Chapter 1

1

The rain depresses ... My lady has been bored to death. And in the clutch of Giant Despair.

—Charles Dickens, Bleak House

M AY 1820

Bleak. The weather, her mood, her life.

Miss Claire Summers pulled back the dusty velvet curtain and looked out onto another dreary Edinburgh day. Rain pelted the cobbled street two floors down, where a few merchant carts and hackney carriages passed with a clip-clop of hooves, their drivers’ hats pulled low, and even the horses’ heads bowed against the rain. The wet pavement was devoid of pedestrians, except for a butcher’s lad who jogged past with a bundled delivery.

Then a coach stopped in front of the house. A man emerged, placing a beaver hat over fair hair as he alighted and strode quickly toward the door, disappearing beneath the protruding porch roof.

“Close the curtain!” her great-aunt demanded. “I’ve told you the light hurts my eyes.”

What light? Claire thought. She bit her tongue, let the curtain fall, and turned toward the shrunken figure in the canopied bed.

The door knocker sounded in the distance.

Head and shoulders bolstered by pillows, the old woman frowned. “Who is that? Dr. McClain has already been.”

“I don’t know.” Callers were rare except for regular visits by the doctor and the apothecary’s assistant.

“Humph. Probably that young man from the apothecary’s again. Seems to deliver some useless new tincture every other day. Remind him to use the tradesmen’s entrance and not the front door.”

“It is not him. I did not recognize the man.”

The old woman flicked a weak hand toward the side table. “Water.”

Claire walked over to fill a glass, but a soft tap interrupted them.

Agnes Mercer turned her head toward the bedchamber door. “Come.”

The ancient butler entered, calling card on a silver salver.

Her aunt huffed. “What is it now?”

“A gentleman has come to call. A Mr. Callum Henshall.”

“Henshall? I know no one by that name.”

“He asks to see Miss Summers.”

Surprise ran through Claire, followed by foreboding.

Sure enough, the old woman narrowed her eyes, a suspicious scowl carved into her brow. “What have you been up to, besides gawking at men from the window? Sneaking out to meet them as well?”

“Absolutely not. I know no one by that name either.”

Claire knew very few people in all of Scotland, having lived in relative isolation for nearly two years now. The one exception had been regular attendance at church services, until her aunt’s declining health had rendered her bedridden.

Another lift of gnarled knuckles. “Send him away, Campbell.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Claire blurted, “Did he say what he wanted? May we not ask his business first?”

“No,” Aunt Mercer snapped. “I said send him away.”

The elderly retainer retreated. Claire helped the woman lift her head enough to sip water. Despite the care she took, liquid dribbled from the corner of her aunt’s thin, wrinkled lips.

“Clumsy girl. I did not ask for a bath,” she grumbled, although her tone lacked bite.

Claire quickly retrieved a linen napkin and wiped the water away.

The butler returned a few minutes later, a folded note now occupying the silver tray. “If Miss Summers will not receive him, he asks that she do him the honor of reading this.”

Another scowl crossed her aunt’s lined face. “Give that to me.” Her hand flashed forward with surprising speed.

It was not the first time Aunt Mercer had insisted upon reading a letter addressed to Claire. In this case, Claire felt more curious than resentful, since she truly had no idea what message the stranger might wish to impart.

Aunt Mercer unfolded it and read silently, the line between her sparse brows deepening.

“What is it?” Claire asked. “What does he say?”

“Nothing to speak of. It seems this Scotsman met your sisters in Sidmouth and wished to pass along their greetings. As we have made it abundantly clear they are not to contact you...” She shook her head in disgust and began refolding the note.

A greeting from her sisters? Emily’s doing, she guessed. Claire’s stomach rumbled, hungry for news of her family. Loneliness gnawed at her, body and soul.

“Might I read it for myself?” Claire asked. “Or at least thank the man for taking the trouble of delivering it?”

“No, you may not.” Agnes Mercer extended the letter toward the hovering butler. “Dispose of this.”

He hesitated. “Shall I put it in the drawer with the others?”

Others? The word jangled in Claire’s mind. She knew of only one. Had there been more?

“This one’s not worth saving. Burn it.”

Aunt Mercer had allowed her to read and respond to one letter, and she’d dictated every word of Claire’s reply to discourage Emily from writing. Had her sister written again anyway?

With a regretful glance in Claire’s direction, the butler dutifully took the message from his mistress, crossed the room, and tossed it into the fireplace. The flames leapt up to consume it.

Claire sank into a nearby chair and watched the paper blacken and wither. Gone in a moment, like her former life and hope for the future.

Sarah Summers stepped onto Sea View’s veranda to shake out her broom, then paused to breathe in the fresh air of a beautiful Devonshire morning. She glanced toward the grey-blue sea to the south, and then to the west, where a sea of yellow daffodils was beginning to fade on the hillside, soon to be replaced by red poppies, orange lilies, and perhaps even purple-crowned thistles, which grew wild there.

Thistles were the symbol of Scotland, and Sarah could never think of them without remembering Callum Henshall. The handsome Scottish widower and his adolescent stepdaughter had been their first guests last spring. She still could hardly believe she had been bold enough to write to him. She had never done something so forward before.

It had been Emily’s idea, of course. A fortnight ago the three of them—Emily, Viola, and a reluctant Sarah—had gathered for a private meeting while Georgiana was at the charity school visiting Cora, her favorite of the children there. The topic of the meeting? What to do about Claire. They had not included Georgiana because she had never been told the real reason their eldest sister had gone to Scotland. And they had not included Mamma, because she was still determined to obey her husband’s edict. Papa had disowned Claire and forbidden Mamma from harboring her or even speaking her name. And she had chosen to honor that request even after his death.

“We must do something,” Viola asserted.

“Why now,” Sarah asked, “after all this time?”

“Because we have tried to contact her several times and have received no reply save the one I showed you last year. Remember?” Emily asked. “The brief reply to the first letter I sent, basically telling me to respect Papa’s wishes and not to write again?”

Sarah did recall the only letter they’d received from Claire in the nearly two years she had been absent. When Sarah had read it for herself, she’d had to agree with Emily that it did not sound as though Claire had written the cold, impersonal letter. Yet Sarah had recognized her handwriting.

“And she signed it Clarice ,” Emily reminded them. “I used to call her that sometimes, sarcastically, when she ordered us around like a parent rather than a sister. ‘Yes, Clarice. Right away, Clarice.’”

Viola said, “I remember that.”

“I think it’s a hidden message,” Emily went on. “I think Aunt Mercer told her what to write and Claire was letting us know in a subtle way. Agnes Mercer is Papa’s aunt, after all, and she is apparently determined to enforce his final edict, just like Mamma.”

Sarah nodded thoughtfully as she considered that possibility.

“I wrote to her again anyway,” Emily added, “to invite her to my wedding. No reply.”

“I have written as well,” Viola said, “to let her know the major and I are planning to travel to Scotland and would like to visit her. I received no response either. Why would she not reply?”

Sarah sketched a shrug. “To honor our father’s wishes, as the letter said.”

“Or,” Emily theorized, “perhaps Aunt Mercer never let her read our letters. I might even be tempted to think Claire no longer lives there, if not for this one reply in her hand.”

Viola said, “Jack and I are determined to visit her during our trip—whether Aunt Mercer likes it or not. But we plan to stop at several places along the way to break up the long journey and see the sights. It is our wedding trip after all, overdue though it is. It will take us two or three weeks to reach Edinburgh.”

Emily tapped her chin and sent Sarah a knowing look. “In the meantime ... If only we knew someone who lives near Edinburgh. Someone who could call on Claire on our behalf until Viola can?”

“Mr. Henshall, you mean.” Sarah’s mind began turning like a watermill, revolving through memories of their brief acquaintance during his stay at Sea View. Would it be presumptuous to write to him when she had turned down his overtures, even his request that he might write to her directly?

Sarah offered, “I suppose I could write and ask him to call if he is going into Edinburgh anyway. I would not feel comfortable asking him to make a special trip.”

“Oh, I am sure he won’t mind,” Emily said with a mischievous grin. “Not for you.”

So Sarah had set aside her misgivings and written to the man who was never far from her thoughts.

Dear Mr. Henshall,

I am writing on behalf of myself and my sisters Emily and Viola to request a favor. I hope it is not too presumptuous to ask after our relatively brief acquaintance.

You may remember my mentioning a great-aunt in Edinburgh. Our sister Claire has been living there as her companion. We have not heard news of her in some time, and recent letters to her have gone unanswered.

We are probably worrying for nothing, but it would greatly ease our minds if someone might call and make sure Claire is well and in good health. I remember you mentioning you sometimes visit Edinburgh, and if that is still the case, would it be possible for you to pay a call on our behalf? Of course, we do not expect you to make a special trip. In the event you are able to visit, I will close with our aunt’s direction.

Either way, I hope all is well with you and Effie. We all send our warmest greetings to you both.

Sincerely, Miss Sarah Summers

Sarah and her sisters were even now awaiting his reply.

The next day, Emily ran into the office, waving a letter in one hand and pulling Viola along behind her with the other. “It’s here! It’s here!” She thrust it toward Sarah. “For you. Postmarked Edinburgh.”

Sarah accepted it and for a moment stared down at her name in his handwriting. A slight tremor in her fingers matched the quiver in her stomach.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Yes, yes. Give me a moment.”

She sat down in one of the armchairs. Emily plopped beside her while Viola paced. Aloud, Sarah read,

“Dear Miss Summers,

I was surprised and pleased to receive your letter, although I am sorry for the concerns that prompted you to write. Thank you for entrusting me with the request. It is an honor and a privilege to be of service to you and your good family, of whom I have fond memories and the deepest regard.

Unfortunately, I am unable to provide a satisfactory report.

After receiving your letter, I traveled into Edinburgh as soon as I could and went to the address you provided—a house in the New Town. I introduced myself to a manservant, handed him my card, and asked to call on your sister. A few minutes later, I was turned away.

Having foreseen that possibility—I am a stranger to them, after all—I had taken the liberty of composing a brief note, introducing myself as someone who had met her family in Sidmouth and wished to pass along their greetings and ask after her well-being. The manservant accepted the note and promptly shut the door in my face. I hope he gave it to your sister but cannot guarantee it.

I am sorry I was not more successful and wish I could send you fulsome reassurances about your sister’s health and happiness. If she or your aunt contact me (I provided my direction), I will, of course, let you know.

In the meantime, if there is anything else I can do, please do not hesitate to let me know.

Sincerely, Callum Henshall”

Emily threw up her hands. “Unsatisfactory report is right! Where does this leave us? We know no more than before.”

“At least we know Claire is probably still living there,” Sarah said. “Although I would feel better if he had seen her.”

“How rude not to receive him,” Viola said. “Surely that was Aunt Mercer’s doing and not Claire’s.”

“I agree,” Sarah said. “Unless, perhaps, her experience with ... a certain gentleman ... has left her wary of men in general.”

“I had not thought of that.” Emily looked at her twin. “I am so glad you and the major are traveling there soon, Vi. Surely they won’t refuse to see you.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Are you all packed?”

“Yes. We leave bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Emily squeezed her hand. “Have a wonderful time.”

“Thank you. I shall write with news as soon as I can.”