Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

" When you opened your eyes, you saw love itself, and now you have lost it. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

JULY 19, 1821

" N icholas, I wish to speak with you."

Simon's tone was hostile, but it had been two days since he had last seen his little brother.

Not so little anymore.

Nicholas topped Simon by an inch, but he appeared taller yet. His form was lean—too lean. His habits of carousing for days on end, and barely eating, were evident and, in Simon's opinion, the youngest Scott was abusing spirits.

Simon had attempted to have his allowance curtailed to limit his habits, but John had been insistent that Nicholas was a young buck sowing his wild oats. John was now the master of their household, so after some heated debates, Simon had relented and agreed to abide by the new baron's wishes. This did not mean he was not seeking other avenues to address the crisis that was forming in front of his eyes—clouds were building on the horizon, and it was only a matter of time before the storm burst.

"You shall have to join me in the library then, old chap."

Simon experienced a flash of guilt as Nicholas limped down the hall. Striding to catch up with his younger brother, he entered the room to find Nicholas at the drinks cabinet pouring a port.

"It is eight in the morning—a little early for drinking?"

Nicholas shrugged, then limped over to a settee to drop down and nurse his drink in an insolent sprawl. "It depends on your perspective. For you, it is the start of the day. For me, it is the end of a very late night."

Simon could not help it. He rubbed his face as he tried to find words—new words—that would somehow penetrate the cloud of alcohol that buzzed around his brother's head. And perhaps laudanum, too.

In his estimation, his family relied too much on both, not to mention rich foods, and they suffered from the ill effects. Simon made it a point to take care of himself and not fall into such bad habits, but being surrounded by relations in a perpetual state of inebriation took its toll on his peace of mind.

"Nicholas, I am concerned for your health. Your leg has been stiffening up, your limp more pronounced. I wish for you to see the physician that has been recommended?—"

"Not this again! I am well and have no need for such things. I am an idle buck of the noble class with no chance of inheriting or making something meaningful of myself … Unless there is a lucky change in my circumstances." Nicholas waved his crystal wineglass at the lame leg, which caused a physical sensation of regret to wash through Simon. "I shall live fast and expire young while I hold on to my Campbell good looks."

Framed by the claret red wallpaper and bookcases, the morning sun filling the library with light, Nicholas appeared ghastly with his pale features and reddened eyes. "Where were John and Mother off to so early?"

It was a transparent change of subject, but Simon was at a loss for words. Attempting to talk to Nicholas when he had been out routing for as long as he had was pointless. Best to attempt this conversation when his brother had some sleep and some food in his belly.

"The coronation is this morning."

"Ah! That explains those puffy breeches."

As Baron of Blackwood, John was garbed in antique dress per the specifications laid out by the College of Arms at the King's behest—a tight-fitting doublet with shining buttons. Gold and white breeches formed a puffy skirt, which stopped at the upper thighs to reveal a long expanse of white-stockinged legs. Heeled shoes along with a red velvet cape lined with ermine.

"Quite. The monarch had some ridiculous notions about what is to be worn by the lords. I am quite heartened to be a mere heir rather than suffer the indignity of what can only be classified as costume. It is unlikely there will be a coronation of such grandeur again." Simon's voice was laced with sarcasm. He appreciated art and beauty, but this morning's ceremony seemed more of a pompous spectacle. Their mother, the dowager Lady Blackwood, had been tittering in glee at his older brother's ensemble when they had left for Westminster. The ladies were not afflicted with such silly adornment.

Nicholas chuckled, downing his port to smack the glass down on a side table. "I predict there will be humorous prints for sale come morning!"

It was not long before Nicholas limped up the stairs to find his bed. Simon went off to take care of baronial business. John might be the baron, but his health had been declining since their father had died eighteen months earlier, so it was Simon who had taken over managing the vast estates held by the Blackwood title. The work would not complete itself, and it would be better to keep his mind occupied until evening when he would need to deliver some unwelcome news. Tomorrow he would sacrifice much in the name of duty, and he must sever his ties to the past if he wished to claim he possessed any integrity as a gentleman.

Madeline toyed with her apple and potato pie while her twin and Mama discussed the coronation over dinner. As private secretary to Uncle Reginald, Henrietta Bigsby was privy to information about the cost and organization of the ceremony held earlier that day, but Madeline was finding it difficult to participate, so she just listened while they chattered.

"Uncle Reggie says that Parliament provided one hundred thousand pounds! Can you believe such a princely sum for one event?"

Eleanor Bigsby tutted, her expression scandalized. "It is wasteful."

Henri leaned forward, tapping her finger on the white linen tablecloth for emphasis. "That is not all. A further one hundred million francs came from French war reparations!"

Mama gasped. "That is a fortune!"

"Altogether it is close to two hundred and fifty thousand pounds! Uncle Reggie says it is twenty times more than the last coronation. Such outrageous extravagance! No members of Parliament will speak out about it publicly, but plenty at Commons are complaining in private. One could build a palace for such a sum. Or fund fifty foundling homes for the orphans of war."

"Did Uncle Reginald attend the coronation?"

Henri shook her head, her honey brown hair glowing from the golden light of sunset. "Uncle Reggie could not obtain an invitation, but Lord Gwydyr invited him in to visit the Abbey last night to witness the preparations. The King's procession arrived while he was still at Westminster."

"It is a pity he could not witness it firsthand."

"He managed to secure a seat to watch the banquet. There was a temporary gallery built within the hall. I look forward to hearing about it tomorrow."

"You did not meet with him today?"

"Nay. We spoke last night when he returned home from Parliament, but he had to leave for Westminster early this morning."

Henri had been at their great-uncle's home the past few days to assist him with coronation-related duties. Visiting dignitaries, political soirées, and other functions had resulted in all hands on deck at Parliament. It was the first they had seen of her sister since the prior week.

"That is not all. Uncle Reggie says there are plans afoot to build out Buckingham House into a palace. Both Commons and Lords are anxious due to the King's expensive tastes."

Madeline pushed her plate away to sip on her watered-down wine. She did not know why her thoughts were plaguing her so. Last week she had enjoyed the pinnacle of career success, impressing even her mother, who was the premier titan of moulded stone in all of England. But it had been some time since she had wielded a chisel to craft objets d'art which would act as templates for stone statues and ornaments to adorn the monumental buildings of the realm. She spent her days engaged in the business of manufactory, rather than the artistry she had once loved so.

All she could think about was that soon she would turn nine and twenty. She had made no definitive decision that she did not wish to wed one day. With time marching on, the decision to wed would soon be beyond her control. Talk of the coronation did nothing to distract her from the frustration of lonely nights. If she did not marry, she would never know the joy of her children.

Madeline was approaching a crossroads, but she did not know what she wanted to do about it.

She wished she could discuss the subject with Henri, but her sister had no interest in it. Henri enjoyed her work with Uncle Reginald, and never discussed courtship or settling down. Madeline had often wondered what her sister would do when Uncle Reginald finally left this world. He was getting on in years, so eventually she would need to make a change when their great-uncle … was no longer around to employ her.

Thinking of death did nothing to lift her desolate spirits, and soon she picked up her fork to poke at her pie once more until dinner was over.

After dinner, Madeline wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and headed to the walled garden. She would enjoy the evening sky, she decided. It was not at all because she hoped for a visit. Simon appeared less frequently with every passing year. Sometimes weeks would go by without him making an appearance. She knew there was no possibility of courtship between them, that his unfailing commitment to familial duty this past decade would never flag, but it was a secret joy when he did join her in their garden. It reminded her of happier times, when the future had held such potential, she could scarcely grasp the magnitude of her joy.

Madeline soughed heavily at this admission. Considering the darkness of her thoughts, perhaps it was time to stop visiting the garden. Perhaps it just held echoes of her youth and had become the source of unhappiness.

Entering through the archway, she was startled to see that Simon had arrived before her. She could make out the shape of his head, his broad shoulders, and the white cravat that practically shone in the light of the waning moon.

He rose to his feet as she approached, and she noticed he had grown a neat beard since she had last seen him. Close cropped, it framed his angular jaw.

"Simon!"

"Madeline," he greeted. "You look lovely this evening."

Tears prickled her eyes at the polite words. She had been his Psyche, but she was no longer the girl he had worshiped. His manner was distant, as it had been these last few years. Visiting with an old friend who was no longer the person she had known only caused the disappointment of fond memories. Their conversations had grown stiff—stilted—and Madeline would return to the house feeling hollow. As if she had brushed past a delightful aspect of her childhood only to find it lacking from her adult perspective.

She nodded, and they took their seats on the bench. As always, Simon sat on the far edge as if he were afraid to touch her. Madeline revisited her thoughts about whether she should be spending her time in the walled garden. Perhaps it tethered her to the past—a place which could not be revisited. Perhaps she had clung to old dreams for far too long. Perhaps she should venture forth to meet some young men while there was still an opportunity to wed and bear children instead of reminiscing over lost love.

"How have you been?"

The polite question was a stake through her heart, and Madeline had to repress a gasp. Ever so proper. Ever so correct. She remembered the bold, irreverent young man he had been before Nicholas's fall. She missed the old Simon so. It made her quite resent the Scott family for their sobering influence over him.

If only ? —

She cut the thought off. There was no patience left for ‘if only'.

Mama would be pleased if I brought up the subject of courtship.

Mama had hopes for her daughters, which she made known, but she had always given them space to make their own determination. As much as she wanted heirs to their empire of industry, as a leader, she believed if a person was forced into something, it would lead to incompetence and misery.

Eleanor Bigsby had often pointed out that Madeline was the future of Bigsby's Stone Manufactory and she must learn to exercise free will if she was to follow in her mother's footsteps. Browbeating one's heiress would not result in developing a strong, confident woman who could overcome the male-dominated trade they did business in.

These notions served to highlight the lack of free will she had been demonstrating in this aspect of her life. Madeline realized she was on the brink of a decision, and that this might well be the last night she visited here.

"I have been well."

Simon nodded, seemingly satisfied by the appropriate response. Once they had talked freely as equals, but now they behaved like acquaintances with little in common. She could no longer hide from the truth—waiting for him in their walled garden every night … had become depressing.

It was time for her to gather the remnants of her pride and end this ritual. And the obvious course was to make a declaration. Which meant she just needed to find the words to tell him she would no longer be here waiting for him in their garden of flowers.

"I shall not be visiting our garden beyond this evening."

EARLIER THAT DAY

Simon was not having a good day.

This morning his attempt to talk to his younger brother had failed. The layabout had gone to sleep, risen when John and their mother had returned from the coronation, and used the distraction of their lively discussion to disappear into the early evening before Simon could speak with him as he had intended.

John had returned home in a fine funk, grumbling to Simon's mother about an encounter at the ceremony. Simon was forced to listen when he joined them in the family drawing room to get his brother's signature on important documents.

"That little coxcomb, Lord Filminster, sat next to me. I haven't seen him since attending Oxford, but the first thing he did was to offer his condolences over Peter's death! My brother died more than two decades ago! Why would he not mention our father, who expired a mere eighteen months ago, or the death of my own wife just three years ago?"

Isla Scott made soothing noises to calm the baron down. "He sounds like a rotter, but do not let it upset you, dear. It will make you unwell, and the night is just beginning."

Simon's mother was an attractive peeress a mere nineteen years older than himself, and several years younger than John. If one were not aware of their relationships, she could have been mistaken for Simon's older sister. Her dark brown hair was still glossy without signs of gray, her oval face barely lined, and her intense blue eyes could pierce armor at fifty feet. A beautiful woman who had aged like a fine wine.

"Isla, it was not just that. He asked me about my heir without a by your leave. He was always an obnoxious fop with vulgar manners. The years have not improved his character."

Isla's eyes had flared in disapproval. "That is rather rude."

"Heaven forfend." Nicholas had entered the room, leaning against the doorframe with a nonchalant air. "How did you respond? Did you preen about Simon's brilliance?"

The facetious questions grated on Simon's nerves. He narrowed his eyes, noting that his brother had donned an overcoat, evidently heading out for another night of carousing.

"Of course! I informed him of Simon's brilliance in orchestrating the modernization of our estates after Father turned over the reins years ago. A fine heir, indeed. You will never guess what he had to say to that!"

Isla leaned forward, handing John a cup of tea. "Dear, you must calm yourself."

The remonstration had put Simon on the alert. John had not been well since their father died, and the coronation was sure to have exerted him with so many hours of ongoings. Worse, the baron was off to dinner with friends to celebrate, which Simon considered ill-advised, but his brother had been excited about it for weeks, so he had not the heart to dissuade him. John was aging beyond his years, a cloud of wispy, fair and gray curls forming a halo around his head, while his face sagged with pouchy flesh. In that moment, his complexion was more ruddy than usual, and he was heaving slightly as he drew breath. The unusual activities of the day were wearing him down.

"Perhaps you should stay in tonight," Simon had suggested.

"No!" John straightened in alarm. He must have realized the sharpness of his tone, relaxing back into his seat with his tea. "Tonight is important. I shall rest before I head out."

"Drink your tea, dear. It will help," Isla coaxed, a benign expression on her face. Her irises were mesmeric in the late afternoon light, and Simon pushed down a surge of irritation. It appeared his mother had enjoyed a little laudanum at some point during the day, her pupils pinpoints in a constellation of riveting blue. Her reliance on her tonics was yet another cause for concern.

Just then, Molly entered the room dressed for dinner in a muted mourning gown of lavender velvet, which offset her rich brown hair and hazel eyes. "Oh, hallo. What are we about, then?"

Simon rose to his feet. He was still not accustomed to the young lady's presence in their home. Molly Carter was the niece of his father's second wife. Not a blood relation to the Scotts, but a valued member of the family just the same. John was now the trustee of her estate by a bizarre mix-up in her mother's will which had stated John Scott, clearly meant to be their late baron, but with no specification, the solicitors had played ignorant to assume it was the son rather than the father. Which meant, in effect, Simon, who was managing all affairs related to the Blackwood title.

She was a practical young woman, especially when compared to the eccentric Scotts, and Simon enjoyed her calm presence. However, he had yet to form a comfortable relationship with her. "Molly, please join us."

Her lips had quirked into a smile, and she took a seat beside Isla, who busied herself pouring a cup of tea to hand to her step-niece.

"John was informing us of a rather irritating baron from Somerset whom he sat beside at the banquet."

"Just so. What did your friend have to say to Simon's genius?" asked Nicholas, a smirk on his face as he poured out a port. Simon had been well aware of the jab aimed in his direction, but ignored it.

"The little upstart had the temerity to imply family disloyalty!"

This was followed by a cry from the expressionless Isla. "What?"

"He asked if I was aware that Peter had married before he left England? Had I taken the trouble to seek out his offspring, or was I following in my old man's footsteps to manipulate the heir of my choice?"

At these words, for just a moment, Simon woolgathered. If Peter, the brother he had never met, to his recollection, had sired heirs … that would mean Simon would be free to pursue his own path. With Madeline.

If only …

The thought of it had his heart leap with excitement before he scolded himself for foolish whimsy, refusing to complete the thought that would lead to frustration at his circumstances.

"What a cad," Isla proclaimed. "Your father was committed to duty. The baron would have brought Peter's children into our home and raised them as his own even if they diminished the Scott bloodlines. If there had been any progeny. It is a ridiculous accusation!"

John bobbed his head. "I do not trust the little weasel not to spread lies. You are to steer clear of him, you hear?" The baron had peered about with an expectant air while he waited for each member of the family to assent to his request.

Molly stared back in mild confusion when it came her turn. "Whom am I to avoid?"

"The Baron of Filminster."

"Oh. Certainly, I shall avoid him."

Simon buried a smile, hearing the irony in her voice despite the polite response. Molly was in mourning for her mother, so she did not get out and about much. John's intrinsic understanding of what her day consisted of as a bereaved, unwed young lady was deficient.

Shortly the family adjourned, Simon managing to solicit the much-needed signature from his brother. Isla was to dine with friends, and John was off to a separate, but similar event.

Simon had turned to find Nicholas, only to find he had disappeared without so much as a goodnight, frustrating Simon's intention to corner his little brother before he left for the night.

Shaking his head in aggravation, Simon held out an arm for his step-cousin to escort her to their lonely dinner. Molly smiled, locking arms with him, and they walked down the hall.

"Are you enjoying your stay with us?"

Molly giggled. "We have years ahead of us in this household. Must you remain so formal?"

The question gave him pause. He had not considered his studious nature might be viewed as too proper. It irked him, but then he had become rather serious over the years. He could not recollect the last time he had burst into genuine laughter. Doing his duty was killing his humor by a million tiny increments, and he hated it. But not as much as the duty he would fulfill come tomorrow.

"I apologize. It is not directed at you. Being dutiful is a habit that is hard to relinquish, I confess."

"How about we enjoy our dinner with no talk of duty, then? Just two cousins sharing repast?"

Simon forced a grin. Considering his plans for later, there was no joy to be found this evening, but he would make an effort to provide Molly with convivial companionship. Which he did for the coming hours until he noted the sun was setting and it was time to do his duty yet again.

Leaving his step-cousin in the music room, he headed out to the garden to wait for Madeline. His stomach was tight with tension, and he dreaded what he was to do.

I do not wish to deliver bad news.

But it was more than that. Tonight, he buried his last links to his past. To the man he had been and the dreams he had held. He had put it off as long as he could, but John's health made it imperative that he take care of his obligations. It was time to close the door.

He waited as evening cast shadows upon the ground, kept company by Greek gods and their feminine counterparts, savoring the sense of freedom that the garden had always represented. An oasis from the solemnity of real life. A place he could still hold on to the fantasy of a future shared with his Psyche.

It was more painful than he had thought it would be.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath slippers had alerted him to her arrival, his heart leaping when he caught sight of her. She was ethereal in the ghostly moonlight.

"Simon!"

"Madeline," he greeted. "You look lovely this evening."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, but she did not seem pleased at the compliment. He sensed she was melancholy as they took their seats on the bench.

Simon sat on the far edge, as was his custom lest he be overcome by the impulse to bolt from his rigid life where his responsibilities would rise to suffocate him if he considered all he had lost.

"How have you been?"

Madeline had fidgeted as if uncomfortable, not speaking for several moments as the silence stretched on. When she responded, there was an undercurrent of disappointment. "I have been well."

Simon nodded, not paying much attention as he summoned the will to say his piece.

"I shall not be visiting our garden beyond this evening."

She did not reply for some time, and Simon was afraid he would have to repeat the awful declaration to cap his terrible day.

"I … see."

It was all she said, and Simon's discomfort grew in the pursuant pause until he was compelled to explain himself further. "I have negotiated a marriage contract with Lord Boyle to marry his daughter."

"He is a viscount."

Her remark did not require a response. They both knew it was the primary motive for such a match.

"Which daughter?"

"Olivia … the eldest."

"Do you admire her?"

Simon rolled his shoulders. The question was … discomposing.

"I barely know her, but it will strengthen the Blackwood title. Elevate our connections and increase our influence when I wed the child of a respected viscount. Strengthen our bloodlines, which was my father's wish. It is?—"

"Your duty." Madeline completed the sentence for him. "You have not visited our garden in some time. Did you come to tell me this?"

Simon bowed his head to study his boots, his legs stretched out in a languid position which did not reflect his state of mind in the least. "I wanted you to hear it from me, not read it in the news sheets."

Madeline rose to her feet, making to leave. "I thank you. Felicitations, Simon. I wish you great happiness in your future endeavors."

The impending loss of what could have been overwhelmed him. He was not ready. Reaching out, he caught her delicate hand in his. He was selfish—an utter bastard—but tomorrow he faced the gallows, and he was not quite ready to say goodbye.

"These are my last few hours of freedom. Would you … spend them with me? Perhaps we could speak openly as we did in our youth?"

He missed that simpler time shared with her, when he had been a bold youth without the weight of expectations weighing him down. When they had planned their lives together. How different things might be if he had not caused Nicholas's accident.

Madeline cocked her head, considering his words until she relented and seated herself. "One last conversation before we say goodbye."

His heart resumed beating in his chest, and Simon resolved to savor each second of their last night. He made a conscious effort to cast off the mantle of solemnity which was his character of late and, after an awkward start, they talked and laughed together about the mishaps of youth until well past midnight.

Finally, she checked the time. "I have work in the morning." Her tone was regretful as they rose to their feet.

Simon raised a finger to brush back a lock of her silky hair, taking his time to view her features in the silvery light for the last time. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over her soft mouth. He should not have done it, but he could not help himself as he ended this chapter of his life. It was a token to hold in his memories as they bid farewell.

Stepping back, he gave a little bow. "Farewell, lovely Psyche."

Madeline gave a tremulous smile, hesitating for just a moment, then headed toward the arch to disappear from sight.

Simon watched his goddess walk away, his thoughts bittersweet. He was losing his best friend to be an honorable husband to Olivia Boyle. To be fair to his future wife, he would have to do his best to find peace within his arranged marriage, but he could not help thinking he would never see Madeline naked upon his sheets, as he had often dreamed of during his years at Oxford, or feel her soft curves pressed against him.

He hoped she would find a good husband to appreciate her.