Chapter 1

December 1824 Haydon, Northumberland

S toneleigh Cottage was little more than a brick placed along the road that wound through a speck of a village—four simple walls with windows that gazed upon the surrounding landscape and chimneys that sprouted from the roof, releasing great clouds of vapor into the air—yet as Julian Knight gazed at the eaves laden with snow and the shrubs below coated with ice crystals, words sprang to his mind, desperate to capture the simple beauty of the house.

Amidst the moorland’s bleak and barren scene,

Where icy winds do howl and tempests roar,

The cottage sleeps beneath its snowy shroud.

Its windows, blurred with frost, a ghostly glow,

Where hearth-fires dance and shadows softly lie.

The cottage stands, a steadfast, tranquil sight;

A beacon warm, in winter’s fading light.

The lines were hastily cobbled together with little finesse or skill, but Julian set down his portmanteau and pulled off his gloves to fetch the notebook from his pocket. With a few scribbles of his pencil, he tried to capture the words, though as they moved from his mind to his hand the magic slipped from his grasp, leaving him with clunky phrases and mundane descriptions that fell short of the beauty he craved.

His eyes fell to the page opposite, studying the snippets he’d captured during the journey from Newcastle.

A boundless canvas painted white and gray,

Where sky and earth in endless fusion blend,

And winds like demons fan their furious fire.

With a huff, he resisted the urge to scratch it out. Sometimes even foolish verses inspired something greater in the days to come. Best to keep it all. The only way to a good line was by working through dozens of terrible ones.

How many poets have attempted to capture the rugged beauty of the moors? Such a desolate yet lovely place was impossible to describe, which was why his pencil demanded he attempt it. Fool that he was.

“May I help you, sir?”

Julian’s head snapped up to see a woman standing in the doorway, dressed in what his mother and sisters-in-law would deem a “serviceable” gown, which meant it was good for nothing but protecting one’s modesty, and thus was not only relegated to the vilest of work but guaranteed that none of those ladies possessed one. It was naught but a brown column with a well-loved apron atop it, though Julian couldn’t imagine why she bothered to protect the gown, as the muddy color could hide a myriad of stains, which was the only compliment to be given to the dreadful thing. It did nothing for her figure. Not that there was much to be done on that score, nor with the messy bundle of dark hair that was bound up in a bandeau.

All in all a rather unremarkable creature, except for the bright blue eyes that stared back at him as though wondering if she ought to call the authorities. Though Julian supposed that in a village this size, there weren’t any real “authorities” to call.

Tucking his notebook away, he snatched up his bag and strode to the door. “My name is Mr. Julian Knight. Is your master at home?”

“My master?” she asked, her brows rising.

Easing past her, Julian handed his bag to the girl and divested himself of his hat, gloves, and greatcoat—only to belatedly realize just how much snow his shoes had gathered since he’d alighted from the Wallises’ carriage. But there was nothing to be done at this point.

“I am a guest of Mr. Callaghan’s.” A looking glass hung in the hallway, and Julian stepped into view, brushing the errant snowflakes from his hair. “Is he at home?”

The maid stared at the pile of things in her arms before glancing back at him with the barest whisper of a smile gracing her lips. “Yes, he is expecting you. He is in his study.”

“Excellent,” he replied with a sharp nod of his head. “But might you show me to my room first? I would appreciate a moment to freshen up.”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied.

“And the groom left my trunk by the gate. Please have it brought up.”

“Oh, yes, sir. I will have the footman fetch it for you posthaste, sir,” she said with a bob.

Julian paused his self-inspection and glanced at the woman; though there was nothing overt in her tone or expression that seemed out of place, there was a hint of mockery about her. Stepping around him, she hung his coat on the peg by the door and shifted the bag, hat, and gloves in her hands.

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

“Not at all, sir. Follow me, sir,” she said in a bright tone with bobs punctuating each honorific she tacked on.

Heaven knew he’d heard people bemoan the state of servants nowadays, and if this was the sort of behavior they displayed then it was little wonder. What master wished to be ridiculed by his maid? And Julian had to admit that the woman was laughing at him, though he hadn’t the slightest notion why.

Perhaps matters were different in such remote climes. Haydon was in the wilderness, where one might travel for hours without seeing another settlement, and Julian suspected sheep outnumbered the people a dozen to one. This far north, they were practically in Scotland, which was far more akin to what one might find in the vast reaches of America’s frontier rather than England. No doubt proper help was difficult to find.

Frowning to himself, Julian followed her as she led him up the stairs. Though Stoneleigh Cottage was not tiny, it certainly deserved to be called cozy, and its architect had chosen economy when it came to the less important spaces, leaving more for the living quarters and public rooms; the stairs were cramped and hardly wide enough for a single person to manage, and when they reached the landing, Julian instinctively ducked beneath a broad timber beam, though it wasn’t so low to warrant the movement.

Nodding in the other direction, the maid added, “The master is in his study.”

Then, without another word, she led him through the poky corridor to the guest bedchamber. Though the bed and wardrobe occupied much of the space, he could comfortably maneuver without feeling tightly packed. The stone walls were pristine, the gray painted over with white that stood in stark contrast to the dark furniture and timber overhead and underfoot, yet the little decorations kept the room from feeling anemic.

A vase sat on the table beside the bed, and though it likely held wildflowers in the spring and summer, now it contained several sprigs of heather that had been dried while still blooming, the purple blossoms perfectly preserved. The pillows and bedclothes were of fine quality and expertly decorated by someone’s needle in a rainbow of hues, and leaning closer to the frames on the wall, Julian examined the watercolors and drawings that captured the now-dormant countryside.

All in all, the room was delightful.

“Is there anything else you require, sir?” asked the maid, the hint of a smile in her tone. “Some tea, perhaps? Or something to eat?”

Having arrived by way of Fellburn, Julian had already enjoyed a repast with his parents and their friends, so he shook his head. “That will be all.”

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he retrieved the requisite gratuity guests were expected to pay during a visit; he didn’t know why or when that tradition began, but any traveler with sense knew to keep his purse filled with coins for just such moments. As he didn’t have something so large as a pound or guinea on his person, he didn’t bother to count out the amount before handing the coins to the maid; there was no reason not to spread a bit of goodwill and Christmas cheer.

The woman’s brows rose as she stared at her palm. “My thanks, sir. You are too generous, sir.”

Again, an honorific punctuated each sentence, accompanied by a bob, and despite the deference of her words, the woman seemed to be holding back a laugh as she swept from the bedchamber, shutting the door behind her.

Sighing, Julian dropped onto the bed and toed off his shoes. Despite only having traveled some fifty miles from Newcastle and then another few from where his parents were staying in Fellburn, the two-day journey had drained him, and he reveled in the feel of a mattress. Yet as much as he longed to shut his eyes, his thoughts raced like a thoroughbred, refusing to leave him be: he was in Haydon, and he was going to spend his holiday with the poet Mr. Ernest Callaghan!

Since receiving the invitation to stay, his mind had churned with the possibilities of what the visit would entail, and those thoughts resurfaced, painting vivid pictures of the hours they’d spend together speaking of his craft. When he’d first written to the gentleman to express his gratitude, Julian had never thought to build enough of a friendship to warrant such beneficence.

A month of studying poetry at the feet of a master. Julian could hardly believe it.

*

Standing on the landing, Angelica Callaghan stuffed the coins in her apron pocket and stifled a laugh. Poets. Bah. For all that they thought themselves such keen observers of the world, Papa’s friend proved the truth: poets were fools, capable of stringing a few words together (though only through great effort) and little else.

Angelica flitted down the stairs, her thoughts returning to the task at hand—before Mr. Knight had interrupted her by lurking in front of the house. Reaching for the chatelaine hanging from her waist, she sorted through the tools she kept attached to her person and lifted the tiny notebook that dangled from a delicate silver chain.

Maggie was capable of managing a trip to the shops, but the wash required the maid’s attention at present, and Angelica was quite content to have an excuse to go herself. Better that than waiting on Mr. Knight. No doubt Papa would be sequestered with his newest acolyte for the rest of the afternoon before emerging for dinner to regale the family with all the exceptionally brilliant lines they’d crafted.

Arriving at the front door once more, Angelica reached for her cloak on the peg and the reticule that hung beneath it—and froze when the parlor door opened and her sister’s head popped through.

“Are you going to the shops?” asked Ophelia with wide eyes and a grin that said she knew the answer before she asked the question.

“I am,” replied Angelica as she released her notebook to hang from the chain and transferred the coins from her pocket to her reticule before removing the apron and securing her cloak. “I need a few things, but I will return soon.”

“You must let me come with you,” said Ophelia, scurrying to her sister’s side. “You must! I am going mad being shut up all afternoon by myself. It is monstrously unfair that Helen is allowed to accompany Mama on calls, and I am left here to waste away in boredom and drudgery. I am only two years younger, and I ought to be able to enjoy company as well. It isn’t fair!”

“I’ve heard our nieces and nephews use the self-same argument.”

“They are children. I am a young lady.”

“A young lady of fourteen.”

Ophelia gaped as though the reminder were the greatest slight upon her honor, her hand rising to her chest. Angelica refused to smile as the girl gasped with all the melodrama of an actress.

“You wound me, sister.” Ophelia’s chin trembled, and she turned away. Thank heavens they were standing in the corridor, lest the girl throw herself upon the sofa as though the words had caused physical pain and leached the very strength from her limbs.

Without the benefit of a place to cast herself down, Ophelia had to make do with cries of, “Ah, me. Such torture! Am I to be locked away in this prison forever? Forced to watch life pass before me without ever partaking? Are you to be my jailor? How can you be so cruel, dearest sister? I never thought you capable of such heartlessness. I swear I shall die of a broken heart like Elaine of Astolat or run mad like my namesake.”

Angelica’s brows rose at that. “You are overdoing it, Ophelia.”

The girl paused, her expression clearing as she straightened. “Am I?”

With another nudge of her silent eyebrows, Angelica didn’t bother giving voice to the clear answer.

Ophelia wrinkled her nose and let out a sigh. “You are correct, of course.”

But leaning into her melodrama, the girl clasped her hands in supplication and lowered herself to her knees. “Please, Angelica—my most beloved and wisest of sisters—do not allow me to languish here alone. May I come with you?”

Angelica glanced at the pocket watch attached to her chatelaine and held back a sigh. The addition was bound to slow her progress, but if she remained here much longer, Emily would return with the children and the trip would be postponed.

“If you can fetch your cloak before I leave—”

Ophelia leapt to her feet and flew up the stairs with all the dignity her mighty fourteen years allowed.