured. The drawing room was richly furnished from a lifetime of the Earl’s travels, and everywhere she looked, Mabel was reminded of the man she had loved more than anyone else in the world.

“I can’t help it, Mabel. I can’t imagine life without him,” her mother exclaimed, as fresh tears welled up in her eyes.

Mabel kneeled at her mother’s side and put her arm around her. It had been two days since the death of the earl, and she could see nothing ahead of her but misery in the face of this tragedy. She missed her father terribly, and she knew her sisters, too, were feeling his loss bitterly.

“I know, Mother. We’ve got one another, though. We’ll get through this together,” Mabel replied softly, squeezing her mother’s hand. Just then a knock came at the drawing room door.

It was the maid, and she had with her a letter addressed to Lady Louisa.

“You open it, Mabel. It’ll no doubt be another letter of condolence. One of our neighbors writing to console me with kindly platitudes which mean little, but a duty performed. It’s kind of them, but it won’t change anything,” Mabel sighed and leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed.

Mabel took the letter from the tray and thanked the maid, who curtsied and left the room. The letter was addressed in thin, spindly handwriting, and bore a London postmark. A paper knife was lying on the table next to what had been the Earl’s favorite chair, and Mabel took it and sliced open the envelope.

“It’s from a man called Allington, Joseph Allington,” she said, glancing at the signature.

Her mother looked up in startled surprise, a look of horror crossing over her face.

“Your father’s cousin…oh no…what does it say?” she exclaimed. At her mother’s prompting, Mabel began to read.

“My dear cousin-in-law, Louisa – if I may be so bold as to address you in such familial terms. I write with my sincerest condolences at the terrible news of my cousin’s death. It came as a terrible shock, and I have been unable to settle ever since. Your husband was a remarkable man, and his death leaves an empty chair, impossible to fill. But fill it, we must…”

Mabel read out loud.

At these words, her mother groaned.

“I feared this would happen. Oh…can’t we be left alone to mourn? Your father isn’t yet cold in the ground,” she cried out, pulling out her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.

Mabel read on.

“The death of my cousin leaves a question of inheritance. With three daughters, the matter is a simple one. My cousin did not produce an heir, and since my own mother and father brought into this world but one child – myself, a son, the matter seems clear. It is I who inherit the title and the estate. I have taken the liberty of instructing my own lawyer in the matter and he will be contacting you in due course to make arrangements. I do, of course, intend to take possession of the house as soon as possible, and would be grateful to you if you were to make alternative arrangements in the meantime…”

At these words, her mother let out a wail so loud it drowned Mabel out and was enough to bring the maid running to see what had happened.

“It’s all right, Lottie. Would you fetch us some tea, please, and a brandy for my mother,” Mabel said assuming correctly her mother needed something stiffer than a tea. The astonished maid stared for a moment at Lady Louisa, who had collapsed onto the rug in front of the hearth and was sobbing uncontrollably, before hurrying off.

The rest of the letter only added to its already devastating content. Joseph Allington was without a doubt the rightful heir to the Kincardine title, but his condolences at the death of the earl did not extend benevolently to the situation faced by Lady Louisa and her daughters. They were to inherit precisely nothing, and it was expected of them to vacate the house at the earliest possible time. The new earl – for that was what he styled himself – would take possession on the day of the funeral, which was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Everything they had known, everything familiar, everything that had rightfully been theirs, was no longer so. It was a story of riches to rags; a cruelty so pronounced it was no wonder Lady Louisa appeared inconsolable.

“Everything…gone. That wicked man…that cruel man,” she kept repeating, as Mabel did her best to comfort her.

“We’ll challenge it, Mother. We’ll send for Mr. Bartholomew, he’s father’s lawyer. He’ll know what to do,” she said with firm conviction, even as she worried Mr. Bartholomew may be unable to do anything.

The question of inheritance had always been an unspoken problem for Mabel’s father. She knew how desperately he had wanted a son, and he had hoped that when Mabel, or one of her sisters, was married, a claim might be made for the right of any son produced to claim the title. His unexpected death had brought the matter to a head, and there was no doubting – as unfair as it seemed – that Joseph Allington was the rightful heir of the Kincardine estate. Mabel had heard her father speak of his cousin on several occasions, that too, only in the most disparaging of terms. There was no love lost between them, and Mabel could only imagine what her father would say if he knew of the scene now playing itself out in the drawing room of his own home.

“It’s no use, Mabel. He’ll only fight us all the more. We’ll have to leave. We’ll have to find a home somewhere in the village. A cottage to rent…reduced to the lowliest of circumstances…oh, it’s too dreadful. What would your dear father say?”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and Mabel’s two sisters, Sara, and Clare, were ushered in by their governess, Miss Davison. She was a stout woman of twenty-five, whose half-moon spectacles rested precariously on the end of her nose. She wore a black dress, as did the two girls – the color of mourning.

“I thought the children might like to spend an hour with you, my Lady, before they go up to the nursery for their supper,” she said. Lady Louisa nodded.

“Yes…come in, my darlings. We should be together at a time like this,” she said, beckoning Sara and Clare towards her.

Mabel was twenty-two, but her two sisters were still children at thirteen and fourteen, respectively. They glanced at Mabel anxiously, seeing their mother in her state of distress.

“What’s wrong, Mother? Have you been crying again?” Sara asked.

“Oh, please don’t cry, Mother. We hate to see you crying. What can we do to comfort you?” Clare asked, and the two of them hurried to Lady Louisa’s side.

Miss Davison glanced at Mabel, who nodded.

“Thank you, Miss Davison. I’ll see to the girls this evening. You can retire to your rooms,” she said.

“Thank you, my Lady,” she replied with a curt nod, leaving the room, and closing the door gently behind her.

Mabel did not know how to break the terrible news to Sara and Clare. They were already mourning the death of their father, but the thought of losing all that was familiar, too…

“Sara, Clare – come and sit down over here. Don’t crowd mother so,” Mabel said, beckoning her two sisters to sit on the chaise lounge next to her.

The two girls did as they were told. Mabel put her arms around them. She had always been a motherly type towards them – the older sister, caring for her siblings. Their mother began to sob.

“Our dear home, all our possessions. What can we hope to salvage from this tragedy?” she said. Sara and Clare looked at Mabel fearfully.

“What does Mother mean?” Sara asked, as Mabel took a deep breath. She decided it was better to be honest about their situation.

“We’re not going to live in the same way we’ve lived before. We’ve…got to leave Kincardine Hall and live…somewhere else,” she replied, and her two sisters gasped.

“But why? Why do we have to leave?” Clare asked, clutching at Mabel’s arm.

Mabel rested her head on Clare’s, kissing her and sighing. She felt just the same as her sister. It was a terrible injustice, and the thought of leaving Kincardine Hall filled her with dread. Where would they go? What would they do? To see them in such reduced circumstances would surely rouse the sympathies of the village, for the Earls of Kincardine had always been benevolent towards their tenants. But the adjustment would still be dramatic – no maids, no cook, no footmen, no carriage…Life would be very different from now on.

“Our father’s cousin has written to Mother. He tells her he plans to claim the inheritance, which is his, and we’re to be left with nothing,” Mabel replied, the slightest sense of resentment coming over her at the thought her father had made no arrangements, save relying on the kindness of a stranger who had proved himself the very opposite.

But he didn’t believe he would die, she told herself, not wishing to voice her feelings in the presence of her sisters.

Clare began to cry, and Sara looked at Mabel in astonishment, shaking her head as though she could not believe what she was hearing.

“But…it can’t be. Are we to leave everything behind? Are we to be…poor?” she asked in horror. Mabel reluctantly nodded.

As a child, Mabel had liked to pretend she was a poor peasant. It was a game she and her sisters would play in the gardens. They would put up a tent and take food from the kitchens, telling the gardeners they were living like those “beyond the walls.” But the reality of being poor was very different to make believe, and Mabel worried as to how she and her family would cope – what would life be like without the trappings of the aristocracy, and the wealth they had enjoyed all their lives?

“We are, Sara, and you must be brave – both of you,” she said, hugging her two sisters close to her, even as she knew whatever happened, they would always have one another.

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