Chapter 1

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair.

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

—Tennyson

High in a cloud-laden afternoon sky, a free-spirited skylark soared gracefully; its spread-winged shadow traveling swiftly over the colorful autumnal countryside below. Its song pierced the primeval silence of the forest below as the cheerful cry carried through the chill air; the clear notes penetrated beneath the thick canopy of branches, and reaching the soft, loam-covered forest floor the sound was absorbed by the bright carpet of fallen leaves.

The woods seemed to come to life, humming with the chirpings and chatterings of busy forest creatures contentedly gathering food for the oncoming winter, until another sound intruded into the aimless animal chatter and sent a hush over the clearing. An uneasy silence hung over it as the threatening sounds of baying hounds and pounding horses' hooves echoed in the distance.

The gossiping birds took wing and the bushy-tailed squirrels scurried into safe nests as a figure emerged from the trees, twigs snapping sharply as it moved into the clearing.

"Tally-ho!" Ribald laughter followed the cry of the hunt. "Where is that foxy wench? Damnation! Don't lose sight of her now, man!"

The excited voices drifted to a still figure, galvanizing it into action, and the raised voices became louder as the riders moved closer. Then the voices merged into one menacing sound as they intermingled with the snorting of their mounts .

As they came closer, Elysia could almost feel their hot breath against the back of her neck, as she held up her skirts and hurriedly climbed over a fallen tree. She stopped, pausing to catch her breath, panting heavily as she leaned against another tree for support. She could hear the raised voices of the men as they searched about the undergrowth, not far off, beating it back to find her hiding place. She shivered as she heard the throaty yelping of the dogs, and saw movement through the trees as the horsemen pressed on toward her; each passing second bringing them closer.

She stood still, frozen with fear, her eyes darting about like those of a trapped animal seeking safety. Suddenly, she noticed the hollowed out trunk of the fallen tree, the opening partially concealed by the full-fronded ferns and wild weeds that grew about the gaping mouth. She moved quickly into the cool, concealing darkness. Crawling past the thick ferns, she pulled them back into order as she stretched out full length on the rotted and damp bottom. She shivered as she felt the little crawling inhabitants of the decayed tree about her. Elysia's breath caught painfully in her throat as she heard the pounding of the horses' hooves coming straight towards her; shaking the earth beneath her body until she thought she would be trampled to death beneath them.

"Bloody fool. You've let her flee," said a petulant voice, startling Elysia by its closeness.

"Damn it all, it's you who slowed me up—thought you saw her in a dozen different places," another voice complained.

"First decent bit o' muslin I've seen in this damned county, and what happens?" demanded the first voice, self-pityingly. "She gets away. Did you see that glorious hair? A real little fox she was—and those long legs. By God, I'll not be cheated out of my prize after going to the trouble of giving chase."

Elysia heard the creaking of his saddle as the rider shifted impatiently, and the ominous snapping sound of a riding crop being tapped angrily against gloved hands.

"Where are those cursed hounds? We'd have had her flushed out by now if those hounds were on her scent. Could've sworn I saw something over here. "

"Sounds like they've caught scent of something over that way," the other man spoke as the distant sound of raised voices and barking reached them.

"Damn! It'd better be the wench. I'll beat their hides off if they've cornered a bloody hare. I'm going to have that maid to warm my bed this eve. It's too damned cold in this blasted place to sleep alone." He sighed in exasperation. "We'd better find her soon, because I'm played out; too damned tired to even breathe, much less enjoy the wench. Wish I were back in London—don't have to hunt for my pleasures there. Plenty of high-steppers just begging for my favors," he boasted.

"You're getting soft, my friend. The hunt adds spice to the victory, but we'd best be off, or you'll only have your old housekeeper to warm your bones this eve," his friend snickered.

"I'll be warming myself against that red-haired wench. You can have my housekeeper, or one of the scullions—more your style," he said laughing loudly.

"You don't have her yet, and who knows, she might prefer me after she's caught a glimpse of you."

"Damned if she will," he answered rising to the bait. "I'll wager my team of blacks she begs me to take her back to London before the night's out."

Elysia heard their laughter, and then trembled as she felt the fragile walls of her sanctuary shake as the riders urged their mounts over the fallen tree, and moved off into the trees toward the excited barking of the hounds.

Elysia waited, scarcely breathing as she listened to the retreating hoof beats. Breathlessly, she peered out between the lacy, interwoven fronds, seeing only emptiness in the clearing beyond. At last, they were gone.

Slowly, like a hunted animal, she crawled from the safety of her hole and paused, as if sniffing the air for the scent of an enemy, poised for flight at the first sign of danger. As she made her way through the trees Elysia felt tears of rage and fright well up in her eyes.

Her lips quivered as she thought of herself like some animal being hunted for pleasure. No wonder the villagers kept their young daughters close to their sides when the wild bloods, the fancy London gentlemen, paid their irregular visits to their estates in the country. Attired in their finely cut coats and lacy cravats, jewels glittering from their long white fingers, they demanded, and expected, anything they wanted, causing havoc the few days they took up residence on their country estates. They abused their landlordly rights by browbeating their tenants, and seducing their daughters. From upstairs maid to milk maid—not one comely face was safe from their lust.

And now she, Elysia Demarice, daughter of aristocratic parents, was humiliated and reduced to cowering like a frightened beast afraid for her life. She had to suffer the indignity of being pursued by fun-seeking young bloods from London, out to satisfy their carnal desires. Were she still under the protection of her father's house, they would not dare to approach her; she was their equal—in name and position. Possessing beauty was a liability when one did not have the protection of one's family.

But a far greater outrage, Elysia thought, was her aunt's perfidy. She had sent her out here to the north end of the property, well aware that young Lord Tanner was visiting with a party of his disreputable friends. The possibility of their paths crossing while she innocently searched for acorns, had probably wriggled in the back of Aunt Agatha's mind like a worm in a rotting apple.

Aunt Agatha seemed to derive some sadistic pleasure in reducing her to the lowest level of human existence. What sin had she committed? What gods had she angered to deserve such a fate, Elysia wondered despondently. If only she could turn back the clock and return to happier days. The happier times, the innocence of her childhood—those were the things of which she dreamed.

Elysia slowed her pace, feeling safe as she skirted a field of dumbly grazing sheep, unaware of the burrs and mud clinging to the hem of her dress. She wandered down the stony path, her mind far too preoccupied by other thoughts to see the dark storm clouds gathering to the north, or to feel the wind gaining strength and threatening the colorful autumn leaves on the trees. The wind whipped the hair framing her face into curls of wild disorder and brought color to her pale white cheeks. Elysia clutched her shawl closer about her shoulders as it grew chillier and the cold penetrated her light woolen dress.

Jumping as agilely as a cat onto the wet and slippery stones bridging the gurgling brook, Elysia landed sure-footedly on the bank opposite. She looked towards the large house in the distance. A small copse of sturdy oak partially hid it from her view, but she knew by heart every line of its unwelcoming outline. She had memorized each ugly, gray stone in its walls, every shuttered window and locked door—each was indelibly imprinted upon her mind.

Elysia wished that she could travel on past the old house, passing without a glance of recognition at its unfriendly appearance; but she couldn't. She had lived at Graystone Manor, her aunt's house, since the death of her parents.

How different her life had been before that fateful day. She could never forget the image of her father's sleek new phaeton as it overturned on a sharp curve of the road near their home. The panicked horses raced wildly down the road, dragging the overturned carriage with her helpless parents trapped beneath it.

Their death had left Elysia alone in the world. Without a guardian she had been unable to deal with the affairs of their estate as the army of solicitors and tradesmen descended down upon her like vultures smelling death.

Her father, Charles Demarice, blithely unaware of his fate, had left no will. With his death went the last of the income they had been living on from day to day—money won in gambling. This, added to the inheritance left to her father by his grandmother, had allowed them to live comfortably, if not extravagantly. But now Elysia found, to her dismay, all that was left of that gradually depleted inheritance were the debts to be paid.

Her home would have to be sold, along with the furnishings and their stable of horses. It would be difficult to leave Rose Arbor, the manor house she had known since she had been born; but the thought of parting with her treasured stallion Ariel was too much to bear.

She and her brother Ian had learned how to ride at an early age, and Elysia could mount and ride a horse with a skill few men could equal. She had been taught by her father and Gentle Jims, the family's groom, who seemed to read a horse's mind and had a hand as gentle as a baby's upon the reins. Riding was Elysia's existence, the breath of life to her and she rode like a wild and free spirit of the moors. Ariel was a pure Arabian stallion, sleek and white, his slender tapered legs barely touching the ground as he galloped through the misty mornings with Elysia joyously astride him.

Elysia had known that she had caused considerable talk among the villagers with her escapades. She had heard the gossiping about her, but it was of little concern to her; in fact it had amused her to hear what they had said, especially the self-appointed matriarch of the village, the Widow MacPherson.

"T'isn't natural the way her rides that horse. You wouldn't believe me if I was to tell ye that she talks to that beastie, aye, and by all that is Holy, if he don't understand her too!" she had raved. "I see dark clouds over the horizon. She be a heathen, that one." But Elysia had only laughed as she had listened to the widow's rantings to a wide-eyed audience of avid listeners.

The Widow MacPherson had cautioned the villagers with this ominous prediction during the years that the Demarices had lived in their manor near the village. The villagers began to believe her prophesies when Elysia's brother, an officer in the British navy, was lost at sea only a day after the tragic death of their parents. The villagers cowered behind closed doors as Elysia rode madly through the village at midnight after hearing the news, her long hair streaking behind her, Ariel a white flash of light against the darkness of the night.

That had been the last time Elysia had ridden Ariel. Within the week a relative she had never met arrived at Rose Arbor claiming to be her mother's stepsister. Elysia vaguely remembered her mother telling her that she had lived with a stepsister when she was a young girl. That was all she would tell her. What was in the past was best forgotten, her mother had said sadly, with a look of remembered pain darkening her blue eyes, and it had been the only time Elysia remembered seeing her so unhappy.

Agatha Penwick, a tall, thin woman in her fifties, had taken command of Rose Arbor and all business and financial matters with authoritative efficiency. Her plain, gaunt face, with its long narrow nose and small colorless eyes had a speculative, calculating look as she inspected the house; assessing the value of everything down to the last shilling.

"I am your mother's only living relative, and I believe your father had no one who could take on the responsibility of raising you now," she had said coldly, without a trace of warmth or commiseration in her voice for Elysia's loss. "The proceeds, if any are left after paying off your parents' debts, will serve as payment to me for taking you into a proper home."

Agatha had then proceeded to have auctioned off the family's possessions, pleasing the Demarices' creditors and solicitors. Everyone had been pleased with the results except Elysia, whose wishes had been ruthlessly dismissed as sentimental rubbish.

Elysia had been heartbroken as Agatha coldly dismissed all of the Demarices' faithful servants, most of them having served the family for over thirty years.

"They will have to find new employment. I have no use for them, and furthermore, they are past their prime. Do me no good," she curtly answered Elysia's plea to take them with her to Graystone Manor.

Elysia had tried to reassure them; promising to find them all new positions as soon as she could. But she doubted whether the older servants could find new employers—or would want to. They were ready to retire—only having stayed with the Demarices out of loyalty and love.

The night before she had left Rose Arbor, Bridget, her old nanny, had sat brushing Elysia's long, silky hair as she had done each night since Elysia had been a little girl, a tearful smile on her wrinkled face as she tried to comfort her young charge. "You just take care, Miss Elysia, and don't you fret your pretty little head about me. If you need me—well, you know where I'll be, and even though my niece's place isn't very big, and it's way out in Wales, you'd still be welcomed. You just wait and see, we'll all be together again, little one, just like before, and someday I'll be burping your wee ones like I did you and Ian, God rest his soul."

Elysia had smiled, agreeing with her, but somehow she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

Her eyes still filled with tears as she thought of Ariel. Her aunt had sent him to London to be sold at a higher price than they would have gotten in the Northern counties. Elysia had pleaded tearfully with her aunt to allow her to keep him, but she had brushed Elysia's pleas aside contemptuously, saying that she would have little time for riding or playing where she was going.

Elysia's only consolation had been that Gentle Jims had gone to London, where he would seek new employment, and would personally handle Ariel until he was sold. She knew Jims would take care of Ariel, who with the exception of herself and Jims, would allow no one else near him. Elysia had worried about this—afraid that as a one-master horse he would be useless to anyone else. She could only hope that whoever purchased him would be gentle with him and give him the chance to adjust to a new master. It was too much to hope for—that Jims might be able to stay with him and remain his trainer. But Elysia knew that she could never stop worrying about Ariel; nor would she ever be able to forget him.

Graystone Manor was as gloomy and gray as its name implied, Elysia thought, as they drove up the circular drive to the austere entrance of the house. She felt depressed and subdued after the day's journey in silence with her aunt.

That had been two years ago. Elysia's thoughts came back to the present as she stood again, staring up at the gray house that never seemed to change.

With a deep sigh she walked steadily up the slope towards it, passing through the grove of oaks, strong and invincible, withstanding the winds and rains that beat down upon them year after year, only to seem more unconquerable each new spring. If only she had some of their strength and durability, she thought with mounting despair as she skirted around to the side of the house. Elysia walked to the servants' entrance and quietly pushed open the heavy wooden door, anxious not to attract attention. She climbed slowly up the back stairs to the first landing, then through a narrow door to another flight of stairs concealed behind it—the uncarpeted steps leading to the servants' quarters, in which she had a room, but separated even farther by another narrower flight of steps that led to the attic. There Elysia had a bed and cast-off chair of faded chintz, a threadbare rug, and a small chest-of-drawers to keep her meager belongings in. Her few pitiful dresses hung on a rod fixed in the corner, and seemed to rebuke her for their sad appearance.

Elysia stared at her clothes with disgust. They hung limply like the rags they were; the elbows mended time and again, the cuffs frayed and color-worn. It pained her to think of the sachet-scented closet full of brightly colored satin and velvet dresses she had once worn; the matching shoes peeking out saucily beneath the row of dresses. Elysia turned away, her heavily clad feet in their wooden clogs noisily raking the floor; practical shoes that carried one through the sodden fields and muddy lanes, repulsing the wetness as thinly soled satin and leather slippers never would.

Elysia shivered in her damp dress, which now felt clammy against her chilled skin. She was beginning to unbutton her bodice when a knock sounded on the door. She watched silently as the doorknob was turned experimentally but the lock that she had placed on the door held the unannounced visitor at bay. The knocking came again, but more impatiently this time.

"'Ere, answer up. Oi knows ye be in there. Oi've a message fer ye from the mistress."

Elysia opened the door reluctantly, dreading the scene that would follow as she faced the burly footman standing insolently before her, a sneering smile on his thick lips.

"Well now, that be better," he said as his eyes roved over her rosy cheeks and disarrayed red-gold curls.

"What is the message?" Elysia asked coldly.

"'Ere now, that's not whats Oi calls friendly. Ye knows Oi could make yer lot a bit easier if ye was te be a bit more friendly with me." He put out his big calloused hand, the nails dirty and broken, to touch a button that Elysia had missed re-fastening in her haste.

She slapped his hand away, glaring at him in warning. "Don't you dare touch me."

He only laughed, but his eyes were as cold and deadly as a snake's watching its prey squirm before it pounces.

"The fine lady, eh? Thought that'd have been worked out of ye by now—but no, ye still be te good fer the likes o me. Well, we'll see, my fine 'un." He grinned unpleasantly, leering into Elysia's face. "Oi'll have ye yet, and ask any o' the maids if Oi don't treats 'em good—real good."

He flicked the latch on the door with a contemptuous finger. "And don't be thinkin' that little bit o' metal's going to keep me out."

"You ought to be flogged, and if you continue with these insults, I'll—"

"Ye'll what?" he said in an ugly voice. "Go tells yer auntie. That be a good 'un. If she be so interested in yer well-being then why are ye up here and working more than a scullery maid? No, Oi'll not be ascared o' the mistress on that account." He smiled triumphantly, knowing Elysia could not deny his accusations.

"No, maybe she would not interfere," Elysia agreed softly, "but I'll put a hole through that thick skull of yours if you ever dare to lay a hand on me." Elysia narrowed her eyes, smiling slightly as she continued quietly, "I am a very keen shot—in fact, I rarely miss when I take aim between some vermin's eyes."

She made no idle threat, for she had her father's pistol neatly tucked away under her mattress; originally kept as a memento, it was now used for a very different purpose.

The footman's grin faded, and he eyed the young girl who stood before him—threatening him—with a new and guarded look in his shifty eyes.

"Reckon ye just might at that. Quality does strange things, heard tell. Why ye should wanta shoot me when Oi was just offering ye a little bit o' fun," he whined placatingly, shrugging his heavy shoulders, but watching her with a sly, cunning look.

"What is the message from my aunt?" Elysia asked once more, feeling more sure of herself.

"Wants ye downstairs in the salon," he told her sullenly. Then he stomped down the wooden steps with ill-contained anger.

Elysia followed him down, wondering what her aunt would want of her this time—to complain that the floors were not scrubbed clean enough; or the windows needed washing; or the linen needed airing? There was inevitably some small detail that Elysia had missed, but which had not escaped her aunt's critical eye.

She crossed the entrance hall, forever in shadow, the dark wood-paneling absorbing whatever light seeped in through the two narrow windows. Elysia knocked, and then entered the salon to stand in seemingly respectful silence before the cold stare of her aunt.

"I see you have been out." She looked at Elysia disapprovingly. "I suppose you forgot the acorns? I did ask you to fetch me some, but you always think of your own pleasures first. You did go to the North field to look, didn't you?" Aunt Agatha's colorless eyes brightened as she anticipated the answer.

Elysia bit her lip, trying to control the anger and hatred she felt surging within her against this cruel woman.

"I am sorry that I forgot the acorns," Elysia finally replied shortly. She knew what her aunt expected to hear, but she would say nothing to satisfy her twisted curiosity.

"Forgot? From the looks of you, it was the furthest thing from your mind," Agatha hissed, noticing the dirt and stains on Elysia's dress. "Thought you'd sneak into my house like some common scullery maid after a night of rolling in the hay. Well, miss? Maybe you weren't out ‘picking flowers' all of the time," Agatha said meaningfully, looking at the late-blooming wildflowers Elysia had tucked into the pocket of her half-apron. "Maybe you got deflowered yourself? Did some stable-boy steal a few sweet kisses from you down under the trees?" she added crudely, a look of malice in her eyes .

Her cruel remarks made Elysia flinch, and her shoulders slumped almost unconsciously with defeat. She had suffered humiliation and indignity, and she was chilled to the bone, and so tired of all of this that she did not know how much longer she could endure it. She assumed her aunt had finished with her, having called her in only to assess the damage her malicious errand might have caused. All Elysia wanted now was to warm herself before the fire in the big kitchen, and pour a cup of strong, hot tea. But Agatha put a detaining hand on Elysia's wrist as she turned to leave.

"I want to speak with you."

"Yes, Aunt Agatha, but I would like to change first and get a cup of—"

"Later," Agatha interrupted rudely. "You can just stay in those damp things until I am finished. It is what you deserve for flouting my wishes."

And punishment for returning unscathed, Elysia thought dryly as she glanced about the drab salon with its green-and-gray-patterned wallpaper; olive-green striped satin sofa and chairs; and brownish-green carpet. The cold-looking marble-topped tables and stern-visaged family portraits were all reflected over and over again in the ornately carved gilt mirror above the fireplace, where a small fire was burning, sending out an aura of warmth to which Elysia automatically moved.

"Sit over there," her aunt said imperiously, indicating one of the hard-backed chairs near the window. Elysia sat down slowly, trying to get comfortable on the hard cushion. She shivered, feeling a cold draft seeping in through the window frame.

Aunt Agatha settled herself carefully on the striped satin cushions of the sofa which sat greedily before the fire, swallowing up all of the warmth put out by the struggling flames. Agatha smoothed back an imaginary strand of loose hair. Elysia had never seen one escape yet from the tight little bun at the nape of her aunt's neck. Never had Elysia seen her aunt's face alight with joy, humor, or love. Her whole appearance was severe.

During the two years that Elysia had lived at Graystone Manor she had never heard Agatha speak a kind word to her—or to anyone—but she seemed to be the target of her aunt's enmity more than the others. Agatha had not acquired a niece when she had taken Elysia into her home, but a maid-of-all-work, with the added advantage of not having to pay her wages in return for her labors.

Elysia had been left confused and bewildered. She had been raised as a lady; the protected and sheltered daughter of aristocratic parents who had provided for her every need, and had been fully educated by tutors to use her intellect. To find that she had been reduced to the lowest of menials, and in her own aunt's household, had been a severe blow. It was not that she was lazy, for she had always been anxious to help and athletic, despite it being not proper behavior for a girl of her class.

Had her family been poor, she would gladly have helped her parents in any way that she could have, even if it meant getting down on her hands and knees to scrub the floors. It would have been a sacrifice she would have borne proudly to help her family. She would never have felt any degradation or humiliation.

But here at Graystone Manor, Agatha had no need to subject her to this position. Her own aunt had forced her to become a scullery maid, not even allowed the freedom of the lowliest of servants, with no standing in the household, existing in a barren no-man's-land, cut off from everything and everyone. The other servants, knowing her to be Quality, and the niece of their mistress, kept to themselves, ostracizing her from their circle. They knew Agatha would not raise a hand to help Elysia, so they delegated her more work than three maids could manage. Elysia felt as if she were in the workhouse. She never seemed to have an idle moment—no thought or time to call her own. She was constantly busy cleaning the manor, rubbing beeswax into the aged wood, scrubbing floors until immaculate, airing the bedrooms, mending linen, until her brow dripped beads of perspiration, and sweat drenched her dress.

And Agatha was always behind her watching, directing, ordering, yet never lifting a finger herself. She sometimes thought Agatha would have enjoyed having a whip to crack over her head as she bent doing some endless chore.

Elysia remembered bitterly how she had hated the idea of becoming a burden and inconvenience to her aunt, but she knew now how incorrect an assumption that had been. Aunt Agatha's household was run frugally, with no excess in any form, and Elysia's small share of food, in comparison to the back-breaking work she did in the house, more than compensated for any possible strain she had put on the household budget—or debt that she owed Agatha.

All this at a time in Elysia's life when she needed love and understanding more than ever before; when she had been left an orphan, and cut off from all that she had loved and known. Hungry for affection, with only memories to fill the ache within her when she thought she would starve for a friendly smile or kind word. She received only hate and abuse from those around her.

Elysia constantly felt Agatha's colorless eyes watching her. She antagonized Elysia; goaded her into doing something foolish, and then seemed to derive some personal satisfaction out of punishing her for it. She knew Aunt Agatha was waiting patiently for her to break down—but she wouldn't. She would fight her—if not outwardly in a verbal battle, then silently in her mind and heart. She still had some small vestige of pride left in her.

At the end of the day when Agatha's taunting became unendurable, and Elysia's body ached with fatigue, Elysia would climb the flights of stairs to her attic bedchamber—a cold and bare room up under the eaves. How many times had she stood looking out of the dormer windows at the distant horizon, wishing so many things that could never be, remembering distant times when she had been innocent of cruelty and malice, loneliness and grief.

Her dreams were her only comfort when she went to bed at night. She would put on a thin nightdress, slip between the cold sheets of the bed, shivering. Then she would fall asleep listening to the mice scurrying in the walls.

Once in awhile she could escape outside when Agatha had some errand for her to run, sending her to the village or nearby farms for numerous items her aunt suddenly found she needed. Elysia had to hide the excitement and pleasure in her eyes as she pretended to wearily accept another chore. Had Agatha but known how eagerly she looked forward to these excursions she would have forbidden her to set foot out of doors; so intent was she on denying Elysia any pleasures.

Elysia would rush outside, beyond the stifling walls of Graystone Manor, down through the trees to the little babbling brook of clear sparkling water. She would lie there enjoying the lazy summer days under the trees, staring up through their green leafy branches at odd shaped portions of blue sky, sometimes dappled with fluffy white clouds. But even on cold winter days she would rejoice in her small flight of freedom; forgetting the circumstances that had thrown her to the mercy of Aunt Agatha, and remembering the smiling faces that were now as insubstantial as ghosts.

How could she not compare the silent and grim Graystone Manor with the smaller house of her parents; echoing with laughter, gaiety, and love. Her parents were so full of love and the breath of life—Charles Demarice, tall and straight, lean as a younger man of twenty, silver threading through his once raven-black hair; his strangely green eyes still as bright and deep with color as ever, despite his fifty years—the sweet memory of her mother's graceful figure, crowned by her glorious red-gold hair, shining with the sun's rays above her twinkling blue eyes, as she picked flowers in the garden.

If only they were still here with her, Elysia thought despondently; but they were gone—as well as Ian.

Elysia looked out of the window of the salon, not listening to Agatha's words, wondering how she had managed to survive these past two years of living—no, existing—under Agatha's roof. Why Agatha felt animosity towards her was still an unanswered question. She felt that Aunt Agatha had hated her before they'd ever met, so it couldn't have been something she had personally done. The only possible explanation was that something had occurred to cause a rift between Agatha and her own family, back when her mother had lived at Graystone Manor with Agatha. Her mother's reluctance to discuss that time of her life, and her father's similar silence, led her to believe that something unpleasant had happened; but she had no idea as to what, nor would she probably ever know.

Elysia's straying thoughts came back to the present, the chilly salon and Agatha's harshly grating voice as cold as the draft seeping in from the window.

"…and so, naturally I was surprised when I met Squire Masters this afternoon on my way to the village, and what he had to relate to me," her aunt was saying.

Squire Masters. The mere thought of him made Elysia shudder. She had never met a more repulsive man than the squire, and she fervently hoped that she would never meet him again. She had been introduced to the middle-aged widower and his three daughters for the first time a fortnight ago when they had been invited over to dine one evening at Graystone Manor.

It had come as a shock, when Agatha told her they would be having guests to dine that evening—and that she, Elysia, was to join in the festivities.

Elysia usually ate in solitude in a corner of the kitchen, or as she preferred, on a tray in the privacy of her room, away from the servants' curious eyes and gossip. Not that mealtimes were to be looked forward to with delicious hot dishes to entice one's appetite; what they served was only to keep your body going one more endless day. Agatha had lectured her one evening when she had been a few minutes late, warning Elysia that if she continued to be tardy for meals, then she would have to learn to go without. Elysia had refrained from telling her aunt that missing a meal was no real hardship, her thoughts on the unappetizing and poorly prepared food, and the small amount allowed as her portion. The thin slice of coarse brown bread—white flour being too expensive to serve the servants—and mushy, overcooked vegetables with occasional meat or fish ended up in pies over and over again until gone. Breakfast consisted of even less—tea and tasteless gruel, usually lumpy and cold. Bread and cheese served as luncheon. But in summer, when the fruit from the orchard was ripe and sweet, Elysia would secretly pick handfuls of the sun-ripened fruit to hide away in her room. When hunger rumbled in her stomach in the middle of the night, keeping her from sleep, she would feast on the delicious stolen fruit.

Agatha seemed uncommonly excited about the Masters family's visit. She ordered the cook to prepare a variety of assorted savories and pastries. Pork, lamb, and beef were sent from a nearby farm along with fancy vegetables and fruits which far surpassed the meager results from Agatha's own garden.

The best china and silver was polished until it shone and sparkled among the beautiful crystal. Fragrant mouth-watering aromas drifted throughout the house, bringing back memories of delicacies which Elysia had not tasted in years.

But there was a feeling of unease throughout the house, as if something were not quite right.

Elysia puzzled over the invitation as she soaked in a tub of warm water, washing away the dirt and grime of her day's work. She had heated and carried her own bath water up the long flights of stairs, but it was worth the effort to relax in the soapy water, her tense muscles soothed by the heat.

Her surprise at being included in the party was only exceeded by her amazement at finding a beautifully made, brand-new evening gown hanging on the rod in the corner of her room. It made the other dresses look like poor relations, in contrast.

Only Agatha could have purchased such a gown. But why? What motive could her aunt have this time? Agatha was not the type to do something without a purpose. Why should she suddenly include Elysia as a guest at a dinner party she was hostessing? Was this another sadistic plot of hers, or was she planning to embarrass her, subject her to ridicule?

All of these questions repeated themselves in Elysia's mind as she made her way downstairs, aware of the curious stares of the servants. She could well imagine their curiosity. Hadn't she been one of them just that afternoon?

Elysia's memory of the evening was vivid, lingering in her mind like the aftertaste of a horrible nightmare. The images became grotesque, the scenes moving through her mind as if distorted.

How could she forget the sight of her aunt in a mustard-colored evening gown that made her face look like a death mask; her long arms outstretched to welcome her guests, Squire Masters and his daughters: Hope, Delight, and Charmian. She tried to politely engage them in conversation, but they either banded together and talked among themselves, excluding her; or they asked her personal questions, ridiculing her answers with laughter and scorn when she ventured to give an opinion. She only wished that their father were as scornful, but he acted no such way. Elysia felt his protruding, bovine-like eyes watching her slightest gesture.

She felt ill-at-ease in the thin muslin gown that Agatha had purchased for her. It was beautiful indeed, but the décolletage of the gown seemed indecent for a young unmarried girl—her shoulders bare above the delicate lace that barely covered the soft curves of her breasts. It was one of the new Empire gowns that had become the rage of London fashion; a style popularized by Napoleon's wife, the Empress Josephine.

The Masters sisters were also dressed in this new style of Empire gown that fitted snugly under the breasts before falling in smooth, straight lines to the floor. But where Elysia's dress seemed to float about her, hinting at the curves beneath, the sisters created the impression of stuffed sausages. The daughters had unfortunately inherited their figures from the squire, who was large and stout, and they also had the same round brown eyes as their father.

With each breath that she took, Elysia felt the squire's eyes on her breasts as they rose and fell beneath the pale-green muslin of her gown. She saw his eyes rove slowly and appreciatively over her body as they were introduced, and as she looked into his eyes, she perceived a hungry, lustful glint. Elysia looked away in embarrassment, only to see a satisfied and pleased expression on her aunt's face as she watched the squire's obvious admiration.

After dining, they retired to the salon to hear Delight entertain them with her semi-trained, nasal voice, accompanied by her inexpertise on the pianoforte. Hope and Charmian giggled and snickered constantly throughout their sister's singing and playing, but she finally finished her performance, after hitting every off-key note possible.

Elysia was seated next to Squire Masters on the settee; her aunt, upon entering the salon, selected the lone chair by the window. The squire sat a little too close for Elysia's comfort, his knee and thigh pressing intimately against hers, and he constantly leaned closer to whisper some inane remark into her ear while breathing in of her fragrance and feasting his eyes on the white, alabaster flesh revealed by the low-cut gown.

But she remained puzzled as to the reasons for her inclusion in the party; she could see no reason for it. Unless it was the intention of her aunt to show her of what she was no longer a part; that as a servant she had no place in polite society. It would be like her aunt to give her an evening of pleasure, a new dress, and then the very next day reduce her to her servant's position again.

She bade her aunt a quiet good night and hastened to the haven of her room. The next day began as though the previous evening had never taken place, and Elysia's days went on as before. The new dress disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.

"I'm talking to you, miss." Aunt Agatha's voice interrupted Elysia's thoughts of that evening with the Masters family. "Always dreaming; and about things a decent girl shouldn't, I'll wager. Well, you can listen to me now, and be glad I've taken an interest in your welfare; not that you deserve it, mind you, but you are my dear stepsister's child, and I owe it to her to fix you up proper."

Agatha's tone was gloating, and there was a watchful look in her eyes as a spot of bright color dotted each cheekbone.

"I do not understand," Elysia spoke haltingly, puzzled by her aunt's odd statement. "Have you found me a position of some sort?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I have. One you should find most interesting—and rewarding," her aunt crooned. "You do remember that I said I met Squire Masters on my way to the village?"

"What has he to do with it?" Elysia asked, thinking that maybe she had misjudged Aunt Agatha after all. Then a sudden thought struck her, and she asked anxiously, "It is not a position with the squire, is it?"

"Oh, no, my dear Elysia," her aunt chuckled gleefully, showing the first hint of humor Elysia had ever seen on her face. "It is not some lowly position in the squire's household that I have accepted on your behalf, but—" she paused dramatically, an inner light brightening her eyes, "—the envied position as the wife of Squire Masters."