CHAPTER 1
May1864
London
Esther was no stranger to grief, but she was discovering there were many ways a heart could break. She sat in the drawing room of her London home—or rather, what used to be her home. She was the dowager now. The house belonged to the new Earl of Hartfield, her late husband’s son. As servants bustled about, preparing for her daughter’s presentation tea, she fought to suppress the sting of tears.
Elizabeth was at court.
Her daughter was standing before the Queen at this very moment, taking her first steps into society, and Esther was here, sitting idly while the world moved on without her.
How many teas had she hosted in this very room? How many grand affairs had she overseen? She had once commanded these events with such ease, orchestrating them with the confidence of a woman whose place in her home was unquestioned. And yet,today, she was no hostess. She could say it was because that role now belonged to Abigail, the new Lady Hartfield. But the truth was, Esther had relinquished her place as Lady Hartfield long before now.
It happened six years ago, when a carriage accident stole the life she had once known. In the immediate aftermath, when she lay bedridden in agony, she had thought nothing could be worse. But when the pain subsided, the crueler reality emerged—she was unable to walk. That was the true blow, the one that reshaped her world. The reason she withdrew from society to carve out a quiet existence in the country.
During that dark time, Abigail had been her biggest support. Recently widowed and in need of a position, she became Esther’s companion, but over time, she had become far more—a confidante, a friend, and, eventually, the one to take on the duties Esther could no longer manage. Esther had been grateful to relinquish the responsibilities of Lady Hartfield into Abigail’s capable hands, convinced she had found peace in her retreat.
Then, last year, her life had been upended once again with her husband’s death. And if the sorrow of his passing was not enough, it was compounded by the revelation that he had left her penniless. Not a settlement, not security, not even the dignity of true independence. Theirs had never been a love match, but she had believed they had built something—affection, respect. How could he have thought so little of her? How could he leave her with nothing, forcing her to depend on his heir?
That heir, his son from his first marriage, was a stranger to her. For a year, she, her daughter, and Abigail, had lived in limbo, unsure of whether they would be cast out or forced to endure the rule of a cruel new master. It had been a time of fear, of waiting for the ax to fall. But when Colin had finally arrived to claim his title, she found he was not the heartless man she had dreaded. He was kind, generous. Not only had he takencare of her as his father’s widow, providing the settlement her husband should have provided, but he had married Abigail, and had proven an indulgent older brother to Elizabeth.
All was well now. She had no reason to feel this anguish. Except everything was changing yet again. Her daughter had just left with Colin and Abigail for her presentation at court, radiant in her white gown, her eyes bright with dreams. Esther had once been like that. But she had faded from the life she had once commanded, retreating until she had become little more than a shadow.
She clutched her chair’s armrests with a white-knuckled grip as the bitter truth pressed in on her—she had become utterly useless. How could she be the mother her daughter needed if she remained locked away, an invalid with nothing to offer?
As if to underscore her thoughts, a shadow loomed beside her, and she glanced up to find a footman shifting awkwardly, his gloved hands clasped in front of him.
“Lady Hartfield, might I assist you to another location? We need to adjust the furniture.”
Esther forced a tight smile and inclined her head, allowing him to wheel her to a corner of the room. Out of the way. The footman murmured his apologies and disappeared, but she barely heard him. Her gaze had caught on a small, framed daguerreotype perched on the side table. A moment frozen in time.
Hartfield Park. Ten years ago.
The summer sunlight dappled the terrace, catching the gleam of silver teapots and the pale hues of ladies’ gowns. In the foreground, Elizabeth stood next to her, a wide grin on her mischievous face, her dark curls in disarray. Her daughter had been so small, merely eight years old. Most mothers kept their children away from such affairs, but Esther had neversubscribed to those notions. She had delighted in her daughter’s presence and cherished every moment she could spend with her.
Elizabeth had been particularly restless that day, her boundless energy at odds with the decorum of a formal tea. To keep her entertained, Esther had devised a series of children’s games on the lawn. She had joined them, much to the scandalized amusement of the other ladies, running and laughing with her daughter and the other children. Skirts lifted just enough to keep from tangling.
Had that been only ten years ago?
It felt like another lifetime. As if the young matron in the photograph, full of life and laughter, was someone else entirely. She had gone from that woman to this—a dried-up, useless dowager, shunted into corners and moved about like a piece of furniture.
Her lungs constricted as a lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She seldom indulged in self-pity. It was a useless emotion. But even as she tried to squash the wave of despair that threatened to pull her under, a fat tear fell onto her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, as if the force of that grip was the only thing keeping her together.
“My lady? Are you well? May I be of assistance?” She froze and heat suffused her cheeks at the warm timbre of the familiar voice.
Oh, goodness! It was Mr. Wang. Colin’s friend had entered the room without her noticing. The man moved with the stealth of a ghost. And yet she knew the body under the layers of sober clothing was as solid as a rock. She had experienced his strength firsthand when he had carried her through Cremorne Gardens a mere few weeks ago.
As if it was not humiliating enough to be carried through Cremorne Gardens like a sack of potatoes, he also had to be theone who found her in such an emotional state. She turned her head away and tried to surreptitiously dab at her eyes.
“Perfectly fine, Mr. Wang.” The wobble in her voice belied that statement, and she knew she was unsuccessful at hiding her embarrassing tears. The man saw too much.
He crouched in front of her. Without a word, he extended a snow-white handkerchief. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Hers, skittish and flooded; his, calm and reassuring.
She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, inhaling the faint sweet-and-spicy scent that lingered in the pristine square of fabric. “Thank you. You must think I’m a veritable watering pot.”
“I think nothing of the sort, my lady. I daresay it’s been an emotional day for you. Would you like to unburden yourself to someone? I am here.”
She would love to talk to someone, but her reasons seemed so trivial. So self-pitying and pathetic. And yet his calm demeanor reassured her. It promised a sympathetic ear.
