Prologue

Angus,

I've decided to buy that wretched hovel of a public house, the one on the corner of Argyll Square. See to it, will you?

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon'ble Hamilton Anderson to his secretary, Mr Angus Stewart.

22 nd April 1850, Cambridgeshire, England.

Clara looked about at the small stack of boxes and sighed. It had not taken her long to oversee the packing up of their home. Many thought the Reverend Halliday's lack of worldly goods showed what a spiritual man he was, concerned more with his duty than his own comfort. Sadly, Clara knew it was more that her father was a miserly muck worm. Muttering under her breath, she scolded herself soundly for thinking such an uncharitable thought, though that did not make it any the less true. As a small girl whose mother had died before Clara had a chance to remember her, she had believed much of her father's teachings. That had not lasted long. The trouble was, Clara was no fool, and one would have to be such a poor creature not to realise that the things the Reverend Halliday said and the things he did were quite separate entities. He was, in short, a hypocrite, and possibly the least Christian man she knew.

Still, today marked the beginning of a new adventure, and one Clara was looking forward to, though with some trepidation. She had longed to get away from the tiny village of Thorney. It was a quaint and quietly prosperous place where nothing ever happened, and she thought she might actually go mad if she lived the rest of her days there. So, when her father was given the church in Wick, it truly had seemed to Clara like a gift from the almighty and the answer to her prayers.

According to her father, between Wick, the town that straddled the River Wick and extended all along the bay, and Pultney town on the Southside of the river, there were forty-five public houses. It was said that five hundred gallons of whisky was consumed in a single day, in Wick alone. Clara was well used to her father's view on the demon drink, though in this light, his predictions that they would find Wick to be a city sunk in depravity and vice did not seem wholly implausible. Clara could not visualise five hundred gallons of whisky or begin to consider how much one man could stomach on his own, but it seemed to be rather an excessive amount. Yet Wick was a place where things happened, where there was life and people and… men .

Clara did not blush at the rather unmaidenly thought, for she was made of sterner stuff than that. Vicars' daughters might have a missish and unworldly reputation, but she hardly felt she could be accused of that. Perhaps she had been sheltered, perhaps she had not seen much of the world outside of Thorney Village, but she had read a good deal, and she considered herself ready to take on whatever challenges life threw at her. Most of all, however, she intended to find herself a husband and get out of her father's house. This was her own mission, and a challenge it was, for her father viewed her as the perfect housekeeper and secretary, unpaid and duty-bound to do his bidding. She feared he would never give her consent to marry, not unless he gained by it. So, either she found someone who could do her father some good financially or in the church, or she married without his blessing.

Clara found she did not much mind which course of action presented itself, so long as one of them did. She needed a man. More than that, she needed a good, moral man of strong character, who meant what he said and did some good in the world, a man she could esteem for being everything her father was not. He ought to be generous with his time and charitable, kind and patient, educated and softly spoken. She pictured in her mind's eye a teacher, a tall, slender fellow, probably with glasses and a shy smile. He would read to her and ask her advice; he would admire her for her no-nonsense manner and encourage her to pursue her own ambitions, whatever they may be. Naturally, then he would sprout wings and fly about the town, scattering diamonds as he went, she thought sourly.

Her mythical beloved vanished like a soap bubble and Clara brought herself back to the here and now. There were things to be done, problems to be solved, one of which was currently hiding under the stairs. Checking that her father was still out in the front garden, lecturing the driver who was about to take them to the train station, Clara hurried along the corridor.

"Jimmy?" she whispered, before opening the door a crack.

A small boy of indeterminate age, but who she guessed to be of roughly nine years, peered up at her. "Is it time?" he asked, his eyes glittering in the gloomy cupboard.

"Nearly," she told him. "Now, are you quite sure, Jimmy? You're taking an awful risk, you do know that?"

"No, I ain't," he said stoutly. "I goes where you go. You're the only one who ever gave a tinker's—"

"Jimmy," Clara said, her tone warning him she would not tolerate his coarse language.

"Sorry, miss," he said, though she could hear the grin behind the words. "But you're the only one who's ever been kind, and you need looking after as much as I do, I reckon. 'Tis a wicked place you're going to, I heard the vicar say so. I know about living in wicked places and you don't."

Clara smiled, touched that the boy thought to take care of her. He was a kind soul, and though she knew it was wrong to smuggle him to Scotland with her, she feared what might become of him if he was left all alone. For he was quite correct, no one cared about Jimmy but her. He had arrived in the village one morning, having smuggled himself on the back of a carriage after having narrowly escaped a beating in the Seven Dials of London where he hailed from. He might have received another from the local boys if Clara had not stepped in and saved him. She had considered paying to send him to school, but he'd looked so terrified by the idea and sounded so determined in his assertion that he would run away and follow her to Scotland, that she could only believe him.

When her father had discovered Jimmy in the house, he told her the boy must be sent straight back to London, the kindly soul that he was. Clara had agreed meekly, pretended to do just that, and hidden Jimmy in the cellar.

"You have the sandwiches I packed?" she asked him now, wishing she could think of a better method to get him all the way to Scotland.

"Yes, I didn't even eat one. Not even a nibble," he said proudly.

Clara smiled at that. "And the money, just in case?"

"Yes, and I won't spend it unless I really have to," he promised, his narrow face grave with the responsibility of a sum he'd never seen in his life before.

"Good lad. Now once we're gone, the driver will come to collect our belongings and take them to Wick. Remember, we are stopping off to visit my uncle, so although your journey will take longer, you'll get there a day before us. Do you remember what to do?"

"Yes, miss. Go to the church and hide there until you come and find me. And you paid the driver to take me all the way to Wick, didn't you, miss?" he asked, and it broke her heart to hear the slight trace of doubt in his voice. He found it hard to trust anyone, even her.

"I did indeed, and don't you let him tell you otherwise. I also gave him extra to feed you on the way. You tell him that if he turns up without you or if he doesn't treat you kindly, I shall take him straight to the magistrate and sue him for theft."

Jimmy's eyes went round at that pronouncement. "Coo, would you really?"

"I would," she told him firmly. "Hush now, my father is coming. Good luck, Jimmy dear. I shall see you in Scotland." Closing the door just as her father entered the corridor, she sent up a silent prayer that Jimmy would arrive without mishap.

She turned to face her father. He was a robust man with a rather too full figure that spoke of a sweet tooth, the one indulgence he seemed not to mind spending money on. Indeed, anything that added to his own comfort was generally found to be indispensable.

"Ah, Clara, there you are. Are you ready to go?" he asked, giving her a critical look up and down. "We don't want to miss the train."

"I am, Papa," she said, reaching for her bonnet and tying the ribbons under her chin.

Without looking back, she strode out of the neat little cottage that had been her home since the day she had been born and climbed into the carriage. Excitement flickered in her heart as she settled herself down on the seat. It was finally happening. Something was finally happening, and she was going to make the most of it.