Chapter 2

AN ICY DROPLET OF WATER landed directly on William’s forehead.

Sighing, he kicked a bucket under the source of the leak. This bloody house seemed to have more buckets than furniture lately.

William could just imagine his late mother’s face if she could see the state of her childhood home. The Tudor mansion had once been a thing of splendour. Because of William, it had gone to rack and ruin, decaying increasingly every day.

One would be forgiven for thinking that at the age of thirty the second son of a viscount would be financially stable, suitably married, and have a small army of children.

However, William had been doomed from his conception.

His “father” had been a cruel and vindictive man, who would regularly beat William’s mother. It was not much of a surprise that she’d found comfort elsewhere. She had died birthing William, and his father had had no choice but to legally accept his new son as his own, despite William’s golden-olive complexion, black curls and peaty eyes – so at odds with the Celtic look of the rest of his family.

William’s punishment had begun at birth.

His father had burned every painting of his mother, along with her dresses and every other flammable item that held a memory of her.

William had barely seen his father for his entire childhood. The Viscount had left William exclusively in the care of a nanny, one he had personally ensured was cruel and distant. While William’s brother had been shipped off to boarding school to receive the finest education, William had remained at home. His father had reluctantly allowed William to join his sister’s lessons with her governess, if only for the fact that an illiterate second son was slightly more embarrassing than an illegitimate one.

The vile creature had finally done the world a favour and died on William’s nineteenth birthday. William had imagined his father’s death on countless occasions, but when the time came, it had been unnecessarily cruel. His father had been fit and healthy one day, then doubled over in pain the next. It had taken him two days to die, his cries of pain so harrowing that they had haunted William’s dreams for years. William had felt an odd relief for the man when his suffering was finally over. The next day, his will had been read, not that it was particularly necessary as William’s brother, Lucius, was legally entitled to the estate as well as the title of viscount. But it had come as quite a shock to find that William had been bequeathed his mother’s ancestral home.

It was not kindness, however. In the nineteen years since his mother’s death, William’s father had never spent a penny on the manor out of spite. The farm had been left to rot, the servants and farm tenants long gone. It had been his final punishment – to allow William to decay alongside the last lingering remnants of his mother’s memory.

But William didn’t mind. For while the manor was sucking him dry, it had held a hidden gem within.

The moment William had returned from his father’s funeral, his brother had the servants pack his bags. Without even the loan of a horse, William made his way with his meagre bag of belongings to the decrepit manor, thankfully situated only a couple of miles away. William spent the first night shivering on the stone floor beside the measly fire he’d managed to make from some rotten wood he’d found in an outhouse. The next morning, determined to take stock of all the jobs that had to be done, William worked his way through every room from the bottom up.

Thankfully, most of the furniture remained, albeit the soft furnishing smelt of damp and mildew. A number of windows needed replacing, and the wooden floor in the library showed woodworm and would need to be torn up.

His father had stripped the house of the most valuable items, leaving only chests of old clothes and worthless trinkets scattered about the rooms. Unbelievably, he seemed to have missed the wine cellar, which contained enough alcohol to supply a season of balls.

When William finally traipsed up to the attic – the last room on his list – he was surprised at just how small it was.

A single window offered some light into the space. Old furniture littered one side of the wall. He looked from side to side and noticed that there was only one chimney stack when he could have sworn the house had two. He went down the stairs and walked a few paces outside the door, and there were indeed two chimney stacks poking out the top of the slate roof. Determined, William made his way back up to the attic. He removed the decaying furniture that had been stacked high against the wall and finally happened upon an inconspicuous door.

Musty, stagnant air filled his lungs when he finally pried the handleless door open. He swung his lamp in first and nearly died of fright as a pair of eyes met his. After composing himself in the safety of the well-lit adjoining room, which took a lot longer than he would have liked, he carefully peered back in. A portrait gazed down at him from the centre of the room. She had perfect mahogany ringlets cascading down her back and wore a pale blue dress at least four decades out of fashion. Her look was stoic, but William could swear it was as if the corner of her lips twitched into the slightest mischievous smile. Her eyes were the same shape as William’s, though lacking the scorn he normally wore. William reached out and gently touched the face of his mother, the first time he’d ever seen her likeness. He must have stared at her for a full ten minutes before finally inspecting the rest of the room. A large trunk revealed a number of fine silk dresses. Another held stacks of silverware. A small box sat atop a dusty, elaborate plant stand, which housed a number of fine pieces of jewellery. William had felt the tightness around his heart lessen slightly. His mother had done this, he could feel it in his bones. His mother knew to squirrel away as much as she could.

His eyes fell upon a tapestry chair. Sitting atop it was a letter, the paper yellowed with age. William ran his thumb over the beautiful cursive writing that he knew was addressed to him. Child .

He turned it over and carefully pried open the seal. His eyes stung and hot tears fell down his cheeks as he read.

Dearest child,

You do not know me, but I know you. I write you this letter with one arm embraced around my stomach, singing you the lullabies my mother sang to me. I wonder what kind of person you will grow to be. If you are a girl, I hope you are stronger than I. If you are a boy, I hope you are kind. Regardless, I hope you find love in this cruel world.

I think that I shall not survive your birth. I was warned after the complications with Catherine not to conceive again, and the Viscount already suspects you are not his. I can only hope he treats you with the same disregard as Lucius and Catherine, for he can be cruel and vindictive when the mood takes him.

For that, I am sorry.

You must suffer for your mother’s moment of weakness. Just know that your father – your real father, that is – showed me more love and adoration in the short time we had together than the Viscount showed me in the entirety of our marriage.

There is not much that I can set aside for you, but I hope what little I have left behind might be enough to keep you going.

Know that my greatest regret in life is not being there for you.

Your ever doting mother,

Sarah

The letter was William’s most prized possession. It had an entire drawer to itself in his desk, and he would oftentimes find himself reading it. His mother’s other gifts had gone a far way in the beginning. William had been able to make the necessary repairs to make the house watertight and free from infestation, and to purchase enough supplies to keep himself and the two servants who had followed him from his brother’s estate afloat.

He’d even managed to fix up two of the cottages on the estate to a reasonable enough standard that a couple of families had agreed to move in and work the land.

All had gone reasonably well for the first few years.

But managing an estate, tenants and farmland did not come naturally to William. He tried his best, but being barely literate, he couldn’t make head nor tail of the books on agriculture left behind in the library, and his account keeping was abysmal to say the least. A decade and a half under his poor management had his mother’s house decaying once more and the farm cottages empty.

His mother’s painting had pride of place on the stairway. William could barely meet her eyes as he picked up another bucket and trudged along to a console table, putting it directly under the line of fire of another leak.

If he didn’t make the attic watertight soon, the whole place would crumble down around him.

Over the years, William had wrestled with the thought of swallowing his pride and plucking a rich wallflower off the side. God knows he could have done with the money, and the company. But on the rare occasion he ventured out into society, he just couldn’t bring himself to approach any of the ladies sitting lonely by the side. He couldn’t bear to subject them to ... well ... to himself, he guessed.

Oh yes, a wife with money could certainly have spruced this place up. And he often thought about what it would be like to roll over in the morning and for the first face he saw to be that of his life partner. He pictured a table full of children roaring with laughter, and a fiery-haired wife tutting light-heartedly at them, before meeting his eyes and offering him a shrug that suggested they’d learned that from their father.

But William would quickly snap himself out of those dreams. He was not husband material. His inability to run a simple farm, let alone a household, would be enough reason for any woman to turn her back on him.

That and the fact that he wasn’t exactly a charismatic man. His brother had learned to control a room, while William had learned to stay quiet and unseen. William was never taught how to play cards or talk about politics – hell, he wasn’t even taught how to shave properly!

What a useless husband he would make indeed.

“Ahem, sir?” came the distressed voice of Martin.

Martin, the long-suffering butler, valet, groomsman, gardener, farm labourer and general servant of the estate, poked his gaunt face from behind the door.

William gestured for him to come in.

Martin’s cheeks were flushed red, and his white brows knotted into the frown he wore when he was about to break some terrible financial news.

William made a gesture for him to proceed.

Martin remained stock still, holding his breath.

“Out with it, then,” William sighed.

In a single breath, Martin said, “Tis the roof, sir. Martha went up to the attic to retrieve some dust sheets, sir, and, well, the thing is, there was no roof to be seen.”

William stared at him dumbfounded. “No roof? ”

“Aye, sir. Must have been that bad storm two nights ago. Left a big hole, it did. And all the stuff in the attic is ruined – the water has caused the floor to collapse into the bedroom below. I’m sorry, sir. We should have seen it earlier. I found all the tiles in the courtyard below, and I haven’t been out that side in a while on account of all the fixing I’ve been doing in here, and Martha, she’s only just got round to going up there to get the sheets, and—”

“This is not your fault, Martin,” William said. He walked across the hallway and into the study, Martin in tow. William sat on the rickety chair at the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper from the drawer. “Please, you and Martha do what you can to make it safe. I will figure something out.”

Martin nodded, sweeping out of the room with more agility than should be possible for a man of his age.

William pulled out a quill and his ink pot. He took a deep, steadying breath and began to write.

WILLIAM’S brOTHER, surprisingly, responded to his request to meet almost immediately.

Once William had finished his letter, Martin had dashed across the pastures like a man possessed to the Viscount’s property a couple of miles away, sprinting back with the same vigour, bearing the Viscount’s response.

William made the journey on foot. Unlike Martin, however, he took the roads in a bid not to dirty his final pair of clean trousers, which added an extra mile onto William’s journey.

The Viscount Blackwater had a prosperous estate, but William’s stomach hollowed as he walked through the grounds. It looked as if the storm that had taken his own roof had not bypassed his brother’s estate. Many of the tenant cottages were seemingly abandoned, some even having walls crumbling down. The few tenants and farm labours he did see were scruffy and covered in a layer of grime, all bustling about in an attempt to fix what they could. As William drew closer to the main house, it appeared that it hadn’t fared much better. A few windows had been boarded up, and William counted a number of tiles missing from the roof.

On a good day, he doubted his brother would be inclined to lend him money. But given the storm damage? William should have turned tail and not even bothered to ask.

William was surprised when he rapped on the door and was met by a house servant instead of a butler. He was even more surprised that this servant was broader than William, which was not an easy feat as William’s physique was from hard manual labour. The servant was half a head shorter than him, but given the fact that William was six and a half foot, the servant still cut an impressive figure.

He supposed this servant was perhaps a farm labourer who had managed to upgrade into the house staff. Fairly recently, William would wager, as he hadn’t seemed to master the art of keeping his uniform fresh throughout the working day.

“Yeah?” the servant said, his cool eyes boring into William, assessing him.

William half wondered if his brother had warned the servants to be especially rude to him. He wouldn’t have put it past Lucius.

“I have a meeting with my brother,” William said, straightening himself to his full height.

“Is that so?” The servant twisted his unkempt, ginger moustache. “Guess I’d better show you in then.”

The hallway smelt of soap, and William minded his step as the marble floor was still wet in places. He tried not to scoff – it had been at least a month since sweeping the floors had been high enough on the to-do list to complete, and potentially a year since his own floors had been scrubbed with soap.

They didn’t travel far. William hadn’t expected to meet his brother in the formal drawing room in the furthest corner of the manor – he wasn’t important enough to be escorted past the many gold-leaf paintings, expensive trinkets and other flaunts of wealth that lined the vast corridors. Instead, he was directed to the first room on the left: the smallest parlour, informally dubbed “The Ladies Room”.

William tried his best not to baulk at the blatant snub. While he and his brother hadn’t spoken except in passing in the last fifteen years, he had hoped that enough time had elapsed for there to be some sign of civility between them. Apparently not.

As the burly servant swung the door open, a maid squeaked in surprise, clutching a dirty rag in one hand and an empty crystal decanter with what looked like an inch of dust in the other.

“Mary, would you let the Viscount know that his brother has arrived,” the burly servant issued. The maid glanced fearfully at the servant before scuttling out of the room. William wondered what possessed his brother to keep such a man in his employ, but as he slammed the door in William’s face without a further word, William could only assume that his brother had found a kinship in the servant’s hateful demeanour.

William made himself comfortable in a plush, though slightly the worse for wear, armchair, knowing that his brother would undoubtedly make him wait much longer than was polite before he graced William with his company. William refused to show any interest in the luxurious, almost garish, gold interior of the room. Instead, he found himself studying the toes of his boots. The leather had begun to peel away once more, and William reckoned he would only have a month or two left before he would have to begin rummaging in old trunks in the hopes of finding another forgotten pair.

A slight rustle snapped his attention from his boots. Scanning the room, William’s eyes finally landed on a pair of coal-black shoes and pristine white stockings, poking out from under a table.

“And who might you be?” William called to the legs.

The small pair of legs jerked and pulled themselves in under the table. With a sigh, William reluctantly got off his chair and made his way over. As he bent down, a pair of warm, peaty eyes met his. The little girl had to be no more than seven years old. Dark mahogany hair fell in slightly dishevelled waves down her face.

She was a younger replica of the painting of William’s mother, and he found his heart instantly warm to the child.

She looked fearfully up at him as she clutched a book to her chest, her delicate fingers turning white at the knuckles.

“My name is William,” he said softly. “What is your name?”

The child looked from side to side in an attempt to find an escape route. What on earth had happened to cause his niece to be so fearful?

“D-Daphne, sir,” she whispered. She flinched as William held out his hand in greeting. He carefully placed his hand behind his back, and the child relaxed slightly.

“Well, Daphne, it is nice to finally meet you,” William said, throwing her the kindest smile he could muster. “I am your uncle William.”

“Father says you’re—” Daphne flushed as she realised that she perhaps shouldn’t repeat exactly what her father thought of her uncle William.

“I am sure he has said a great deal about me. Now, care to tell me what you are hiding from?”

Daphne gave a sharp shake of her head.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that book that you are holding on to for dear life?”

The child’s eyes opened wide. “Please don’t tell father!” she squeaked.

William held his hand out, and she sheepishly passed it to him. The cover was a deep shade of forest green with bright gold letters reading A Guide to British Wildflowers .

He flipped the cover open and just had time to catch the dried flower before it fluttered to the ground. William lay the flower back in place before he noticed the loopy handwritten note .

Dearest Lucius,

As I walked through the meadow this morning, pondering our future, I came across the most beautiful cluster of purple flowers, and couldn’t resist picking a bouquet of them. I believe I should like something similar for the bouquet at our wedding. I do believe I recall seeing some growing on your estate. I wonder if you remember the time Bill took a tumble into the pond? What a lark! I do so miss your wit.

Fortune and favour as always,

Drucilla

William tried his best not to baulk at the note from his sister-in-law. The day she referred to had been both the best and worst day of his life. Worst, because he had caught a case of the chills down to his very bones that he couldn’t seem to shift for weeks, and the best, because he had met the woman of his dreams: Mab. Though he had long since come to realise that she had probably been a figment conjured from his chilled brain. Nonetheless, the image of his fairy had kept him company for fifteen years.

“Are you something of a scholar?” William asked, holding the book back out to his niece.

She shook her head sharply. “Papa says young ladies should not fill their heads with such things. He says that no husband will want a wife who knows more than them in anything other than embroidery or other pastimes.”

William hmph ed. “Well, I think your father is quite wrong.”

Daphne’s eyes met his. “You would not be angry if your wife knew more on a subject than you?”

“Angry? I would be positively delighted!”

Daphne flashed a smile, which was quickly replaced by a grimace as the door squeaked open. William managed to straighten himself just as the Viscount’s eyes fell on him.

“We now keep the silver cutlery set in the other room, if that is what you were snooping for,” his cold voice drawled.

The Viscount stood a good head shorter than William. While there were only two years between the brothers, he looked to be at least ten years William’s senior. His once strawberry blond hair, so in contrast to William’s sloe-black mop, was now thin and peppered with dull white streaks. His cheeks and nose were flushed with broken blood vessels from years of abusing the bottle. Where William had managed to keep his broad build from having to work the fields himself, the Viscount had joined the ranks of portly middle-aged gentlemen.

“I was merely admiring the quality of this fine desk you have.”

“While that is a fine piece, you didn’t walk all the way here to admire my furniture.” He emphasised “walk” as if he knew fine rightly that William’s poor old horse, Polly, was no longer fit for outings of any kind. Martin had insisted that she be sent to the knacker’s yard – and God knew they could do with the few pennies she would be worth. But she had been a good, hard worker and kept going well past when she should have been retired. The poor old girl deserved to spend the last of her life pottering around the fields, and not carting a six-foot-six lonely man about the country.

“As I alluded to in my letter, I was hoping to procure a loan from you,” William said, trying with all his might to keep the bile threatening to escape his stomach at bay.

“And why would I ever loan money to you?” the Viscount asked, bemused.

“Because, when all is said and done, I am still your brother.”

“Ha!” the Viscount squealed. “Brother, you say? We only share the same whore as a mother. One that I am glad I do not remember.”

William’s blood boiled in his veins.

“Father left you to decay in that godforsaken hovel for a reason,” the Viscount spat. “You are a barely educated bastard and a bad gamble. You have run that estate into the ground far quicker than I could ever have imagined possible. And you think I would invest my money in the likes of you?”

“Then why would you agree to meet me?” William asked through gritted teeth.

The Viscount’s face turned gleeful. “Why, it has been an age since I have cast my eye on you. I just wanted to see how ragged you have become. And you have not disappointed me.”

William wanted nothing more than to march over and knock that wicked grin off his brother’s face. But then he thought of Martin and Martha. If he could just convince his brother to spare even a little, William could perhaps pay their wages for another month, maybe two if he forwent the repairs. After that, they would have no choice but to seek employment elsewhere. Though, at their age, they would more than likely end up in a workhouse or on the streets.

“Please, brother,” William begged, taking a step closer.

“Stop calling me brother!” the Viscount hissed. He strode purposefully towards William, his foul breath staling the air between them. “I never have been, nor will I ever be, your brother. I would sooner watch you starve to death than give you a single penny. At least then the shame that whore brought on the family would finally be gone with!”

Without William giving it a second thought, his fist connected with the viscount’s cheek. The Viscount sprawled across the floor, rattling the table his daughter was still presumably cowering under.

“My mother was no whore,” William hissed down at him. “And you would do well to remember that.”

WHILE WILLIAM HAD NEVER been one for excessive drinking, the little tavern in the local village practically screamed at him to come in after his heated exchange with the Viscount. One drink turned into eight drinks, and William was positively seeing double by the time a middle-aged man threw his arm around him and began singing loudly in William’s ear. He was soon joined by several other patrons, who accidentally sloshed their drinks around the room and down William every time the chorus came about.

William managed to politely excuse himself from the rowdy crowd and made his way to the back of the tavern, wishing to drink away his woes in solitude. He felt as if someone were watching him, but when he spun around, the only person in the dark corner of the tavern was a heavy-set unconscious man, his crusty upper lip and lightly scarred knuckles the only part of his body visible, the rest of him cloaked in burlap and shadows.

William didn’t have long to ponder the menacing form, because a few seconds later, a young lad had broken away from the crowd and plonked himself down on the chair opposite William, sloshing the two cups of ale around himself. Smiling, he pushed one in William’s direction.

“I know the look of a defeated man. What ails you?” he slurred.

Sober, William would not have dared to spill his woes to a perfect stranger. But copious alcohol had William somewhat loose-lipped around the first person (outside his two faithful servants, of course) that had actively taken an interest in him.

“I think it would be easier to just list what doesn’t ail me,” William said into his cup.

The man pulled his chair around and slapped William on his back. “Money? A woman? Or both?”

William wasn’t sure if he respected this man for his frankness or despised him for his prying. Before William could stop himself, he mumbled, “One cannot have a woman without first having the means to support her.”

“I know of a way you could kill two birds with one stone – as long as you’re not too picky, that is,” the man slurred.

William’s ears pricked at this. Sober, he would have cast the man away, resigned to the fact that he would forever be alone and penniless. Drunk, however, he seemed to find a sliver of daring left in him .

The man leaned in closer. “Have you ever heard of Aunt áine’s?”

William snorted. He felt momentarily foolish for believing a drunk man might have the solution for all his woes. “Aunt áine is a folk tale you tell little girls to make them behave themselves.”

The man held his hand to his chest, utterly affronted. “On my honour, sir, it is not. I heard it from a friend of a friend who had a cousin who was down and out with only a worthless title holding him together. He wrote to Aunt áine, and a couple of days later, a carriage pulled up to whisk him away. A few months later he returned with a new wife who came with a sizable fortune.”

William made a pfft sound through his lips.

“And how is one supposed to contact the mythical Aunt áine, eh? She is a folktale for a reason.”

“Ah! It is actually quite simple, really. Apparently, all one needs to do is write a letter with a return address detailing why Aunt áine should consider you for one of her girls and drop it off in the local post office addressed simply to ‘Aunt áine’. It will eventually find its way to her ... so I am told.”

“If it were that easy, then why would anyone bother traditional methods of courting, eh?”

The man leaned in. In barely a whisper, he said, “Not all men find fortune to be enough to replace a sullied woman’s virtue. And that is all they are, really. Aunt áine’s girls, I mean. Silly, sullied women who were stupid enough to get caught and sent off by their fathers to find a husband who can salvage their reputation.”

William felt his skin crawl.

The subject of women’s virtue irked him to no end.

Having been educated alongside his sister, William had been given the rare insight into the spiel that young ladies up and down the country were being told day in, day out. There was no fostering of a creative mind. They were constantly reminded that their only worth lay in their untainted virtue and their ability to make progenies.

With an emphasis on the virtue .

Men, meanwhile, were encouraged to go forth and spread their seed. It was practically a requirement that young men go out into the world to gain experience for the marital bed.

Ha! What a ludicrous thing , William thought.

Not that he’d been saving himself. William had had a handful of tumbles over the years. Mostly with widowed women as lonely as him. And he knew for a fact that whatever their husbands had been “learning” in anticipation of the marital bed had been woefully lacking.

Silly, sullied women.

William wanted nothing more than to hit the drunk man for his crude, disgusting remark. But his hand still throbbed from his last punch, and he didn’t think this man was worth the hassle.

“I think I shall take my leave,” William said angrily. Without another word, William abandoned the ale and stumbled out the door.

The fresh air did nothing to sober him up. In fact, William thought it most likely made his condition quite worse, for as he stumbled into hedges and through puddles on the long walk home, William couldn’t help letting his mind wander back to the fabled Aunt áine’s women. Reluctantly, he conceded that a sizable dowry would indeed rescue him from financial ruin.

And the fictional women were there specifically looking for a husband, knowing the choice was perhaps not a prosperous one.

But was that enough of a reason to dream of shackling one of Aunt áine’s poor creatures to him for life?

William knew one thing for certain; a wanton woman would surely be a more worldly woman than the prim and pristine ladies of the ton.

At least she would be a lark, if nothing else.

IT TOOK TEN SPENT MATCHES before William finally managed to get the candle lit in the study. His writing was slow and laborious and looked like that of a child as William scrawled his ramblings down on the piece of paper, instantly forgetting the content of the previous sentence and undoubtedly repeating himself numerous times.

When the ink finally dried, William shakily held the wax candle over the folded letter, sending globs of red wax in all directions. Once reasonably sealed, stamped and dried, he flipped the letter over. Unsteadily, William scrawled the words “Aunt Anya” (he had absolutely no idea how to spell her name in any way other than phonetically) on the front of the letter, before stumbling into the hallway.

He dropped the letter on a table before steadying himself. A mirror hung on the wall above the table, and William was mildly horrified at his own reflection. A month of measly food portions had made his features slightly sharper than usual. While William’s form was still bulky, there was a looseness to his clothes that he’d never seen before. Another month or two of this standard of living would have him looking downright malnourished. William’s thick black hair hung in unkempt curls around his face, almost covering his dark eyes. Eyes, William suddenly realised, he shared with his niece.

William’s gaze dropped to the letter on the table, taking in the splotched name of the elusive Aunt áine.

Giddily, William looked back up at his reflection.

“Aunt áine,” he whispered to himself.

“Aunt áine,” he said, slightly louder.

“Aunt áine!” he bellowed.

Something shattered behind William, and his heart skipped a beat as he twirled, half expecting to find the haggard form of a summoned witch.

A curtain fluttered in the breeze, flicking precariously over a table that one of his mother’s vases usually sat on. The vase now lay shattered on the floor beneath. Sighing, William strode over and made a haphazard attempt of clearing up the shards of ceramic. His effort to close the window was unfruitful – the little iron lock had finally corroded beyond repair.

Deflated, William slowly made his way up the stairs. In the morning, William would come up with an inventory of things to be sold. He had kept most of the belongings in the house for sentimental reasons. But, like the vase, the crumbling house would probably claim them sooner rather than later, and they might as well be sold to at least provide a wage for his faithful servants for a little longer.

But that was a job for the morning.

For now, William needed to sleep.