Chapter One
London, July 1817
The first notes of Mama’smelody flowed from my fingers and filled the parlor of our London townhome. Although I did not play the square pianoforte with as much passion or pleasure as Mama had, the memory of her song wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a cool night would forever pull me back to the bench.
I nearly reached the crescendo when atap, tap, tapsounded at the door, and I hit a wrong note.Drat!I’d been so close this time to playing the song without making any errors.
Papa stirred in his armchair, and his newspaper fell to the uneven wood-plank floor.
Knowing Mrs. Potter would answer the door, I quickly returned my hands to the keys, hoping to lull Papa back to sleep. But only a few lines in—and with just as many mistakes—I could do nothing but sigh. If only I’d put forth greater effort to practice while she’d been alive, I might now have her music to comfort me.
Another knock came at the door, the staccato sound more urgent than the first, and Papa snorted awake.
Where was Mrs. Potter? I would have answered the door myself, but the last time I’d done so, she had given me such a displeased look that I did not dare do it again. It was probably just an impatient messenger anyway—we rarely had callers anymore.
I rose and replaced the bench, then retrieved Papa’s newspaper from the floor.
“What would I do without you, Hannah?” he said.
“I daresay not read the newspaper.” I kissed the top of his head and handed it to him, minus one sheet, which I reserved for myself, of course.
I sat on the sofa situated under the window and parted the curtains. As I’d supposed, a postboy stood on the top step.
Finally, Mrs. Potter emerged from the kitchen downstairs. Wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron, she muttered the entire length of the corridor. She was perhaps not the most amiable of servants, but she and her daughter, Nora—our maid of all work—were the only help we had, and I was grateful for their service.
The front door creaked open, and a gust of wind carried a pungent odor into the parlor: horse dung and raw sewage—parting gifts from thetonas they vacated the city for their family seats in the country.
Though the view was nothing special, only a long row of terrace homes lining the cobbled stone street, the light was perfect for reading. I smoothed the broadsheet in my lap and skimmed an article about how the last year and a half of unprecedented rainfall was causing crops to fail all over England.
“A letter, Miss Hannah.”
I looked up from the newspaper and found Mrs. Potter holding out a tray. On it, a single missive. “For me?”
“You are Miss Hannah, are you not?”
I pressed my lips together to hide my amusement. Mrs. Potter had grown increasingly irritable these past several months. In truth, we all had; despite it being summer, the weather was so dreary. I set aside the newspaper and retrieved the letter from the proffered tray. “Thank you.”
With a huff, she shuffled back to the kitchen.
“Is it from Henry?” Papa asked hopefully.
“Hmm.” I examined the letter; on the front, only my name was written, and on the reverse was an intricate red wax seal. Though the stationery was certainly fine enough to suit my brother’s elegant wife, Georgiana, she and Henry had left London only two days earlier at the close of the Season. “Sorry, Papa. I don’t believe they would have had opportunity to write us yet.”
“No, of course not.” Papa smiled, but there was a heaviness to his brow that hinted of sadness. Papa had asked Henry to extend their stay by at least another week, but Georgiana had insisted they return home to Bath. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave—even without the unseasonably cool weather, London was still a dreadful, odiferous city this time of year.
I rubbed the smooth paper between my fingers. Although I was anxious to open the letter and discover its sender and contents, Papa needed a diversion to lift his spirits even more—and he loved guessing games. “Would you like to guess again?”
Papa lowered his newspaper. “Perhaps it is from one of your friends from Bath?”
“Perhaps,” I agreed, though I knew it was not. We’d only lived in Bath for a few years in an effort to improve Mama’s health, and the young ladies I’d become acquainted with there had long since ceased writing. Although I’d considered them some of my close friends at the time, it only took so many unanswered letters after we’d parted before I’d realized they didn’t feel the same camaraderie for me.
“Might it be from your former governess then?”
“Possibly,” I said, though it was unlikely to be her or anyone else. I had been so focused on Mama these past years that I’d become rather unsociable. I didn’t regret how I’d spent my time, but I could think of no one who would write to me—especially not someone who had use of such exquisite paper.
Well, there wasoneperson, but I scarcely dared to let myself hope.
I studied the crest pressed into the red wax seal more carefully. It was the image of a checkered shield lying in a bed of ivy. And around the circumference it read:Conservabo ad Mortem. Though I couldn’t translate the words—Latin was not among the subjects of my education—theywerefamiliar. I’d read them every summer of my childhood as I’d entered the doors of Summerhaven.
