Chapter 1

Chapter 1

London, August 1815

"It's simply not possible," Marianne murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. "Please, read the letter again. There has to be something we've missed."

"I can read it until we both go deaf, child. It's not going to change what it says. But, as you wish." Sarah gave a matronly sigh. "From Catherine Colline, Duchess of Westden. To the attention of Miss Marianne Buller …"

Marianne blinked at Sarah from across the creaking wooden table. The older woman recited the words Marianne had read a hundred times since the letter had arrived the day before. She had tried to smooth out the creases in the paper before handing it to Sarah for inspection, now squinting at the elegant script through the tarnished parchment as Sarah held it up to her old, tired eyes.

What Marianne presumed to be the Westden crest—if by some miracle any of this was even real—stared back at her through the letter. A deep crease cut the legs of the horse rearing proudly atop a shield. Marianne related to that poor horse, feeling like someone's carelessness had also pulled the rug from under her feet.

" Darling Marianne," Sarah read aloud. "My name will not be one you recognize, but yours is known to me with the greatest affection. For as long as you have lived, I have delighted in reading about you in letters sent to me by your mother—our dearest, departed Anne …"

A lump formed in Marianne's throat. It didn't matter how many times someone said that her mother was dead. The news refused to sink in. Anne had only been gone for a month, and it had been one misery after the next since she had been buried in the Lambeth churchyard. Her mother's consumption hadn't come cheap, and as it turned out, her death hadn't either. It had cost a small fortune just to bury her with some dignity.

That was the only acceptable end for a woman as well-liked as Anne Buller. She had been fiercely loved by all their neighbours—like Sarah, the octogenarian who had lived next door to the Buller girls, as they were known, for as long as Marianne had lived.

Everyone had chipped in to cover funeral costs, but it had still left Marianne destitute. She had been hosting grievers in their little tailoring shop for the last month. Everyone had come with their questions. Chief of all: What the devil was Marianne going to do now?

As if Marianne had a clue. She was twenty-one, with no husband and no children. Despite being a talented seamstress, she couldn't afford to run her mother's business alone. In the small shop below their apartment, named Buller's Stitch , Marianne had worked under Anne since she had been old enough to tell the difference between satin and taffeta.

And then it had taken years for her to be trusted with a garment, having accumulated enough knowledge at nine years old not to ruin either fabric with a clumsy stitch.

From that point on, she and her mother had performed alterations for all sorts of gentlewomen and their daughters over the years. They had scraped by together off their own backs like they always had.

But none of their customers had been duchesses, not least of all, duchesses who claimed to have known Marianne's now-dead mother in another life.

Sarah read on. " Long before your birth, Anne and I became acquainted through a most curious twist of fate. She was my greatest and most secret friend, and I, your greatest and most secret admirer. I have experienced her passing in necessary privacy until now, and it has been a trial beyond compare …"

Sarah paused, glancing at Marianne over the top of the letter. Her fine white hair danced in the gentle breeze from the open window behind her. Sarah's apartment had always been a comfort to Marianne. Even now.

"We could send this to the fire and think no more of it," Sarah suggested, waving the fragile parchment in the air. "We've no guarantee this isn't one of the village boys trying to torment you or have you sending them money."

"It's not a prank," Marianne murmured, collapsing on the table. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood, squeezing her eyes shut. "I ran after the mail coach when the letter slipped under the door, thinking the same thing." She sighed. "It's real. The delivery was paid for in full from Norwich. It has to be from that duchess. I just don't understand why."

Sarah's lips formed a hard line. She had been a governess until five years ago, and Marianne could all too easily imagine her punishing a young nobleman's daughter with that same hard look. She continued reading regardless.

" I extend to you both my deepest sympathies and an invitation to Moorhaven Manor in Norfolk, where I currently reside. We must discuss much—many truths that have remained hidden from you for too long. It is with Anne's blessing that I bid you to me, sweet Marianne. Enclosed, you will find a letter penned by her. I hope it will provide sufficient evidence for these claims that could otherwise seem wild and unfathomable …"

"It's at home," Marianne explained, raising her head and waving vaguely toward her house.

"And yes, before you ask, I checked the handwriting to confirm Mama had written it. It was definitely her. There was nothing important in the other letter. She'd composed it when I was eleven, with Mama telling the duchess how I was doing and then asking about the duchess' recent trip to Brittany." She scoffed. "Keep going. We're almost at the most important part."

" If you wish to accept my offer, I will have a vehicle sent to your home in London in the morning of Friday the 5 th of August. You only need to let the driver know your decision. He will leave gracefully if you choose to remain where you are—though I implore you to take a chance on yourself, Marianne, and to venture to Norfolk to discover who you really are and who you can become."

With the letter concluded Sarah laid it down in the space between them. She reached over to serve Marianne another cup of water, pushing it into her hand.

"Mama never mentioned—"

"No. She never said anything about a duchess," Sarah chided as though Marianne had been a fool to ask. "If she had, I wouldn't have hidden it from you." She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth, gazing absently into the space behind Marianne. "Our Anne in Norfolk … friends with a duchess … I suppose she could have worked as a lady's maid. But what's all that about, you and those secrets?"

"Why are you asking me?" Marianne corrected her tone. It wasn't Sarah's fault this was happening. She straightened in her seat, grabbed the letter, and scowled. "I'm sorry … This is the last thing I expected my mother to leave behind for me. Most people get heirlooms or debt. And I get this bloody mystery."

"What do you want to do, Marianne?" Sarah asked, looking at her gravely.

"In an ideal world, I would resurrect my mother and continue as we were." She swallowed hard, berating herself for being so childish. "I'd like to go home and keep running the shop, but I can't. Mother's illness cost us everything. I could try and find work around here, and yet if I take too long or don't find anything …"

She couldn't even bring herself to say the rest out loud. It would be the rookeries for her. The slums welcomed all sorts of unfortunate souls. Marianne hated that people could be allowed to live in such squalor. She and her mother had taken food there sometimes. It was a drop in the bucket of what needed to be done.

She had never thought the day would come when she might actually end up there herself.

"You're a clever girl, Marianne." Sarah nodded at her, a warning look in her eye. "I've tutored all sorts of young ladies. And not one of them has been as bright and brave as you. Now, you know I'd never let you go homeless or starve. You'll always have a home with me here …"

Hope bloomed in Marianne's chest until Sarah's hands came down hard on hers, where they clutched the cup of water.

"So go to Norfolk and meet this bloody duchess. Figure out what Anne was hiding." It was not a suggestion but an order. "You will never forgive yourself if you don't …"

*

Frowning, Marianne peered out the window that Friday morning, looking down at the busy cobbled street outside. People strolled by either on errands or on walks. Without fail, every passerby stopped to ogle the lavish carriage parked in front of Buller's Stitch .

A vehicle like that was a rare site in Lambeth town. The sun beat off the carriage's roof, gleaming like a swathe of black satin. A footman appeared beneath the doorway outside, carrying Marianne's hope chest. He had been up and down the stairs for the last thirty minutes, transporting her effects when he wasn't helping her pack.

The driver shouted something at the footman before returning to his team of white horses. Another woman lingered by the shop's entrance, inspecting the beds of her nails. The group had arrived in Lambeth an hour ago, at the exact time and date that the Duchess of Westden had said they would in her letter.

Everything about that morning felt unreal. Marianne hadn't planned to leave London in her wildest dreams. Women like her didn't rub shoulders with peers and certainly didn't flounce around their manor houses. She had expected to feel excited, or afraid, or perhaps some mix of both, upon the carriage's arrival. But it was hard to feel much of anything with everything changing so quickly.

Marianne's eyes were unfocused for only a second, and she was momentarily startled by her reflection. It might as well have been Anne's ghost looking back at her. Marianne's dark blonde hair was the same shade her mother's had been, currently worn loose around a face gaunter than she remembered.

Everything about Marianne looked ghostly pale in the glass—except for her green eyes, which had been nothing like the dark brown eyes of her mother. The origin of their colour had always been a mystery to her, having probably been inherited from her wastrel father.

The less that was thought about him, the better.

Distracted by her reflection, Marianne failed to notice the footman slip back inside the house. He rapped on the door behind her, causing Marianne to swivel in her window seat. Her heart clenched at the sight of their empty apartment. Everything not bolted down had been sold or packed into Marianne's travelling trunks, which Sarah and her son had helped with.

Dust floated in the streams of sunlight falling in through the windows. Despite the wallpaper peeling at the corners and the vinegary, fishy smell rising from the Thames nearby, Marianne would miss Lambeth and their shop. This was her life, every familiar, stale inch of it.

"Are we ready to depart, Miss Buller?" the footman asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. It was a warm summer's day. "The driver expects us to arrive in Norwich before dark, given that we leave within the hour."

She drew in a fortifying breath and folded the duchess' letter. "Yes, of course. I'll be down in just a moment. Thank you," she replied, relaxing once he disappeared again without a word. Left alone, she murmured, "I just need to say goodbye …"

Marianne reached into her pocket to retrieve her hair ribbon, quickly weaving her hair into a long braid down her back. She pinned it into a bun at the nape of her neck with her mother's old silver hairpin. A teal butterfly decorated the top, rising proudly out of her chignon.

She then picked up the key to the apartment door and stroked it with a doleful smile. The key clinked against the wall as she hung it on the hook beside the door. Her coat had been strewn over a nearby counter, and Marianne swept it over her shoulders before taking one long final look at her mother's apartment.

"Goodbye," she whispered at the empty room, raising her hand lamely in a wave.

The narrow staircase groaned under her weight as she rushed downstairs. She couldn't bring herself to look into the now-empty shop as she arrived in the lobby. Men hired by the landlord had come earlier that week to clear out the shop floor, taking the remaining wares to auction. They had fetched a decent price—just enough to cover a few months' rent somewhere else in case the duchess' invitation turned out to be a dead end.

Pushing open the front door, Marianne exited Buller's Stitch for good. Her eyes barely had time to adjust to the light before someone appeared before her. It was the woman she had seen waiting by the driver. Given how she was dressed, Marianne guessed she was an attendant employed by the duchess.

"I take it that you're Miss Buller?" the woman said, inspecting Marianne from head to toe shrewdly. Her pinched face was framed on either side by ringlets of chestnut-coloured hair. She looked to be in her thirties, at least ten years older than Marianne. "We've been waiting for you. I'm glad to see that you agreed to join us."

Marianne nodded, ignoring the woman's disapproving tone. She wasn't in the mood for a fight. She jolted as the footman locked the boot of the carriage. "You'll have to forgive me. Until you arrived, I wasn't convinced you were going to show up at all." She peered into the empty carriage. "Is all this for me? Will we be travelling alone?"

The woman furrowed her brow, stepping aside as the driver came around to open the door for Marianne. "You're more than welcome to hop atop the nearest coach if you'd prefer some company." She laughed at her own joke. "Mr Plym will be driving us today. I shall be seated with you inside."

With a flick of her wrist, she gestured to Marianne inside the carriage like a disobedient dog. "My name is Miss Frida Barclay. I have been tasked by Her Grace to ensure that your trip is as comfortable as possible. Now, shall we?"

Ducking into the carriage, Marianne paused long enough to gaze lovingly at the brick face of her old home. The wrought iron sign denoting Buller's Stitch swayed gently in the breeze, waving back at her.

This could be a good thing, Marianne thought, forcing down her rising anxiety, so long as I play my cards right. I must know what secrets my mother was hiding. The duchess alone holds the key to the past and perhaps the future.