Prologue

Studley Park Manor

Hampshire, England

1806

“Don’t wiggle around like that, child,” Nanny said. “You want to look nice on your birthday, don’t you? The more you wriggle the longer it will take.”

Clarissa Studley did her best to keep still, but it was very hard. It was her birthday.

“Mama said that now I’m seven I’m a young lady.”

“Well, behave like one, and let me finish this hair,” Nanny said severely, unwinding another long rag and setting it aside.

Clarissa’s hair was a trial, Nanny often said. It was plain brown and straight, and a little bit bushy, and if she wanted any hint of a curl, she had to sleep with rags, which wasn’t very comfortable, but was necessary if she wanted ringlets. And ringlets were essential if she wanted to look pretty, Mama said.

And today of all days, Clarissa wanted to look pretty.

Mama had ordered her a new dress, pink and white, to match Mama’s new dress—also pink and white—Clarissa’s favorite colors. The only difference was that Clarissa’s dress had shiny pink satin bows sewn around the hem.

Mama had also bought her a pair of new shoes, white kidskin slippers with a cluster of tiny pink velvet roses on each toe. Clarissa loved them, but she hadn’t been allowed to wear them yet. “Not until your birthday,” Nanny had told her. “And never outside.”

“There, that’s it, you can move now,” Nanny announced when she had fastened the last pink satin bow in Clarissa’s hair. There were three, and they matched those on her dress exactly. “Don’t you look nice?”

Clarissa gazed at her reflection in the looking glass, twirling happily this way and that, watching the bows dance as she moved. She felt like a princess.

“Your mama wants to see you downstairs,” Nanny told her, and then added, “She has a surprise for you.”

“What kind of a surprise?” Clarissa asked eagerly. She already knew Mama had ordered a special dinner, with all Clarissa’s favorite food—wonderful smells had been coming from the kitchen all the previous day—and there was a splendid pink and white cake with her name iced in an elegant script. And tiny icing rosebuds.

And now, another surprise.

Nanny laughed. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now, would it? Now run along—no, walk, don’t run. You’re a young lady now.”

Clarissa walked carefully downstairs. The new shoes were a little tight, but she didn’t mind. They would stretch, Nanny said. She was a growing girl.

She had just reached the landing when she heard the sound of carriage wheels out front. Who could that be? They didn’t get many visitors. Was this Mama’s surprise?

“I won’t be long,” a man’s voice said.

“Papa!” she shrieked happily, and ran down the remaining stairs. Papa hardly ever visited, but here he was, on her birthday. He must be Mama’s surprise.

Papa handed his hat to Maddox, the butler, just as Clarissa bounded down the last step and rushed to greet him. “Oh, Papa, Papa, you came!” He made no move to embrace her—Papa never embraced people—so she hugged him around the legs.

“What the devil! Get your sticky hands off me.” He bent and pried her fingers open and pushed her back. “And look, you’ve crushed my trousers, you wretched brat.”

“My hands aren’t sticky, Papa, truly they’re not. I just washed them. I’m sorry about the wrinkles.” She tried to smooth them out but he shoved her roughly away and raised his voice.

“Will somebody remove this brat?” And then to her he said, “Get to the nursery, child, where you belong.”

“But it’s my birthday, Papa.”

Ignoring her, he strode to the room they called “Papa’s office” even though he hardly ever used it. Clarissa followed, saying uncertainly, “I thought you’d come to celebrate it.”

He searched through some papers in one of the desk drawers. “Celebrate what?” he said impatiently.

“My birthday. I’m seven.”

He snorted. “Expect me to celebrate that? Commiserate, more like.”

Clarissa didn’t know what commiserate meant, but it didn’t sound good. “I’ve got a new dress,” she said in a small voice. “And pretty new shoes, Papa—see?” She showed him.

He didn’t even glance at her. “Waste of money. Nothing will ever make you look pretty.”

Clarissa swallowed.

Mama said from the doorway, “She’s just a child, Bartleby. Must you be so harsh? It’s her birthday.”

He snorted again. “What’s to celebrate? A useless girl child, and plain as a stick.”

Mama came forward and took Clarissa’s hand. “I’m sorry, Bartleby. I have tried and tried for a son, and I’ve failed you, I know. But it’s not the child’s fault.”

“There’s nothing of me in that child.”

Mama gasped. “Bartleby! I swear to you I never ever—”

“I know that, you stupid woman. Who’d have you? If it wasn’t for the money—Ah, here it is.” He pulled a document out of the drawer, folded it and slipped it into his pocket. He turned, glanced at the two of them standing side by side in their matching dresses and made a scornful noise. “Look at you—both as ugly and useless as each other. Now get out of my way, I have a party to get to.”

Clarissa glanced up at her mother. Mama’s mouth quivered. She stretched out a hand to him. “Take me with you. Please, Bartleby, I haven’t been away from this house for years.”

Papa snorted again. “Take you? To a stylish ton party? Don’t be ridiculous! As well take a barnyard sow to a soirée. Now, out of my way, woman.” He brushed roughly past Mama, snatched his hat from Maddox, climbed into the waiting carriage and drove off.

Mama stood as if frozen. “A barnyard sow,” she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Clarissa squeezed her mother’s hand. “I think you look lovely, Mama.”

But Mama just shook her head. “There’s a present for you in the library, Clarissa. I’m going to bed. I have a headache.” She turned and climbed the stairs slowly, as if every bone in her body ached.

Clarissa watched, wishing she knew what to do. Mama was always like this after Papa had been home.

After a while she went into the library. She found a wrapped box on the table under the window. In it was a doll, a beautiful doll with golden hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing a dress that matched Clarissa’s, even down to the tiny pink bows around the hem of the dress, and the little white slippers with tiny roses on the toes.

Clarissa stared at the doll. Golden hair in perfect ringlets. Blue eyes. Clarissa’s hair was plain dull brown and her eyes weren’t even a proper color; they were a strange greenish brown, that sometimes looked green and sometimes brown.

The doll was beautiful. Clarissa wasn’t. She looked just like Mama, everybody said so.

A useless girl child, and plain as a stick…both as ugly and useless as each other.

She put the doll back in the box and went outside. It didn’t matter if she got her shoes dirty now. Her birthday was over.