Chapter 3

London, England, 1815

Anton was waiting for her by the door of the tower – would she make it? Letitia glanced behind her, knowing the baron was in pursuit. It was dark. She could hear an owl hooting in the trees above, a slither of moonlight piercing the darkness ahead. All of a sudden, she stumbled, letting out a cry, as a hand grabbed her.

"Let me go," she cried, struggling to free herself.

"My darling…it's me, it's Anton. You're safe now," Anton said, and Lavinia gasped in relief…

"Tu veux, tu voulais, tu voudras, tu voudrais, veuilles. Repeat after me, Anne. Tu veux, tu voulais, tu voudras, tu voudrais, veuilles," Miss Guthrie said, and Anne Miller looked up from her book in surprise.

"I…oh, tu…vou… es, tu veuxlaisses," she said, and her governess tutted in exasperation.

"Haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying? Haven't you been learning your tenses just now? I set you the exercise half an hour ago," Miss Guthrie said, as Anne glanced down at the open book in front of her.

To the eye of the governess, Anne was studying a textbook of French grammar tables, but secreted in the pages was another book, a romance about a woman named Letitia, who was to marry a wicked baron, only to be rescued by a handsome knight and spirited off into the forest where they would live happily ever after. Anne allowed the offending text to slip onto her lap, and held up the textbook for her governess to see.

"I've been studying hard. It's just… I find it difficult, that's all," she replied.

In truth, Anne found it boring, and she did not understand why she should spend her time learning French. She had no intention of ever visiting France, nor did she know anyone on whom she could practice what Miss Guthrie was attempting to teach her. Anne was far happier buried in the pages of a romantic novel, or practicing music at the pianoforte. Music brought joy, whilst French brought only frustration and failure. Her governess gave her a withering look.

"It should come naturally to you, Anne. Haven't we studied the French language long enough?" she asked.

Miss Guthrie had been Anne's governess since she was ten years old. A formidable spinster, Miss Guthrie was prim and proper in all things. Her hair was always tied in a neat bun, her dress was trimmed with lace, and she was never without a shawl. But at the age of nineteen, Anne was beginning to question why she needed a governess at all.

"Oh, but you know I've made no progress, Miss Guthrie. I'm a terrible student. I just want to play the pianoforte," Anne complained.

She was an intelligent young woman, but easily bored, and French was the most boring subject of all. Miss Guthrie tutted again and shook her head.

"And that's the problem, Anne. You've always got your head in the clouds, you're always dreaming of some romance. But life isn't like that. No one's going to come and whisk you off like a princess in a fairy tale," the governess said, rising to her feet and closing her copy of the textbook with such force as to cause a cloud of dust to rise and make her sneeze.

The lesson was taking place in the library of Anne's father's London townhouse. Anne was the daughter of the Earl of Blakeley, and the family divided their time between London and the country. But Anne preferred the city. There was nothing to do in the countryside, and whilst she found her lessons with Miss Guthrie interminably dull, she could at least look forward to some excitement following them.

"But why can't it be? Why can't life be as exciting as in a book?" Anne complained.

She was always reading romantic novels, and imagining herself as the heroine. Like Letitia, she longed to runaway on some far-flung adventure, accompanied by a handsome prince – or any member of the aristocracy, for that matter. She picked up the book from her lap, slipping it into her pocket as she rose from the table.

"That's enough for today. But please, Anne – don't idle your day away with your nose in one of those terrible penny novels. They're not good for your mind," Miss Guthrie said, and with a curt nod, she left the room.

Anne smiled to herself. She could not imagine her governess enjoying the adventures of Letitia and Anton. She would be scandalised by them, even as Anne now retreated to a far corner of the library to finish reading Letitia's story. Anne was a vociferous reader, and by the time the luncheon gong sounded, the two characters had found their happily ever after.

"Qu'as-tu appris aujord'hui, Anne?" her father asked her at luncheon that afternoon.

Anne looked up from her soup and shrugged.

"I didn't learn anything particularly, Father. I don't see why I need to keep learning French. You're hardly going to expect me to marry a Frenchman, are you?" she replied.

The earl rolled his eyes. Anne and her father had never seen eye to eye. The earl had wanted a son, and whilst there was no doubt as to his love for his only daughter – his only child – he had never really sought to understand her. There was a considerable age difference between them, the earl having married Anne's mother when he himself was quite past his prime, and now he looked old and tired. Anne tried her best to be a dutiful daughter, but there were times she felt an exasperation towards her father, one she could not easily disguise.

"But a young lady should speak French," her mother, the countess, said.

Anne glanced across the table at her mother. She was very pretty, and Anne had inherited her large brown eyes and sleek long auburn hair.

"But why, Mother? What reason do I have to speak French?" Anne persisted.

To this question, her mother did not have a ready answer, and now the earl summoned the footmen to clear, calling for the second course to be brought. Anne's thoughts were now elsewhere – in the bookshop on Piccadilly, where she bought her penny novels, and to which she intended to pay a visit that very afternoon.

"Lady Flintshire's coming to tea today, Anne. I hope you haven't forgotten," the countess said, as a Charlotte Russe was brought in for pudding.

Anne had forgotten, and she made no attempt to disguise her disappointment at the news of her godmother's intended visit. Lady Flintshire was interested in one thing and one thing only – Anne's marital prospects. It was all she ever talked about, a symptom of having no children of her own. It was she who had planted the suggestion of a match for Anne with the son of a northern duke, into Anne's mother's mind, and since that day, the talk had been of nothing else.

"Oh…no," Anne exclaimed, sighing, even as her mother tutted.

"You make it sound like a chore. I understand she's written to the Duchess of Lancaster again. We can soon arrange for the two of you to meet. I quite like the idea of journeying north. They say Lancashire has fine moorland and beautiful vistas," the countess said.

Anne could summon little enthusiasm for fine vistas and moorland, and even less enthusiasm at the prospect of marriage to a man she had never met, nor had any desire to meet. The dukedom of Lancaster was a noble and ancient one, but Anne had heard of the reputation of the duke's son – a lazy, rakish sort, to whom the prospect of marriage made her shudder.

"I'm sure it's a marvellous place, but not the sort of place I want to spend the rest of my life," Anne replied.

"We've had this conversation before, Anne – on many occasions. It's high time you started thinking sensibly about your future. Do you want to become an old spinster living at your father's expense?" the earl demanded, tossing aside his napkin angrily.

At the tender age of nineteen, Anne believed she still had some years to go before such an accolade could apply to her. Nevertheless, she knew her father was keen to see her married, and it seemed he was not particularly concerned as to whom she married, as long as she married someone.

"No, Father, but nor do I want to be miserable and trapped in a marriage I detest," Anne replied, rising from her place as her mother sighed.

"Oh, Anne – you can't always live your life in the pages of a penny novel," she exclaimed, for her mother, too, knew of Anne's fondness for the written word, and it had caused some considerable exasperation on her part.

"I can try, Mother," Anne replied, and before the argument could escalate, she had left the dining room and was hurrying towards the hallway.

The scene at luncheon was typical. Anne often argued with her parents, though that was not to say there was an animosity between them. But what they wanted for her – out of love for her – and what she wanted for herself – out love for herself – were two different things, often at odds. Anne was not yet ready to marry, and certainly she was not about to marry a man she had never met, and whose reputation dubiously proceeded him.

"Oh, my Lady. I didn't realise you were going out," Anne's maid, Helen, said, as Anne was checking her bonnet in the hallway mirror.

She was wearing a white dress that day, and the blue of the bonnet, and the blue of the shawl she had chosen to match it, looked exceedingly pretty.

"I'm going to the bookshop, Helen. You won't tell anyone, will you?" she said, and her maid smiled.

Helen could always be relied on to keep a secret.

"I won't say anything, my Lady. I have to go out myself. Mrs. Kilner hasn't got enough bread for the sandwiches for the tea for Lady Flintshire. I said I'd go to the market and buy some," Helen said.

Anne smiled, a sudden thought occurring to her.

"I'll buy the bread," she said.

The maid looked at Anne in surprise – it was a surprising thing to say. Young ladies did not normally visit markets to buy loaves of bread for the cook.

"You, my Lady? But…you don't have to, although… I've got so much to do. There're things to mend before the Charlton Lodge ball, and I've not even got out half of your summer clothes," Helen said, but Anne shook her head.

"It'll be fun. I'll buy the bread. I'll be back before you know it," she said, and before Helen could object, Anne had hurried out of the house, cautious not to be seen by anyone as she went.

She was glad of the fresh air, and glad to be doing something other than conjugating French verbs. The day was bright and breezy, and the sky blue, as she hurried below the shadow of Saint Paul's cathedral towards Piccadilly. The streets were busy, and Anne enjoyed the sense of adventure she felt at being out unchaperoned and alone.

I wonder if Mr. Pullman has another book with the Baron in it? He's bound to have another young lady in his sights, Anne thought to herself, for she had found the ending of the last novel somewhat disappointing – the baron had simply disappeared, never to be seen again, and Anne was eager to know what had become of him.

Anne was often given over to daydreaming. She liked to imagine herself amidst the pages of the books she read, talking to the characters, taking sides, and playing her part in the story. Her own life was so predictable, and she feared her parents intended to make it like the lives of so many of her contemporaries. Women like her followed a strict course through life – they learned French, they got married, they had children, and that was that. But Anne had always wanted something more, even as she was uncertain what that something more might be.

"Goodness me, my Lady, back so soon?" Mr. Pullman, the proprietor of Pullman's Book Emporium on Piccadilly said, as Anne walked through the familiar doors.

The smell was always the same – like a library, comfortingly dusty, and the proprietor, too, never seemed to age. He smiled at Anne, who gazed around the shelves, knowing she had already read so much of what was there.

"I couldn't put it down. But I was disappointed in the Baron. He just disappeared. I wanted some kind of justice for poor Letitia. She was whisked off to the forest by Anton, but what about the Baron? He'll only do it to some other poor creature," Anne said, feeling indignant on behalf of the heroine, to whom she would gladly have given advice, and felt something of an affinity.

The proprietor smiled.

"I believe the writer has a new volume, my Lady," he said, and turning to the counter, he signalled to a small boy to run for the book, which was produced momentarily.

Anne took it, smiling as she opened the pages to see the baron's name attached to a new heroine, this time with the name of Matilda.

"Oh, how wonderful! I'll take it. There's no need to wrap it. I'll start it straightaway when I get home," she exclaimed, taking out her purse and handing Mr. Pullman the two-penny price.

He smiled at her and thanked her.

"I've never known a young lady read so vociferously," he said, and Anne blushed.

"My parents don't approve of it, of course, and my governess would have me reading French textbooks and Latin primers. But I love to imagine myself in the pages of such books. It's…a delight," she said, and Mr. Pullman nodded.

"I understand, my Lady. I hope you enjoy the book," he said, and bidding her good day, he opened the door for her, and Anne stepped out into the hustle and bustle of Piccadilly.

The market she intended to visit was not far from her father's townhouse, held on the square in front of Saint Paul's Cathedral. Anne liked to visit it, wending her way between the stalls and examining the goods for sale. Usually, she was accompanied by Helen, but now she was on her own, and she paused to look at silk scarves, wooden carvings, ornaments and jewellery, the stalls all laid out to tempt and draw the eye.

"Something for the lady? A pair of gloves, perhaps, or a silk purse, perhaps?" one of the stallholders said, offering up an ugly-looking creation to Anne, who shook her head.

It reminded her of the saying about a sow's ear, and she walked on, looking for a bakery stall.

"One loaf should be enough – I doubt Lady Flintshire will eat a great number of sandwiches," she thought to herself, and spying a bakery stall below the steps of the cathedral, she hurried towards it.

"A loaf of bread, miss? Only the finest bread, baked this very day," the stall holder said, holding out a loaf.

Anne nodded.

"Yes, one loaf, please. How much is it? A penny?" she said, but the stallholder shook his head.

"A penny for such quality? I think not. A shilling, miss," he replied, and Anne looked at him in astonishment.

"A shilling? For a loaf of bread," she exclaimed, even as the stallholder nodded.

"A shilling, miss. That's what's it's worth. If you don't like it, you don't have to take it," he replied.

Anne was indignant, but it was the only loaf left. She rummaged in her purse, hoping she could gather together enough coins to make a shilling. She wondered what Helen would have done in her place – surely a shilling was far too much, and if she had spent the housekeeping money in such a way, the cook might have accused her of stealing. She did not want to get Helen into trouble, and she suddenly felt somewhat out of her depth. But as she was about to hand over the money, a voice behind her interrupted.

"Excuse me – you're charging the young lady here a shilling for a loaf of bread. But I saw you selling them for a few pennies earlier on," and turning, Anne was surprised to find a young man coming to her rescue.