Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T he subtle autumn wind brushed her cheeks gently, almost like a mother's caress, as Mary lowered her pen. She blew softly over the foolscap.

Mary smiled.

It was not her best work. That title belonged to the odd little poem she had first composed on her eldest brother John's behalf years ago. But Mary liked to think that her newly married brother Jacob would be happy with the fun little tribute to his wife.

Mary gave a soft, hollow chuckle. Her brothers were lucky that their respective wives had not thrown a fit when they had first learned that the moving letters and poems they had thought to be from their suitors had actually originated under Mary's pen. It had started as little more than a jest—a teasing moment when the whole family, excited by the prospect of having one of the seven siblings poised to marry, had pestered poor John with their respective mimicry of what a love letter from him must have sounded like to his lady love.

The others—Jacob, Silas, Siegfried, Alice, Jane, and Fanny—had all offered their own ridiculous renditions. And then Mary, between a cough and a sniff, had presented a silly little ditty that rhymed John's name with the most unflattering descriptions while connecting his bride's with everything sweet. The room had stilled. And once John started begging Mary to be his mouthpiece, every single one of her siblings wishing to pursue matrimony began to do the same.

Mary laughed as she reviewed her latest piece. Well, not all her siblings had needed her help, at least not yet. Alice and Jane had demanded the wooing to come from their husbands-to-be, as was right. Silas and Siegfried, being the younger pair amongst the Danforth brothers, had yet to begin any serious courtships. And little Fanny, a good four years younger than Mary herself, had conveniently gotten betrothed to a dear childhood friend—thus circumventing any need for prolonged or persuasive pursuits.

"Did you finish Jacob's poem already?" Fanny's voice, high and bubbly, preceded her approach out the back door of the comfortable, if modest, Danforth home. Mary turned from her spot to smile at her sister, admiring the way the sun glimmered off the shiniest golden locks of the family. Her three sisters had all been blessed with daintier, prettier faces and forms, flatteringly juxtaposed to her four brothers' taller frames. Only Mary was different.

Brown hair, plain skin, and a frame that was slightly too tall to be fashionable—mixed with a dash of poor health—had always rendered Mary quite invisible to anyone outside of Greybrook Manor.

"I can't believe Jacob is making you work for him when he is securely married to Pauline." Fanny plopped onto the slanted stone seat beside Mary. It was not strictly a bench, but Mary used it often enough as a writing spot for her to be unable to think of it as anything else. Its breadth was limited, but the two sisters fit snugly enough.

Mary averted a sneeze before calming her nose enough to smile.

"Is it the new perfume?" Fanny frowned. She sniffed her own wrist. "I thought I barely put any on."

"It's fine." Mary tried her best to smile as she sniffed. "I can manage, especially outdoors."

"I am not any less selfish than Jacob, am I?"

"It is their anniversary, if you must know. I am only gifting them a short poem."

"May I?"

Mary handed over the sheet.

Dainty as a woodland flower,

with strength despite her frame,

My darling is more dear to me

than riches or acclaim.

Her touches soothe my pains and wounds,

her smiles my sorrows chase

And nowhere would I rather be

than in her dear embrace.

"It is very sweet." Fanny sighed. "If only Peyton would write to me this way."

"Do you wish for me to teach him?" Mary teased.

Fanny laughed. "I rather think Peyton is beyond such skills. He is a military man for a reason."

"A gentle soul in a soldier's garb."

"I know. I still find it odd to think of him as having the stomach for battle—but his sense of duty is unimpeachable. He sees his commission as a way to serve both the Crown and our future."

"Do you worry for him?"

"How could I not? It is not the safest job in the world, is it?" Fanny toyed with the fringes of her sleeve. Mary found herself doing the same with her shawl. The air was not particularly cold, but Mary could hardly ever take her chances when she fell ill so easily. "But I take comfort in my nightly prayers."

"I'm glad to hear it."

There were days when Mary had little else to comfort her other than prayers and letters. But while her family, dear as they were, knew of her letters as a service she rendered for her siblings' pursuit of matrimonial love—the other letters she kept to herself, almost as if revealing them to the world would cause them to vanish like some old, cursed scroll.

It was a silly thought, almost superstitious, but Mary found it lingering in her mind rather often, particularly now that the last of her sisters was betrothed. Perhaps it was her way of pretending that her private writings were not odd or downright embarrassing.

A low rumble in the distance hinted at the possibility of impending rain, and the sisters quickly gathered their things to turn inside.

"Do you think Jacob will tell Pauline he wrote this?" Fanny handed back the poem just as they reached the kitchen door.

Mary chuckled despite herself. "I doubt he can fool her now."

The persistent breeze outside knocked at the window, sending Mary, letter in hand, burrowing deeper under her quilt despite the healthy fire in the hearth. Fanny, along with the rest of the family, still lingered downstairs. The Peytons and Oswalds and Rutherfords were dear friends, generational neighbors of the Danforth family. Mary had no aversion to their company. But her health didn't quite allow her to have the freedoms her siblings did.

There had been times she wondered if her sacrifice was worthwhile. Would one day of merrymaking truly kill her? Did she have to retire early to bed like an old woman while her siblings chattered away?

In her heart of hearts, Mary liked people. She'd always thought Greybrook Manor felt happier filled with a veritable cluster of souls filling its rooms and wandering its hallways. There was a warmth that no fire could imitate whenever her family gathered together, cheerful and exuberant.

But that was not her lot in life.

Mary sighed under her breath. Her sisters differed from her in more than just physical appearances. While other young people aged six and twenty would not need to think twice about a few extra minutes spent in the rain, failure to take particular care for Mary meant catching a cold, earning herself a fever, and another possible bout of pneumonia, which might or might not be her last.

She tried not to wallow, on most days. Her family loved her, and she had her books. Was the loss of a normal social presence truly that much of a sacrifice to make?

Her fingers traced the paper in her hand, the words still freshly dried. If she could never experience courtship, love, and marriage for herself, at least she had her letters to keep her company.

My dearest husband,

Did you enjoy your ride today? I watched your arrival, cutting such a handsome figure atop your steed, and very nearly lost my breath. The rolling fields unfolded around you like a king's domain, our home the crowning jewel. I had your favorite dishes prepared for dinner, and I like to think you appreciated them given the hearty way you wolfed them down.

Mary chuckled to herself. Most women might not think a man wolfing down dishes to be romantic, but she rather preferred her imaginary husband to show some roughness about him.

The latest books you've purchased for me are an utter delight. I look forward to reading each one. Given that you have slipped in a volume on housekeeping amidst all the novels, should I take it to mean that you find my management lacking? I tease, of course, for I do not think you capable of ever saying something you do not mean. You say you like our home the way it is, and I trust your forthrightness enough to believe it so.

Your cousin has written, accepting our invitation. We shall have young children in our corridors again soon. Do you not love the patter of their tiny feet? It is the closest thing I have to motherhood, and I cherish each opportunity to have it.

A thousand kisses for you, my love.

Yours,

Mary

She smiled, the ache in her heart bittersweet, as she folded the letter and slipped it among others like it. Some girls dreamt of dramatic voyages or sweeping romances. Some yearned to experience an extraordinary life.

Mary would be ever so content with an ordinary life—even if it took a hefty dose of imagination to have one.

The shouts and rattling the next morning began long before any actual people landed on Greybrook's doorstep. Servants rushed about, hollering news about an approaching caravan of guests. Mary and Fanny dressed as quickly as they could in the absence of a maid. Whatever was causing the commotion downstairs had everyone in Greybrook occupied, and an aura of expectation thrummed in the sisters' shared bedroom, making commonplace gestures feel shakier than usual.

"Who do you think it might be?" Fanny asked, her hands deftly pinning up her abundance of golden hair.

"It could be a new tradesman bringing all his family and wares."

"To Greybrook? Surely not."

Mary chuckled. "I tease. Given how busy the servants are, it must be someone Mama knows—and someone who might be staying in Greybrook."

"Do you think—oh, Mary, I do not think I dare to hope!" Fanny whirled around, suddenly teary-eyed. "The war has ended in our victory, has it not? Can it?—"

"We all most certainly hope so." Mary felt a lump in her own throat. She clasped Fanny's hands. "If the soldiers have been permitted to return, then the guests downstairs?—"

"Might well be Silas, and Peyton!" Fanny pulled her sister into a crushing embrace. "I do not know what to think!"

Mary patted the youngest Danforth sibling gently on the back. "Then perhaps we can stop thinking and see for ourselves?"

"Oh, yes, please."

Fanny wiped herself clear of any tears, smiled, and rushed out the door, her hurried footsteps echoing loudly down the stairs. Mary followed quietly after.

Peace for England was finally in sight—and peace for Fanny as well. For while Silas's return would be wonderful news for the entire family, Mary had no doubt that Fanny was flying down the stairs not for her brother but for her beloved Lieutenant Peyton.

As expected, Mary reached the front parlor just as the first rounds of tears and embraces were concluding. Fanny hung onto her lieutenant like a vine, while Mama kept her arm tethered around her third son. Silas beamed at everyone in the room, looking older yet just as boyish as ever at the very same time.

On Mama's other side, young Siegfried, himself a taller and lankier counterpart of Silas, beamed at the comments that he had done a good job as the man of the family while all his brothers had been away. Even Papa was present this morning, his stern looks a little less stern than usual. A few village servants, no doubt hired to help with transport for the day, scurried in and out of the room carrying a wide variety of items. And near the entrance, wholly visible yet somehow quietly withdrawn, stood a tall, striking stranger, his red coat a clear indication of how he came to be in the company of Silas and Peyton.

"It was a harrowing experience, I tell you," Silas declared, loud voice ringing, no doubt embellishing some of his recent adventures. "The shelling was relentless, and I would not have all my limbs on my person if not for my comrades."

Mama gasped at the news, a worthy audience for Silas's theatrics, and she muttered her thanks to Silas's two friends.

Peyton, with his average height, brown hair, and pleasant face, acknowledged the thanks with a civil bow. The stranger by the entrance—his frame taking up almost the entire side of the wall—frowned and grunted, as if he did not agree with Silas's descriptions. He cleared his throat before saying in a low and commanding tone that sent Mary's heart to an unholy skip, "It was nothing, I assure you. Danforth is telling tales."

"Oh, but I am not, Captain ." Silas teased, his smile as easy as ever. "I do not think it was anything but your heroics that delivered me that day. I was so hungry I fairly well fainted on the battleground."

"Did you have to go without food often?" Fanny asked in a concerned tone, her question seemingly as much for her brother as for her betrothed.

Peyton patted Fanny's hand. "We were not fed lavishly, of course, but we are safe, are we not? And back to the comfort of hearth and home."

Fanny agreed, as did Mama, and the room seemed to crescendo once more into a fervor as everyone expressed how wonderful it was to have their beloved Silas and his friends back. Peyton readily joined Silas in assuring everyone of their well-being. But the tall captain—severe, handsome, and in possession of a set of broad shoulders that nearly spanned the entire side of the room he occupied—did not seem to agree. Instead, he heaved a sigh, looked almost resigned, and shrunk farther against the wall.

Mary rarely had the chance to extend sympathy to others when she herself had been handed such a meager portion of good fortune—but seeing a man looking so uneasy about being thrust into the hubbub of the Danforth home rather tugged at her compassion. Keeping an eye on the rest of her family, she edged slowly along the length of the wall.

The captain, whatever his name, looked tired—as if war had worn on him so much that he had nothing left in him to celebrate. Silas seemed to think of war as a grand adventure. Peyton, even with his former boyishness scrubbed away, looked glad to be where he was. The village gossip that tended to glorify battle seemed mostly to agree with the latter two.

The captain, however, looked unmoved by it all. His arms remained crossed, his face remained tense, and his brow remained furrowed. Upon closer inspection, Mary spotted a scar that lined his cheek, a faded line from his cheekbone to his temple. Was this what war did to some people? She herself could hardly imagine living through life and death only to remain as cheerful as Silas seemed to.

Mary was almost to their silent visitor when Silas called out.

"Mary! There you are!"

She turned and flashed her brother a genuine smile. She widened her arms to match his. "Silas!"

He rushed forward to hug her, and she squeezed him tight before letting go.

"You don't look any bit different, Mary dear," he said.

"I am glad to hear it."

"And you have no idea how happy I am to see you."

"Truly now? I would think you only have eyes for your lady loves."

She did not expect her jest to spur her exuberant brother into an unmanly blush. "Oh, Mary, if only you knew it. I am glad to see you—for I do believe I shall have need of your services very soon."

"Oh?"

"Philomena Oswald might require a love letter or two to woo." He grinned.

But, of course she did.

"You waste no time, do you?"

"War does make a man reckon sooner with his mortality."

Mary had never been to war, but she most certainly had reckoned with her mortality enough to understand. She smiled before giving her brother another hug. "Then I will be happy to help."