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Chapter 1

"Gemma! Gemma, where are you?"

Iris Hayesworth's voice rang out across the meadow, startling Gemma from her perch on the low tree branch and sending the two kittens on her lap scattering.

"Here, Mama," she closed her book, The Castle of Otranto, with a sigh and swung her legs over the branch, sliding off it into the dew-sparkling grass. Isabella had just fled the wealthy Manfred with the help of a handsome peasant, Theodore, and Gemma could hardly read fast enough. But she had been avoiding the inevitable all morning. Cleaning the house.

Her mother appeared in the garden gate that led to their little cottage, her lips pursed with exasperation. "Gemma, come." As Gemma hurried up, Iris added, "I've just made some biscuits, far too many of them I'm afraid. Once we've finished tidying about the house, we ought to take some of the excess over to the vicarage."

Gemma barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Lovely. Another afternoon of Iris striving to make a very ill-suited match between the young vicar and her, Joseph Jennings. There was nothing particularly wrong with Vicar Jennings, but he was culpable of one very grave sin. Dullness.

Gemma followed Iris inside. The cottage was but an eight of the size of their London house, and yet, in the past four years, Gemma had come to love every inch of it, from the sun-soaked parlor to the kitchen that always smelled of baked bread, to the garden path where so many cats sunbathed every day. She'd come to adore the garden, the bowers of ivy and jasmine and honeysuckle that on a spring morning smelled like heaven.

"Gemma!"

"Yes, Mama?"

"Did you hear a thing I said?"

Gemma ducked her head sheepishly. "No, Mama."

Iris huffed. "I was saying that that dreadful Eliza Gardiner is bent upon mortifying herself, trying to set that daughter of hers up with Vicar Jennings. He is a grave man, and I can't imagine him finding anything particularly…becoming about Margaret Gardiner." She glanced around as if Margaret and Eliza Gardiner might be just around the corner, ready to spring out.

"On the contrary, Mama. I think that Margaret would be precisely the sort of girl who would suit the vicar."

Iris stared at her, aghast. "I hardly think so," she sniffed. "Now, why don't you run along and make the beds, and I shall sweep in the kitchen—it's in dreadful need of it. And then we can set off on our walk."

"Yes, Mama," Gemma clenched her jaw but forced a cheery smile before hurrying up the stairs to tidy her and her mother's respective bedrooms. The one thing she missed about the London house was the library, and the telescope that Father bought her for her sixteenth birthday. But of course, the telescope had been sold along with everything else, and Gemma's heart still ached to think of it. She set her book down on her bed and scurried to and fro, making the beds, stepping over kittens, and becoming distracted with peering out her bedroom window. It afforded a perfect look at the stars on a summer night.

"Gemma?" Iris's voice rang through the little cottage. "Are you ready? It's near half-past eleven and I'd prefer if we made it home for tea."

"Coming, Mama," Gemma called back. She paused to scratch little Udolpho under his black furry chin, and darted downstairs.

"Good heavens, my dear. You would think we live in the American colonies, the way you run about so."

"They aren't colonies anymore, Mama."

Iris waved her hand, scoffing. "All the same, some days I fear you've utterly forgotten your upbringing. Come now, let us be off."

Every time they left the cottage, Gemma could see the flicker of disappointment in her mother's eyes when nary a footman appeared to open the doors and draw a carriage to await them. It had been four years, and Iris Hayworth remained bent upon pretending that they were only here in Willow Grove for but a temporary stay, that any day now, the carriages would return to take them home to London, and that it had all been a terrible dream.

Iris straightened her shoulders, settling a basket of excess biscuits on her arm, and together, she and Gemma set off towards the vicarage. Gemma's dread mounted with every step, until she'd come to a complete stop at the turn of the road that led to Vicar Jennings' abode.

"Gemma, come!" Iris cried.

Gemma took in a deep breath and began to walk again, until they could see the vicar himself working in the garden in front of his cottage. He was tall and tow-headed, with a beak for a nose and perpetually pursed lips.

He could be some sort of praying mantis, stooped over in the dirt, tending his beloved Lady's Glove flower bed. Gemma did not fault anyone for adoring flowers and plants—hardly. She enjoyed a singular passion for the stars and spent night after night gazing up at them. But Vicar Jennings' mind revolved around his garden, much in the way the sun turned about the earth year after year.

Or perhaps, it was the way he ate, spraying crumbs this way and that. Perhaps Gemma should have brought her coat. Most of all, it was the way that the vicar declared novel reading a grave sin every chance he was afforded. And expected her to find this charming.

"Good day, Vicar Jennings!" Iris smiled brightly at the man kneeling in his flower bed.

"A pleasure to see you, Mrs. Hayesworth," He reached up to wipe away the sweat off his brow. His eyes landed on Gemma and his smile broadened. "Miss Hayesworth."

Iris turned her head ever so slightly, sending Gemma a glance that read, "Do be cordial. Or I shall toss your beloved Castle of Otranto into the pond."

"Good day, Vicar Jennings," Gemma chirped sweetly, twisting her hands behind her back.

"May I say, you are looking very well this morning. Very well indeed."

Gemma dipped in a polite curtsey.

"Well, Vicar Jennings, I must tell you. Our cook has prepared pheasant, and it's far too much for just Gemma and I. Really, we would be indebted to you should you come by and join us for dinner." Of course, the fictional cook Iris had devised. She was too mortified to admit to anyone, even the villagers of Willow Grove, that she ever cooked her own supper. "And she has also prepared far too many biscuits. I must insist you take these." She held out the basket on her arm which Vicar Jennings took obligingly.

"Ah!" His eyebrows lifted, and his glance flickered to Gemma, hopeful. "I should be delighted to join you for dinner, Mrs. Hayesworth. Miss Hayesworth."

"Divine. Then, we shall see you at six this evening?"

Gemma grabbed her mother by the arm as they turned and hurried on down the road. "Mama!" she hissed, once they were reasonably out of the vicar's earshot. "The last time you invited Vicar Jennings to dinner, I cleaned the floors of his crumbs for days. And his laugh—it scares the cats."

"Gemma," Iris's voice was low but no less firm. "When will you understand that a matrimony between Vicar Jennings and you would be most fruitful in more ways than one? I am certain that you only mean to oppose me in this to vex me and fray my nerves."

"Mama—"

"Enough, Gemma. He will join us for dinner," Iris peered over her shoulder to be sure that nobody was close by. "And you will be cordial and everything else I raised you to be." She waved her hand, scoffing. "And I am not certain why you protest so much. You both love books."

"Very different books. He prefers Fordyce's sermons, and I read novels. And you've heard the way he rails against them at church."

"Because novels are frivolous. Now, let's go home and pick out a dress for you to wear. It must be demure, but becoming. Striking, but modest."

Gemma nearly groaned aloud. But she followed her mother back along the path to their cottage, steeling herself for an agonizing evening ahead.

***

Dinner dragged on for an abominable three hours, most of which were filled with Gemma trying to make polite conversation, and then suffering through a droning monologue about the principles of sobriety. And although Gemma had never much cared for wine, tonight she considered getting up, finding her mother's bottle of Madeira from the London days, and taking a long draught of it in front of Vicar Jennings.

When it was at last over, and the vicar had gone home, and Gemma had finished putting everything in the larder or in the pig-sty bucket, she retreated to the solitude of her bedroom, changed into her bedclothes, and perched on the window seat that overlooked the garden below. She drew her knees up to her chin, and Udolpho curled up at her feet. Gemma leaned her head against the window frame, taking in a deep breath. She fixed her eyes on the constellation Lyra, a small harp delineated by twinkling stars.

Gemma leaned forward to stroke Udolpho, and he began to purr, blinking at her hazily.

"This can't be all there is," she whispered to him. She told Udolpho everything. It was better than having a diary, because Iris couldn't sneak about and read it. "I don't want to be a vicar's wife. Or, maybe I do…but not this vicar. I know he would throw out all my novels, and I would die an early death of boredom."

Udolpho meowed in concurrence.

"I knew you would agree," Gemma smiled. "Perhaps, perhaps if there was a way for me to return to London…Mama would like that. And she would forget all about Vicar Jennings." Gemma leaned down and pressed a kiss to Udolpho's forehead. "Of course I shall bring you with me. I know Puck and you don't get on well."

Across the room, the large, orange Puck rose and stretched, as if he knew he'd been mentioned.

Perhaps wishing upon a star was only meant for fairy-tales. But Gemma couldn't resist a moment of whimsy. She never could.

***

His skull might split open any moment. Viscount Dalton Blakemore was certain of it. He swallowed down bile and rolled into a sitting position on the edge of his bed, waiting a few moments for the nausea to pass before he rose to his feet, pressing a palm to his pounding temple. He let out a curse before sinking back down onto the plush mattress.

When someone knocked on the door, Dalton doubled over, digging his fingers into his hair, praying for it to stop.

Presently, a familiar voice reached through the fog swirling in his head. His valet, Wilson, stood at the end of his bed. "Your mother is asking for you, my Lord."

Dalton blinked several times, trying to clear the haze from his vision. "Pray, convey to her that I shall arrive in no less than five or ten minutes."

"Of course." Wilson strode over to the bedroom's double doors and informed the footman waiting outside, so he could relay the information to Dalton's mother across the house. And then he returned to assist Dalton with dressing and readying himself.

Dalton stepped over to the dressing table adorned with a mirror to examine himself and paused in surprise at the sight of his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot, more deep-set than he remembered, his face pale and shiny with sweat. He hardly recognized himself.

And he could smell the stench of brandy and gin with every breath he took. The scent seemed tattooed into his very flesh. He'd need a bath before visiting Mother.

"A bath, sir?" Wilson, Dalton suspected, could read minds.

"Yes," he muttered, pouring some water from the ewer. He splashed some on his face and hoped it would improve his reflection. But it did no such thing.

Mother couldn't see him like this. She simply couldn't. Dalton did everything in his power to conceal his flagrant life from her, to shield her from what he had become. It would hurt her too much, especially in her delicate condition, and he needed her to remain in high spirits. Two footmen entered the bedroom, carrying hot water to fill the tub for his bath.

Once the hot water had been poured in, Dalton was divested of his garments and climbed in, sinking into the delicious heat, letting it wash away the night before. He let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. For a few blissful moments he dozed before Wilson approached with a bucket to douse him in, and the water coursing on his head cleared away some of the fog in his mind. Not all of it, but enough.

When he had finished with his bath, Wilson handed him a disgusting concoction containing raw eggs, that nearly made Dalton gag. He'd mastered the technique of grinning and bearing through anything, however, as he did now, hoping the remedial effects of the revolting drink would set in soon enough.

"How is my mother, Wilson?" he murmured, handing the glass back to his valet.

"She is doing most well, my Lord. In fact, so well that she is to join you and your uncle at breakfast."

"She is?" Dalton held out his arms as Wilson set about dressing him, first in his large cotton undershirt, and then his neckerchief. Wilson next slid on his waistcoat and handed him a pair of stockings and starched breeches.

"Indeed. Lady Blakemore's physician has prescribed her a new tonic, I understand. It seems to have worked wonders on her spirits this morning."

"A new tonic," Dalton murmured, as Wilson set about buttoning up his waistcoat and dusting every particle of lint and dust from his overcoat. Finally, it was time for the nearly knee-high boots, which Wilson always ensured remained polished and spotless. He steeled himself for all the scents he'd face in the dining room, praying that his nausea didn't overcome him.

And then he hurried downstairs, Wilson on his heels.

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