Chapter 1

Lancashire, England, 1815

 

“I do so love the woodlands at this time of year. Look at the bluebells, a veritable carpet. Isn’t nature remarkable? The mind of man can conjure beauty in so many forms, but nature so often surpasses even the greatest of artists,” Miriam, Duchess of Lancaster said, as she gazed around her at the sea of purple flowers, spreading out across the woodland, through which she and her husband, Ralph, were walking.

The duke nodded and smiled at her, the two of them walking hand in hand together.

“I suppose it’s why they call it Bluebell Woods,” he said, and Miriam blushed.

“Don’t tease me, Ralph. You know what I mean. The bluebells return every year. They lie dormant beneath the earth, waiting to burst forth in spring. It’s my favorite time of the year. I’m so glad Teresa lives here. I can hardly believe it’s been twenty years since we first encountered one another right in this very place,” Miriam said, shaking her head, as she looked around her with a smile on her face.

They had come in sight of a folly, built by some distant ancestor of Ralph. It was overgrown now, clad with creeping ivy, but had once been a fine impression of a Greek temple, built in miniature, with steps leading up to a marbled entrance. Surrounded by the carpet of bluebells, it made for a pretty sight, and Miriam and Ralph had many happy memories of moments shared amidst this picturesque setting.

“A long time passed,” Ralph said, smiling at Miriam, who shook her head.

“And now to think of William and Maximilian, both grown-up young men, setting out into the world. I can hardly believe it,” Miriam replied.

“Me, neither. To think we weren’t much older than they are when all this…well, we shouldn’t dwell on the past. But twenty years since my brother died, twenty years of being the Duke of Lancaster, twenty years of marriage…” he said, slipping his arm around Miriam, who rested her head on his chest.

“But no regrets, Ralph?” she said, looking up at him, and he shook his head and smiled.

“No regrets. Not a single one. It’s easy to regret moments, but looking back over the course of our lives…no, I wouldn’t change a single moment of the time we’ve had together. I love you as much today as I did then – more so, in fact,” he said, and he leaned down to kiss her.

For a few moments, they stood in silence, savoring the peace of the woodland, where a gentle breeze was blowing through the trees, and a chorus of birds was singing a chorus to the spring.

“Come now, we mustn’t be late. I promised Teresa we’d be there in time for tea – and before William gets home,” Miriam said, taking Ralph’s hand, and urging him on along the path past the folly.

They were on their way to visit Teresa, the maid who had fallen in love with Ralph’s brother, the previous Duke of Lancaster, and whose child, William, had been born shortly after the untimely death of his father, twenty years previously. She lived in a cottage on the edge of Bluebell Woods, some five miles from Burnley Abbey, supported by a modest pension from the estate. Miriam and Teresa were the closest of friends, and whilst their outward lives were very different, they shared a deep affinity, not least through their sons who, though cousins, had never known the truth of the past.

“I hope Teresa won’t mind my having made arrangements for William,” Ralph said, as they hurried on through the woodland towards Teresa’s cottage.

“She’s always wanted what’s best for him, and he’s always known of our fondness for him. It’s no secret you’ve helped him in his education – just as you’ve helped so many others on the estate. Why shouldn’t you pay heed to his prospects now? You’re in a position to make introductions on his behalf. I’ve talked to her. She’s grateful for all we’ve done,” Miriam replied.

William knew nothing of his familial relationship with the Duke of Lancaster. Miriam and Ralph were William’s godparents, but he did not know they were also his aunt and uncle. It had been decided twenty years ago to keep the matter a secret, both from William and his cousin, Maximilian – named in honour of the former duke, and William’s father.

William had never openly questioned Ralph’s kindness towards him in paying for his education and seeing him taken care of. The duke had been careful to extend his philanthropy to others, and there were several young men on the estate who owed their good start in life to Ralph’s generosity.

“I know she is, but I worry she might find this a step too far,” Ralph replied, as they came in sight of Teresa’s cottage.

It was a pretty dwelling, whitewashed stone and a thatched roof, built in a clearing of the forest, and surrounded by a garden in which Teresa grew vegetables to sell at the nearby market. She took in mending, too, and her pension from Ralph provided a modest income. Teresa herself was standing at the door as they approached, and she smiled, waving to them as they emerged from the trees.

“You’re just in time for tea. I’ve the kettle boiling, and I’ve just buttered the bread,” she said, beckoning them inside.

Miriam greeted Teresa with a kiss. Her sister, Clare, was married to the Earl of Wingate, and lived in Derbyshire. She rarely saw her, and was glad to have Teresa close at hand – they were as much friends as sisters.

“You needn’t have gone to any trouble on our behalf,” Miriam said, stopping into the parlor, where a fire burned in the hearth, and the table was covered with checkered cloth and set for tea with a large fruit cake at the center, along with biscuits and currant buns.

Teresa’s cottage was a far cry from the opulence of the drawing room at Burnley Abbey, but it had a homely quality to it, and Miriam always felt comfortable and at ease there. She sat down by the hearth, as Teresa poured the tea, and Ralph stood with his back to the flames.

“It’s no trouble to entertain friends. I walked into the village with William this morning and went to the bakery,” Teresa said, smiling as she handed Miriam a cup of tea.

“And his studies? Are they going well?” Ralph asked.

Teresa nodded. Miriam knew how proud her friend was of her son. He excelled in every pursuit, and his tutor, the kindly Professor Murray, who lived in the village, had often expressed his astonishment at the boy’s learning.

“Professor Murray says there’s little left he can teach him now. He needs to study elsewhere – there was talk of Oxford or Cambridge. But William doesn’t want to enter the Church,” Teresa said.

Miriam laughed.

“I should think not. Don’t let him waste his talents in theology,” she said, shaking her head.

“But what should he do? I don’t know…it’s not easy for a boy in his position. They don’t normally…well, he’s had a wonderful education. But he’s not a gentleman, is he? Boys like him become hall boys in grand houses, or laborers on estate farms. But he’s got a mind filled with other things – he wants to write books and make discoveries. I keep telling him, ‘William, you’re not born into that.’ You’ve both been so kind, but we knew this time would come. He’s not who he’s supposed to be,” Teresa said, shaking her head.

She passed around the tea plates, and Miriam helped herself to a slice of bread and butter and currant bun. They had always known this day would come, even as they had known it would not be easy. William was the son of the previous Duke of Lancaster, though born out of wedlock, the matter of his would-be inheritance was questionable. No one – save a handful, most of whom were sitting in Teresa’s cottage that day – knew the truth. It was Maximilian, the son of Miriam and Ralph, who was to inherit the dukedom. His cousin was merely a friend, and the son of a lowly seamstress who lived in a cottage in Bluebell Woods. In his childhood, it had seemed reasonable to educate the boy and provide for him, but Teresa was right – William had been directed in a way he could not hope to continue in, not whilst remaining at home with his mother, at least.

“Actually, Teresa, that’s what we’ve come to talk to you about today,” Ralph said, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down.

Teresa looked at him in surprise.

“Is that so? And what do you want to talk about?” she asked, helping herself to a slice of cake and sitting opposite Ralph and fixing him with a curious expression.

“I know it’s not been easy keeping the secret all these years. We’ve all felt the burden of it. But I always vowed to do what I could to help William. I hope I’ve done so, and now I want to help him again,” Ralph said.

He and Miriam had talked about the matter often, and Miriam knew the sense of responsibility Ralph held towards his nephew. Twenty years ago, Ralph had done all he could to help Teresa in her time of need, and he had never reneged on his word.

“And what do you propose?” Teresa asked.

“To give him the opportunity to make something of himself by independent means. We live in a world of new opportunities. Wealth isn’t only for those who inherit it, but for those who create it, too. I want to send William to London, and offer him letters of introduction to various firms and businesses. With my name behind him, he’ll soon find doors opening to him. But he’ll be the one to make those opportunities for himself,” Ralph said.

It was a sensible idea, or so Miriam thought. Ralph would write a letter of introduction for William, and pay his expenses during his first few months in the capital. With the education he had been given, and the name of the Duke of Lancaster behind him, William could look forward to a bright future. The question of who he really was would remain – Teresa had always told him his father had been a soldier, killed whilst fighting the French – but as to his future, it would be secured. Teresa now looked at Ralph and shook her head, as though in disbelief.

“I…it’s a very generous offer,” she said, glancing at Miriam, who smiled.

“It’s not generous, Teresa. It’s what was always intended. William deserves the help of the estate. It’s in his birthright,” Miriam said, and Ralph nodded.

“Miriam’s right, Teresa. Think of Max – it’s what he’d have wanted, short of William inheriting the title,” he replied.

Teresa looked suddenly sad. She had never married, and still spoke of the duke’s brother as though she could never love anyone as she had loved him. If Ralph’s brother had returned from Corsica alive, the two of them would have married, and William would be the true heir of the dukedom.

“But that’s the truth, isn’t it? He should’ve inherited the title. He’d be a gentleman, but…sometimes I feel we robbed him of his right,” she said, shaking her head.

Miriam reached out and took Teresa’s hand in hers.

“It was never going to be easy, Teresa. But wasn’t this for the best? He was protected, and there was Maximilian to think of, too. If he’d grown up knowing his cousin was his rival…it’s better this way, surely,” she said.

They had talked about it often, but it made no difference. A terrible secret lay in the past, one they had lived with for so long, but still gave cause for difficulty as to the future.

“I know it is, but one can’t help but think…what might’ve been,” Teresa replied, shaking her head.

“It’s twenty years now – since Briar Heights, and Connor Edge, and threats to the dukedom. Didn’t we agree it was all for the best back then?” Ralph asked.

Still, after twenty years, Miriam shuddered at the mention of the name Connor Edge, the land agent who had discovered the secret of William’s parentage and threatened to ruin the dukedom in its wake. But his own treachery had been discovered, and he had been sent away in shame. Still, Miriam often thought of what had become of him, and whether he still held a grudge against her and the others.

“I know… I’m just being foolish. I never wanted Max’s name to be sullied, and I never wanted to see the dukedom brought to its knees. He’d have wanted the secret kept, and that’s what I’ve done. It’s what we’ve all done, isn’t it? No, you’re right, and you’re kind, too, Ralph. I’m so grateful to you for all you’ve done for William, and for what you propose, too,” she said.

Miriam smiled, sitting back in her chair, and taking up her cup and saucer.

“I’m so glad you agree, Teresa. Won’t it be exciting for him – London, the possibilities he’ll have. I just wish Maximilian…well, Maximilian is Maximilian,” Miriam said, thinking of her own son, and glancing at Ralph, who shook his head.

Maximilian was nothing like his cousin, even as he had been afforded all the opportunities William, too, had been given. But unlike William, Maximilian had not applied himself, and the prospect of inheritance had taken away any sense of ambition he had. His life was privileged, and he was wealthy – why did he need to work or make any effort to better himself? There were times when Miriam despaired of him, though she was pleased for William, who had turned every opportunity to good.

“I’m sure he’ll find his way eventually,” Teresa said, rising to her feet and offering around the plate of bread and butter.

“We can only hope as much. Still, it’s William we’re here to help today. I propose to make the offer to him this very day. He’s due home soon, isn’t he?” Ralph asked, and Teresa nodded.

“Yes, he should be here now. But you know what he’s like. He stays for hours with Professor Murray, asking him questions, and then he idles his way home, dreaming of some new venture or idea. He’ll arrive home with a dozen thoughts in his mind, all of which he has to right down,” Teresa said, smiling and shaking her head, as she glanced towards a desk in the corner, piled high with books, many of which had come from the library at Burnley Abbey.

“Then we’ll wait for him. It’s no trouble, and how good it is for us to be together, we three. What memories we have,” Ralph said, helping himself to another cake, and Miriam and Teresa exchanged glances.

“We certainly have plenty of memories,” Miriam said, shaking her head and smiling, for they were memories she was glad of, and despite the difficulties they had endured, she would not change for anything.

Chapter 2

“But did Aristotle really mean to say that? What about the translation? Can we be sure we’ve got it right? The texts were lost for so long, how can we know they weren’t changed?” William Baker said, rising to his feet in a fit of exasperation at the long dead philosopher, over whom he had been debating with his tutor, Professor Murray, for the past half an hour.

Professor Murray smiled and shook his head.

“You’ve come up against the great problem with philosophy, William – did any philosopher ever really mean what they said? And what was the meaning of it to them, anyway? You’re right, of course. Aristotle’s text was lost to the western intellect for centuries, and only preserved by Islamic scholars, but as for their meaning in translation…well, how would you translate the passage we’ve been studying?” he asked.

William turned to the professor and pondered for a moment.

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom,” he said, and Professor Murray nodded.

“And do you believe it?” he asked.

William smiled and nodded. To know oneself was surely necessary before a person could be said to know anything else at all. He thought about his own life for a moment, and the things he knew about himself.

“I think so, yes. I know who I am, at least, and that means I can know about others,” he replied.

“But do we really know ourselves? Are we honest with ourselves about who we are? Or do we hide from ourselves at times?” Professor Murray asked.

William smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t hide from myself. I know who I am, and I’m proud of it,” he said.

Professor Murray returned his smile and closed the volume of Aristotle in front of him.

“And for one so young, I’m glad to hear it. But that’s enough for today, William. We’ve grappled with the works of Aristotle, rehearsed both our French and German conversation, and explored the entire history of the Peloponnesian war – we’ll resume tomorrow. Hurry home, I’m sure your mother’s waiting for you,” the professor said.

William liked Professor Murray. His tutor had taught at Oxford for many years, before retiring to his native Lancashire, where he lived in a small house in the village near Burnley Abbey. The house was a veritable library, and every conceivable surface was stacked with books. Their lessons took place in an upper room overlooking the churchyard, and on sunny days, the professor and William would sit beneath the shade of a large oak tree in the garden, reciting poetry to one another, or reading philosophy.

“I will do, Professor, and thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow – I’ll bring you the chapter of the novel I’m working on. Perhaps we could discuss it,” William said, taking up his hat and coat from the cloak stand.

Professor Murray smiled.

“I’ll be delighted to read it, William. Good day to you, and give your mother my fondest regards,” he said.

William hurried out of the professor’s house, his mind filled with thought of Aristotle and all he had learned that day.

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom,” he repeated to himself, imagining the ancient philosopher at work.

William was certain he knew himself, or rather, he knew a great deal about himself. He was the son of Teresa Baker, a seamstress, and the two of them lived together in a cottage in Bluebell Woods. His father had been a soldier – a brave and courageous man – who had gone to fight the French in Corsica and had never returned. William had a benefactor – the Duke of Lancaster, his godfather, and whilst William had always been curious as to why the duke should pay any attention to a commoner like him, he was glad of the duke’s kindness to him over the years. It was the duke who paid Professor Murray to be William’s tutor, and who gave him a small allowance to enable him to pursue his studies, when other young men of his age were forced to work as laborers or bell boys.

I owe him everything, William thought to himself, waving to several young ladies, who were congregating around the window of the village bakery, where fresh batches of cakes had been placed appetizingly on display.

“Oh, look, it’s William. Good day, William,” one of them called out, and William smiled.

He was treated as something of an oddity by the young ladies of the district. His mother was a seamstress, and yet William lived the life of a gentleman, albeit at the duke’s expense. He was a handsome young man, dark-haired like his mother, and with amber eyes, he was told were those of his father. But William’s mind was too filled with learning to be much interested in courtship and romance, and whilst the young ladies congregating outside the bakery were charming and pretty, they did little to interest him.

“Good day to you,” William called out, tipping his hat, as he hurried by on the opposite side of the road.

His mother’s cottage lay in Bluebell Woods, a mile or so from the village, and William crossed three stiles, skirting the edges of the wildflower meadows, and enjoying the pleasant spring weather. The sun was warm on his face, and the sky was blue and bright. Standing on the last stile, William could see Burnley Abbey in the distance, the sun reflecting on the sandstone walls, and the standard of the Duke of Lancaster fluttering in the breeze. It was a fine sight, and one William often stood to look at. He thought of the duke’s son, Maximilian, for he knew he, too, was under Professor Murray’s tutelage, though with less than impressive results.

Maximilian just doesn’t apply himself to his studies, William thought to himself, repeating Professor Murray’s words – for his tutor had often spoken of his exasperation at the efforts of the young heir.

On his part, William could not understand why Maximilian did not apply himself to his studies. He had every opportunity to do so, and a library unrivaled by any in the county at his disposal. William was allowed to use the library at Burnley Abbey, too. He often went there, though did not always see his godfather. He liked to sit amidst the shelves of books, with their comforting ancient scent, and imagine himself in possession of all they contained and all there was to know.

“Is it possible for a man to know everything there is to know?” William had once asked Professor Murray.

The professor had smiled and shook his head.

“There’re those who’ve professed to know everything there is to know – in their time, at least. Aristotle was one such, or others spoke of him in such terms. But as for knowing everything there is to know – I don’t think so. Wouldn’t life be terribly boring if we really did know everything? No, William – that’s the wonder of life. There’s always something new to discover,” he had replied.

William was now making his way along the path through the trees leading to his mother’s cottage. Bluebell Woods was living up to its name, and it was the time of year when the woods were carpeted with the purple flowers of its namesake. William paused to pick a bunch for his mother, and hurried on. His stomach was rumbling, and he was eager for something to eat.

“I hope she bought some currant buns,” William thought to himself, as now the cottage came in sight.

William was looking forward to telling his mother everything he had learned that day. His mind was filled with thoughts of the next chapter of his novel – the story of a man who sets out to fight the French in Corsica and falls in love with a woman on the side of the enemy. William often thought about his father, and the story was based loosely on how he thought his father might have been. He wanted to sit down and write immediately, but as he opened the door, William was surprised – and pleased – to find his godparents sitting at the tea table.

“Oh, William, I thought you were never coming back,” his mother exclaimed, as the duke stepped forward to greet him.

“It’s good to see you, William. How are you? I’m sorry I missed you at Burnley Abbey last week. Did you find the books you wanted?” the duke said, offering William his hand.

“Yes, thank you, sir. I’m in excellent spirits,” William said, smiling at the duchess, who was sitting by the hearth.

“Good day, William. How glad we are to see you,” she said, as William’s mother cut him a large slice of cake, and handed him the plate of bread and butter.

“Here you are, William. Sit down and eat. You’ll be hungry, I’m sure,” she said, and William grinned.

“Ravenous, Mother,” he replied, sitting down at the tea table to eat.

William was glad to see his godparents, they had always taken a keen interest in him, even as he remained somewhat unsure how the son of a seamstress had come to be the godchild of a duke and duchess. His mother had always been friends with them, and William’s earliest memory was of playing with Maximilian on the lawn at Burnley Abbey.

“Tell me, William, what have you learned today with Professor Murray? I trust he’s making you work hard,” the duke said, and William nodded.

“Then the Megarians, being all half-starved, desired the Spartans to desire of us just to repeal those laws: the laws I mentioned, Occasioned by the stealing of those strumpets. And so they begged and prayed us several times; and we refused: and so they went to war,” William replied, repeating the ending of a poem by Aristophanes on the origins of the Peloponnesian war, and which he and Professor Murray had studied that day.

The duke appeared impressed.

“Aristophanes?” he asked, and William nodded.

“That’s right – on the origins of the Peloponnesian war. It’s fascinating. I’ve learned so much already. We talked of Aristotle today, too – knowing thyself,” William continued, and he went on to explain the debate he and Professor Murray had shared on the beginnings of wisdom.

“I must say, William, you’re quite remarkable in your intellect,” the duchess said, and William blushed.

He was not arrogant in his learning, nor did he boast of it. There was still so much he did not know about the world, even as he was determined to learn all he could.

“I… I just remember things, and I find it so interesting to learn from the professor,” William replied.

The duke and duchess exchanged glances.

“If only Maximilian would follow your example,” the duke replied, sighing and shaking his head.

“But doesn’t he want to learn?” William asked.

“I think he sees little point in doing so. He knows he’ll inherit my title, and it makes him lazy to the point of lethargy. He simply doesn’t want to, and no amount of threats or cajoling can change his mind. I don’t know…perhaps Professor Murray can inspire something in him. Anyway, it’s not Maximilian we’ve come to talk about, it’s you, William,” the duke said, rolling his eyes, as though he felt an exasperation towards his son.

But there was a sense of sadness, too, and William had always wondered if his godfather felt he had failed his son in some way, and was trying to make up for the fact in his treatment of William. William was surprised... The duke had always taken a keen interest in his education, and now William wondered what he was about to say... Would his godfather now tell him the time had come for other pursuits? William knew he could not remain forever without occupation, even as he feared what such an occupation might entail. He was no gentleman, and despite his ambitions, William had always feared they would go unrealized.

“Are you displeased with me, sir? I’ve worked exceedingly hard. I hope I’ve not disappointed you,” William said, glancing at anxiously at his mother.

But the duke only laughed.

“Disappointed? No, William, I couldn’t ever be disappointed with you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m exceedingly proud of you, and I want you to know I’ve always had your best interests at heart. But you’re growing up now, and you can’t expect to remain forever under the tutelage of Professor Murray. I want to send you to London, William, along with a letter of recommendation and introduction. You can use it to open doors for yourself, and pursue a career worthy of a gentleman – law, perhaps. I’ll pay for your lodgings, and ensure you have the best possible start with an allowance, too – to continue until you find your feet. What do you say?” the duke asked.

William’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. He could hardly believe what his Godfather was offering him. This was what he had always dreamed of – a chance to pursue a career and make something of himself and use all he had learned for the furtherance of good. A smile spread over his face, and rose to his feet, holding out his hand to the duke, who took it, and smiled.

“Your Grace, I can’t thank you enough. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. But is it true? Will you really send me to London?” William exclaimed.

In his mind, London was a city paved with gold, a land of opportunity, in which anything was possible. William had never left Lancashire, but he had heard so much about London and the empire from his reading and the professor’s instruction.

“I will, William. I know it’s what you want, and I’ve always sought to help you. It’s the least I can do. We’ll make the arrangements in the coming weeks, and then you can leave for London at your convenience. I’ll speak to Professor Murray about the matter, but for now, we’ll leave you and your mother to talk,” the duke said, as the duchess rose to her feet.

William was still grinning from ear to ear, and he thanked them both profusely, his hands trembling with excitement. After his godparents had left, William turned to his mother in astonishment.

“Can you believe it, Mother?” he said, throwing his arms around her.

She kissed him on both cheeks and smiled.

“You deserve this happiness, William. You can truly make something of yourself,” she said, and William nodded.

“But London? Can you imagine it, Mother? I…but what about you?” he said, imagining for a moment the sorrow of his mother at their parting.

William had no siblings, and his mother was a widow. He would be leaving her behind, and a sudden sense of sadness overcame him.

“I’ll be quite all right, William. You’ll write to me, and I’ll write to you, and when you’re established, I’ll visit you. You must pursue your dreams, William. Your godfather’s given you a wonderful opportunity. Seize it and make it your own,” she replied, her eyes filled with tears of joy.

William could still not entirely believe his luck – he was the poor son of a seamstress, and now he had the chance of a very different life.

“I’ll make you proud, Mother, I promise,” William said, his thoughts now turned to everything he had to look forward to.

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.

Chapter 4

“There, now, you’re all ready,” William’s mother said, straightening his new overcoat, and looking him up and down with satisfaction.

They were standing outside Burnley Abbey, and a carriage was waiting to take William to London. The duke and duchess were standing close by, and the carriage driver had strapped William’s trunk to the back of the carriage. His mother had tears in her eyes, and William was wondering if he was doing the right thing. He wanted desperately to make a name for himself, and to prove himself worthy of the trust his godfather had placed in him, but the thought of leaving everything familiar behind him was daunting, and now he took a deep breath, eager to know he was doing the right thing.

“I’ll write to you, Mother, I promise. And I hope I can make you proud,” William said, embracing his mother, who began to sob.

The duchess stepped forward and put her arm around her.

“Come now, Teresa. He needs to be on his way,” she said.

The duke, too, stepped forward, holding out his hand to William and smiling.

“You’ve lodgings at The Spaniards Inn. It’s a respectable sort of place. I’ve stayed there before. Spare no expense in settling yourself in. Charge anything you need to me – including new clothes. I want you to have every advantage of a gentleman,” the duke said.

He had already paid for William’s new overcoat, and a trunk and other items necessary for the journey. William was excited, but daunted, too, and the thought of leaving his mother pained him terribly.

“You’ve been so very good to me, sir. I promise I’ll do all I can to live up to your expectations of me,” William said.

The duke shook his by the hand.

“I know you will, William. You always have done. And don’t worry about your mother. We’ll take good care of her, I promise,” he said.

The duchess, too, bid William goodbye, and he kissed his mother, promising he would write to her as soon as he arrived in London. Climbing into the carriage, William could still hardly believe he was setting off for London, with such possibility and opportunity before him.

“I’m so proud of you, William, and your father would’ve been, too,” his mother said.

William was glad to hear these words, and he kissed his mother again, before climbing into the carriage and pulling down the window to wave to them.

“Goodbye, and thank you,” he called out, as the carriage driver geed on the horses, and the carriage pulled away.

As they passed along the front of the house, William could see Maximilian standing at the library window watching his departure. He nodded to him, but Maximilian’s expression was blank, and William knew his Godfather’s heir would not be sorry to see the back of him.

Nor I of him, William thought to himself.

But now was not the time to dwell on the past, or to have regrets about what had been. William’s future lay ahead, and he could not have been more excited as to the prospect.

* * *

The bells of Saint Paul’s Cathedral were ringing out a full peel as the carriage pulled up outside The Spaniards Inn. William had spent the past hour or so gazing out of the carriage window, marvelling at the unfolding sights of the city around him. They had passed along grand avenues and bustling streets, past the great buildings of state and along the river, finally arriving in the shadow of the cathedral. The journey had taken several days, but at last, William was in London, and a world of opportunity lay before him. He had grown up on the country estate of the Duke of Lancaster, and the hustle and bustle of the city was quite something to behold. Everywhere he looked, William saw people, and he found himself amidst a great market, where sellers plied for trade, their shouts echoing as the bells rang out above.

“Hot chestnuts, roasted fresh,” one man was calling out, whilst others sold milk, bread, cakes, meat, and fish.

“Sprats, eels, cockles and whelks,” a woman was shouting, and as William clambered down from the carriage, several children came running up to him.

“Penny to carry your trunk, sir, penny to carry your trunk,” they cried out in a chorus of unison.

The carriage driver shooed them away, even as William felt quite pleased to be addressed as sir. Here, in London, he could be the man he had always dreamed of being – a gentleman with good prospects, and treated with respect. He was no longer the son of a seamstress, but the sort of man to be called “sir” and in his new clothes and with his letter of recommendation in his coat pocket, William felt proud of himself and all he had worked so hard to achieve.

“Is this the inn?” William asked, looking up at the establishment before him – a fine looking coaching house, with a painted sign and gable ends.

“It is, sir. His Grace always stays here when he comes to London,” the carriage driver said.

William thanked him, and wishing him a safe journey back to Lancashire, who took up his cases and stepped through the door of the inn, finding himself in a taproom, where a long counter ran along one side, and several respectable looking gentlemen sat dining at a table at the far end.

“Can I help you, young sir?” a man behind the counter, whom William assumed to be the landlord, said.

He was a large man, with a ruddy face and beard, but with kindly expression, and William nodded, stepping forward and clearing his throat.

“My name’s William Baker. I believe I’ve rooms here for the coming weeks, at the expense of the Duke of Lancaster,” he said, and the landlord nodded.

“I thought you might be the young man I’m expecting. Yes, I’ve got your room all ready, and you’re to dine here, too. Will you see your room now?” he asked.

It was just after midday, and William was keen to step out into the city immediately. But he agreed to see his room, and a kitchen boy was called to carry his trunk.

How easily that could’ve been me, he thought to himself, as the kitchen boy followed the landlord up the stairs.

The room – or rooms, for there was a sitting room, too – were well appointed, and comfortably furnished. They looked out over the river, and William nodded, looking around him approvingly at what would be his home for the coming months.

“Whatever you need, just ask. I’ll be only too pleased to help you,” the landlord said, as the kitchen boy put down William’s trunk.

William’s godfather had told him to be generous in his thanks to those who served him, and he handed the boy a penny, and the landlord a shilling.

“Thank you,” William replied, glad to have arrived in London, and found everything as the duke had promised.

Having changed out of his travelling clothes, William stepped out of the inn and into the hustle and bustle of the market. The bells of Saint Paul’s were still ringing out their merry peel, and William stepped into the cathedral, marvelling at the cavernous interior, with its dome, pillars, and marbled floor. The choir was practicing for evensong, and William sat for a while to listen to them, caught up in the beauty of the music, and feeling astonished at all he had already seen and experienced.

“I can hardly believe I’m here. What marvels lie in store,” he thought to himself, watching as the choir filed out along the nave.

William had promised to write to his mother as soon as he arrived in London, but he also wanted to send her something – a gift to celebrate his arrival. Stepping out of the cathedral, he stood on the steps, surveying the myriad of stalls laid out below. William had never seen so many things for sale, and he smiled to himself at the thought of having so much to choose from. His mother would be amazed if only she could see what he himself was seeing now.

“Silks and scarves, embroidered or plain – something for a lady, for a suitor. The finest Persian silks,” a woman called out, as William passed a stall piled high with fabrics in every colour and shade imaginable.

“Fresh milk, cream, butter, and cheese – the finest in all of London,” another woman called out.

William was caught up in the sights, sounds, and smells of the market. He bought a hot meat pie from a stall, and paused to examine another selling leather bound notebooks and fine quills and ink.

“Something to write your diary with, sir? You could be the next Mr. Pepys,” the proprietor said, holding out a black bound notebook.

“Thank you, but no,” William said, gazing around him, and feeling overawed by the sight of so many things for sale.

The crowds jostled, and William knew he had to take care against pickpockets – his godfather had warned him as much, and now he checked his lapels, fearful he might already have succumbed to a theft. But his money was still there and having eaten the pie – mutton in a thick gravy – William moved on along the stalls, eager to find something his mother would like.

“A bracelet, sir? A necklace? Something for a lady, is it?” a woman at a jewellery stall said.

The items were gaudy, and not to William’s taste. Besides, he had never seen his mother wear jewellery. It was not something she had ever been able to afford, and William shook his head, still looking around him, when an altercation at a bakery stall caught his attention.

“A shilling for a loaf of bread? That’s ridiculous. You can’t possibly expect anyone to pay that,” a shrill voice, indignant with rage, exclaimed.

William looked across with interest, as a tall, elegant young lady, wearing a yellow dress, and with a blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders, remonstrated with the baker. She was exceedingly pretty, with soft, dimpled cheeks, and blonde hair tied up in a bun underneath a blue bonnet to match her shawl. The stall holder was holding the loaf of bread out to her with an imploring look on his face.

“But I’ve got a family to feed. It’s a shilling. A woman like you in fancy clothes and bonnet can afford a shilling for a loaf of bread,” he replied, with an angry look on his face.

“But they say it’s mainly plaster of Paris in those loaves. Chalk dust and salt,” she exclaimed.

The baker glared at her.

“This is the finest bread between here and Greenwich. I was up at four O’clock this morning baking it. It’s a shilling, and that’s final,” he said.

William stepped forward to intervene. A loaf of bread was not worth a shilling, even if it had been baked by the Regent’s own baker himself.

“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,” William said.

He had not seen anything of the sort, but he knew the price of bread, and the loaf the baker was holding was worth a few pennies at most. The woman turned to him and smiled.

“Oh…is that so?” she said, turning back to the baker with an angry look on her face.

The baker, too, looked perturbed, and he faltered, glaring angrily at William, who raised his eyebrows, not willing to allow the man the upper hand.

“A few pennies. That’s all it’s worth. Or should we ask the customs and excise officers to see what’s in your bags of flour? Chalk dust, is it?” William asked.

“The finest wheat,” the baker retorted, and William laughed.

“It would have to be to charge a shilling for a loaf – woven with golden thread, too,” he said.

The baker knew he was beaten, and the young woman held out two pennies as he handed the loaf over to her.

“Thank you,” the woman said, as they turned away from the stall.

William blushed, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his brow. He had not intended to step in, but he had seen she was in difficulty and had wanted to help.

“He shouldn’t have tried to sell you a loaf of bread at such an extortionate price. A shilling? You could buy a dozen loaves and still have change,” William replied.

The woman smiled at him.

“I must confess, I’m not used to buying bread. I’m not used to buying anything. But thank you. You’ve been most kind. I shouldn’t keep you any longer,” she said.

William would gladly have been kept in her company for longer, but he was unsure of what to say in order to continue the conversation. He found her to be a delightful creature, and so very different from the sort of women he had known in Lancashire. She was beautiful, and had an air about her he found endearing – how glad he was to have helped her.

“It’s quite all right. I’ve only just arrived in London, I don’t yet know my way around,” he said.

Again, the woman smiled.

“Where have you come from?” she asked.

“From Lancashire. I’m here to secure employment – perhaps with a legal firm,” he said.

The woman looked at him as though she did not really know anything about employment or legal firms. William wondered who she was, and realized he had not yet introduced himself, and could hardly expect her to introduce herself to him.

“Then I wish you well. Lancashire…how interesting” she said, nodding to him.

“I’m…William Baker,” William said, holding out his hand.

“Anne Miller,” she said, and it was she who now held out her hand for William to take.

William smiled at her, taking her hand in his, and wondering again how to prolong the conversation. She was a curious creature, and he wondered who she was – a lady’s maid, perhaps, though her naivety at the baker’s stall suggested she herself might be a lady of some standing. But if she was, why was she buying her own bread?

“A pleasure to meet you,” he replied.

“Likewise. But I really should be going. I’m grateful to you, though I wonder if the bread will prove worth the struggle. Well…good day to you,” she said, and nodding to William, she hurried off into the crowd.

William watched her go, filled with curiosity as to who she was and where she had come from. Turning, he caught the gaze of the baker, who scowled at him.

“She was going to pay it, too,” he said, and spat on the cobblestones.

“I’m only glad she didn’t,” William replied, as now he returned to his search for a gift for his mother.

He settled on a woollen shawl, one his mother could wrap around herself during the long winter months, when snow lay on the ground back home in Lancashire, and feeling pleased with his purchase, William returned to The Spaniards Inn. But as he pushed his way through the crowds, where shouts and cries filled the air, and the peel of the cathedral bells rang out, William could not help but think of his encounter with Anne, and wondered if there might be a way of discovering more about her.

 

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