Prologue

PROLOGUE

September 23 rd , 1804

“ I will not have it!” the deep voice boomed through the jib door, the furious words ricocheting off the walls.

Arabella Hayward clutched her sisters’ hands, the three of them huddled together inside the narrow closet of the music room. They’d escaped into the tight space the moment they’d heard their father and brother, Alexander, arguing in the hall, their raised voices coming ever closer.

The air was thick with the musty scent of old wood and dust, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of her eldest sister Hanna’s perfume. It was a cramped space, barely large enough to fit the three of them, and the walls seemed to close in on them with every passing second.

Outside the closet door, their father’s furious exclamations echoed through the manor, each word sharp and cutting. Lord Worcester’s voice, usually measured and dignified when in polite company, was now a torrent of rage and bitterness.

Sadly, Arabella and her sisters were more used to this tone than the aforementioned dignified one. For when it came to their father, he changed the moment he stepped into Hayward Manor.

Gone was the civility, replaced by a cold distance at best, and outright tyranny at worst. His wrath was generally directed at their older brother, Alexander, who now bore the brunt of their father’s outbursts.

Arabella had known today would be a bad day, for it was the third anniversary of their mother’s death. Annalena Hayward passed away from a lung disease when Arabella was five years old. There were days she hardly remembered her mother, although Hanna’s perfume always reminded her of their mother’s warmth. No wonder, the orange-vanilla scent her sister preferred had been their mother’s.

Now that Hanna was eleven, she’d decided she was old enough to wear perfume—something their father hadn’t objected to. In fact, Arabella thought that having their mother’s scent waft through the halls somehow calmed him.

Their mother had been the one to tame what their grandmother used to call ‘the beast’ in their father. Her love for their father had somehow managed to keep his anger in check, but when she’d gone, she’d taken all his self-restraint with her. Without his beloved wife to remind him to swallow his spleen, Graham Hayward was out of control. Fueled by alcohol, his outbursts seemed to grow worse and worse over time but never as bad as tonight.

“You are a disgrace!” Alexander shouted now. “Look at yourself.”

“Look at myself? Look at you , you ridiculous excuse for a son. Heir to the county! Pathetic! If only your older brother hadn’t died, he’d have made me proud, I am sure,” their father shouted.

Hanna gasped. This was the worst kind of insult their father had for Alexander. Their oldest brother, Charles, had died in infancy, as was common even among the nobility, and their father never let Alexander forget that he wasn’t the firstborn son.

“Do you think I want to be connected to you? To be seen as your heir? I’d rather be the steward’s son,” Alexander fired back.

Arabella inhaled sharply, while Emma quietly cried beside her. Glass shattered against the walls, punctuating the momentary quiet, followed by a guttural scream.

“The steward. Why not the groom’s son? Or some pauper? You’d disavow me? Do it, then. Do you even understand what it’s like?” their father bellowed. “To be widowed and burdened with not one but four useless children who want nothing but to live in luxury!”

Alexander’s voice, filled with defiance and anger, rose in response. “You’re a drunkard and a terrible excuse for a father! You should be grateful to have children at all. Many widowed men have nothing!”

The tension in the air was palpable, a thick, choking haze that made it difficult to breathe. Arabella could feel her heart pounding in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum.

“I’d rather have my wife than any of you!” their father bellowed. His words were a dagger, piercing the fragile sense of security the closet provided.

Arabella’s eyes welled with tears, the hot, salty drops spilling down her cheeks. She buried her face in Emma’s shoulder, muffling her sobs. “Why is he saying such awful things?” she whispered.

Emma, a year older than Arabella and usually the one who always had something witty to say, stroked Arabella’s hair soothingly. “Hush, Bella. That is not our father speaking. It is the spirits, the drink. They make him a different man.”

Hanna shook her head. “He has been like this for years now. I can’t even remember what he was like when he wasn’t a drunkard.”

The sounds of the argument continued outside, but Arabella tried to focus on her sisters’ reassuring presence. The closet was stifling, the air hot and stale. She could feel the wooden floorboards’ rough texture beneath her, and the scratchy material of her dress pressed against her skin.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. Outside, the argument seemed to be reaching a fever pitch, the words growing more heated and vicious. Arabella’s cries had slowed, but she still felt a deep, aching sadness in her chest. She missed her mother desperately, even though she could hardly remember her. She knew other girls who did not have their mothers anymore, but they had caring governesses. She didn’t even have that.

Every governess they ever had left after a few weeks, chased away by their father’s flareups. Their grandparents were all dead now, aside from their maternal grandmother, who’d suffered apoplexy two years prior and never visited anymore.

The sound of retreating footsteps finally brought a glimmer of hope. Arabella held her breath, waiting for the next outburst. But instead, there was shuffling, and then the sound of the manor’s heavy front door opening and closing.

They waited a few more moments, the silence stretching out like a taut string ready to snap. When it became clear that the storm had passed, at least temporarily, Emma carefully opened the closet door. The light from the music room spilled into their cramped hiding place, making Arabella blink against the sudden brightness.

The room was a mess. Broken glass littered the floor, and several pieces of furniture were overturned. Sheet music lay scattered across the carpet, some of it torn, and one of the chairs had a large, ugly dent in it. Arabella took a shaky breath, the reality of the destruction sinking in.

“Alexander?” Hanna called, but their brother was nowhere to be seen.

“They’re outside,” Emma called from the window.

The three sisters huddled together there, watching their father and brother argue again. Or still? It was hard to tell. After a while, their father walked away into the darkness—for what purpose, they didn’t know, but Alexander came back toward the manor.

Arabella rushed into the foyer.

“Alex,” she called, but their brother walked past them and hurried up the stairs.

“Alex!” Hanna called now. “Where are you going?”

He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around, his face red. “I’m leaving,” he said.

Silence filled the foyer, and the three sisters stood still, shocked. Arabella saw her own surprise reflected on her sisters’ faces. She sat on the grand staircase of Hayward Manor, a spot that had once been the center of their childhood games and laughter. Here, they used to chase one another and wait for their mother to return from riding with Alexander. Now, it was a place of somber reflection, a stark reminder of all they had lost.

Emma and Hanna joined her, and after a moment, Alexander, ten years older than Arabella, sat with them, his face etched with sorrow. The silence was heavy until Alexander finally spoke.

“I can’t remain here any longer,” he said, his voice steady but filled with a deep sadness. “Father and I come to blows daily. I can’t bear it. Everywhere I go, I’m reminded that I’m his son. This is not a badge of honor anymore, for his drinking is known to the ton now.”

Arabella had heard from some of her friends that her father’s habit of drinking too much had become known to the world when he’d been thrown out of Almack’s, then Bootles, and then White’s, all within the space of a fortnight. She knew these places were gentlemen’s clubs, but she didn’t know just how bad this was. Not until now.

“Because of what they wrote in the scandal sheets?” she asked.

Alexander nodded. “Everyone knows. People give him grace because they know he’s mourning our mother, but one day soon, they will find out what he is really like. His ugly nature will be revealed to all of the ton. I cannot be here for that. Who will go into business with me when it is known that he drinks his life away and is a tyrant at home?” he ranted, which was unusual for him because he generally didn’t talk a lot. He was a sullen, quiet man at the best of times, the product of their father’s treatment of him.

Arabella’s heart clenched. “But you can’t leave us here,” she whispered. The idea of being left alone with their father was terrifying. “Take us with you, Alexander. Please.”

Alexander shook his head, his expression pained. “I want to, Bella. Believe me, I do. But legally, you are Father’s. I can’t take you. If I did, he would come after us and bring you back. You know that.” He cupped her face in his right hand, and her lip wobbled. Her chest was heavy, and she longed to cling to her brother, to make him stay.

Hanna, always the pragmatic one, looked at him with tears in her eyes. “What are we supposed to do?” she asked, her voice breaking. “How can we stay here without you?”

Alexander sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Do what you’ve been doing—keep out of his way as much as you can. Once I am settled somewhere, I’ll write to him, try to convince him to let you stay with me. That is not a guarantee, of course. I will also speak to Uncle Lester and Aunt Marie,” he said, referring to their mother’s siblings. “But your best chance is to grow up and find husbands at a young age and leave this house. Of course, should something happen to Father and I inherit the county, I’d return sooner. However, for the time being, marriage is your best option.”

The words hung heavy in the air, a bleak prospect for the future. Emma, who had been quietly crying, suddenly spoke up, a determined edge to her voice. “We’ll run away and find you,” she declared. “We won’t stay here with him.”

Alexander shook his head sadly. “You can’t. That is not any better than me taking you with me. If you do, he’ll just bring you back the moment he finds you, and then he won’t let us communicate anymore. He hates me, and he won’t let me have you. I already asked him several times to let me take the three of you to London, to live in Mayfair.”

Arabella felt a chill run down her spine at the thought of being left alone with their father. She had seen the worst of his rage, and without Alexander’s protection, she felt utterly exposed.

Hanna tried to be brave, but tears were streaming down her face. “We need you, Alexander,” she said. “What if he gets worse?”

Alexander’s expression softened, and he reached out to hold her hand. “I hope that if I’m not here, he won’t be as bad. His rage seems to be directed at me, most of all. Maybe without me, things will be better for you.”

Emma and Hanna continued to cry softly, their shoulders shaking with the weight of their sorrow. Arabella, however, was silent. She knew in her heart that their father would be terrible, regardless of whether Alexander was there or not.

“Promise you’ll write to us,” Arabella finally said, her voice small but steady. “Promise you’ll come back if things get too bad.”

Alexander nodded, his eyes filled with unshed tears. “I promise, Bella. I’ll write to you as often as I can. And if things get unbearable, I’ll find a way to help you. I swear it.”

They sat together in silence, the weight of their reality pressing down on them.

As the shadows lengthened and the house grew colder, Alexander stood up, his resolve hardening. “I leave tomorrow at first light,” he said, his voice firm. “But remember, you’re stronger than you think. You’ve survived this long, and you can survive until we find a way to be together again.”

He hugged each of his sisters tightly. Arabella felt his warmth and strength, and for a fleeting moment, she believed that they could endure whatever came their way. But as she watched him walk away, the sense of abandonment and fear crept back in, settling heavily in her chest.

Arabella lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. The day’s events had left her mind racing. The darkness pressed down on her, and no matter how tightly she closed her eyes, sleep would not come. Every creak of the old manor, every gust of wind rattling the windows, seemed amplified in the silence of the night.

Her father returned a few hours after he’d left. She knew because she heard him stumbling down the hall, bumping into the wall as he cursed under his breath. His chamber door at the end of the hall opened and slammed shut, then silence once again enveloped her.

She tossed and turned, her small frame tangled in the heavy blankets. The conversation on the staircase replayed in her mind, each word from Alexander echoing with a sense of finality.

As the first light of dawn crept into the room, Arabella could no longer stay in bed. She slipped out of bed, the cold nipping her bare feet as she hastened to the window.

The sky was a soft, pale gray, the sun just rising. Arabella peered out, her eyes searching the dim light for any sign of Alexander. He said he’d leave at first light. And he’d been true to his word, for there he was.

He stood by a carriage, his figure silhouetted against the faint morning light. She watched as he handed a small trunk to the coachman, his movements slow and deliberate. Her heart ached with the realization that this was really happening. He was leaving.

Alexander paused, turning back toward the manor. For a moment, Arabella felt as if he was looking directly at her, though she knew he couldn’t see her from so high up and behind the curtain. The way he looked at the manor, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to commit his home to memory because he did not think he’d be back soon.

She pressed her hand against the cool glass, willing him to somehow feel her presence, to understand that she was there, watching him, aching with the sorrow of his departure. But he didn’t look up—his eyes were focused on the front instead. Then he climbed into the carriage. The door closed behind him, and the coachman flicked the reins. The horses began to move, pulling the carriage away from the manor and down the drive.

As the carriage disappeared, a horrible sense of foreboding settled over Arabella. It was as if everything she had ever known was being taken away once more, leaving her world more uncertain than ever before.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had to be strong, for her sisters and herself. Turning away from the window, she wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. The day ahead would be long and difficult, but she would face it with the same courage that had carried her through so many dark times before.

As she walked back to her bed, the weight of the coming days pressed down heavily on her young shoulders. But even in her sadness and fear, she held on to the hope that one day, they would be free from their father’s tyranny, reunited with Alexander, and living the lives they deserved. Until then, she would endure, with courage and resilience, just as her brother had taught her.