ChapterOne
Knightswood Manor, Devon
10th May 1826
Dear Fitzwilliam Darcy, Josephine penned in her distinctive loopy handwriting, having already denied Captain Wentworth and Mr Edward Ferrars the heady honour of becoming her new fictional diary husband. She smiled, picturing her favourite brooding hero, before continuing.
Today it rained all day…Josephine glanced up at her soaked window for inspiration. In truth, it was hard to find when most days consisted of the same three meals, a long walk and hiding from her eldest brother, but she liked to chart the time anyway. Then there was the fact that her fictional diary husband was her only confidant for hertorturedthoughts about the perfectly heroic Sir Francis Percival Dashton. And she was certain thattorturedwas not an exaggeration if her pensive thoughts and veritable ache whenever she conjured his image, were taken fully into account.
Sighing, she stared down at her expressive handwriting, all hoops and swirls with several large blots of ink where she’d paused to ponder the use of a particular word over another. Her sisters would often laugh at her indecision when she told them, claiming one word couldn’t be in any way superior to another, yet she was certain the opposite was true. Words were everything– they could change the world in a heartbeat– and she was certain no one understood this more than Sir Francis.
Sir Francis had first come to Knightswood during a New Year Hunt organised by Thomas. Each of her brothers had invited a companion for the sporting event but while twins, Edward and Henry, had been happy to enjoy the shooting party with their Oxford friends, dear Fred had hidden away with her. And it was while they were tucked up in front of the library fire, with the wintry rain cascading down the windows, that they were introduced.
In truth, after a dismal Christmas with Aunt Higglestone telling everyone that she ‘really had tried her very best for her dearest, sickly bluestocking’, Sophie announcing her third child, and Phoebe her first– at last– a New Year meeting with a perfect fictional hero was the very last thing she’d expected.Indeed, if her three long and tedious seasons with her persistent aunt had taught her anything at all, it was that perfect fictional heroes didn’t actually exist, either within the confines of Almack’s or any of the other ball or receiving rooms deemed appropriate for debutantes.
Which made Sir Francis Percival Dashton quite the exception.
Mistily, Josephine recalled the way he described the Acropolis in the moonlight, before espousing seamlessly on his favourite Shakespearean soliloquies and sonnets. There was little doubt his knowledge of art and literature far outweighed her own, which was hardly a surprise since he’d studied Classics at Oxford before enjoying a protracted Grand Tour with Fred. But it was his ready passion for books, as though he truly understood that words could burrow straight into the heart of a reader, that really captured her attention. He could just as readily recite passages from Sir Walter Scott’sIvanhoeas describe Michelangelo’s works in the greatest of detail, and she really was quite cross with Fred for not telling her about the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The only wondrous sights he’d related at great length related to Turkish baths and smoking tents! She rolled her eyes.
Yet, the passion of Sir Francis’s words had only confirmed her quiet belief that they really were the most unique magic that only a few knew how to wield well. There was a moment too when she thought he might have glimpsed an aspiring wordsmith in herself, for it was she who pointed out where Sir Walter Scott’s novels were shelved when he claimed the bitter weather made him wistful for something poetic.And even if Fred had begun to snore behind his newspaper halfway through the first page, she’d felt so enraptured by the richness of Sir Francis’s tone, she could not have enjoyed it more. He was the living, breathing hero she’d always dreamed about, from the high polish of his Hessian boots to the thick curl of his lustrous locks. In fact, Fred had been known to claim Dashton’s romantic profile and natty dress sense could rival the great Beau Brummel himself– a suggestion which led her to wonder if her brother might not also be a little enamoured– before she dismissed the notion as nonsensical.
Rosily, Josephine conjured his flaxen hair, and eyes the colour of sea-spray. She’d spent her childhood on Devon beaches, chasing waves and building forts with her brothers and sisters, but there was a particular cove that she recalled for different reasons. She was twelve at the time, and suffering from a particularly bad spasm of the lungs, so Phoebe carried her down to the water’s edge. Yet while her sister had urged her to take deep breaths of the remedial air, she’d been mesmerised by the ebb and flow of the glistening waves over the long silvery sand. And now that same colour had found its way into Sir Francis’s eyes, as though he was one of Sir Walter Scott’s heroes himself.
‘Jo…?’
Matilda’s voice pulled her back to the present with a jolt. She rose swiftly and stepped towards her bed, where she pushed her diary between the bed frame and mattress, her most reliable hiding place for as long as she could remember. She might not have suspicious Sophie to worry about anymore, but her youngest sister was no less ready to sacrifice her morals if there was a morsel of gossip to be had.
‘Jo…!’
‘I’m just…’ Josephine began, as a slight tornado in blue muslin whirled through her bedchamber.
‘There you are!’ Matilda exclaimed impatiently. ‘I might have guessed you were in here scribbling to your imaginary diary husband.’ She chuckled as she crossed the floor towards Josephine’s window seat. ‘Though why you don’t simply pick one and stick I’ll never understand. It’s bad enough imagining oneself with one husband, let alone a whole herd!’ She pulled a comical face as she hoisted herself up and tucked her feet inside her skirts.
‘Matilda Fairfax!’ Josephine admonished. ‘How many times do I have to remind you that my diary is my private property? It was bad enough with Sophie poking her nose in every five seconds. I most certainly don’t think it is very polite of you to invade my personal?—’
‘Oh pooh!’ Matilda interrupted, wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s not as though there’s much else to do around here with Thomas worrying about the roofandthe fencesandthe sheep, but not before replenishing the wine cellar, of course.’
‘Matty!’ Jo hushed through a chuckle.
‘What? You know it’s true! Thomas puts Burgundy before everything! Anyway, I’ve been trying to persuade him to revive the Knightswood Ball this summer. Not for the dresses and dancing, of course– I can’t actually imagine anything worse than another dress fitting with Aunt Higglestone– but for the dawn steeplechase the morning after.’ She drew a breath, her large inky eyes dancing. ‘Did you know there used to be one every year in Mama and Papa’s time? It was quite the event! All the gentlemen would turn out in their riding finery, while the ladies would stay up in their ball attire to watch them depart.Iwouldn’t settle for watching, of course,’ she added with a grin.‘‘I’d simply wear my riding habit to the Ball, because the race would be the only reason I’d go in the first place.’
Josephine eyed the obstinate tilt of her youngest sister’s chin, wondering how the universe ever saw fit to leave the most fiery and independent Fairfax until last, and in her sole charge.
‘Matilda, dearest,’ she began patiently, ‘the chances of Thomas reinstating the Grand Knightswood Ball while you are yet to enjoy a season and I have failed three of the things, are pretty much non-existent. Beside the actual cost of such an event, he’ll be loath to spend money on a social occasion which has little chance of advancing either of our marital chances.’ She sighed and walked towards her pretty sister basking in the spring sunlight. ‘You’re not out until the end of the year, whereas I’ve been such a resounding failure Thomas instructed Aunt to “cut her losses”and send me home last month. Like one of his non-runners! In truth, I think lavish balls and dawn steeplechases will be the very last things on our brother’s mind.’ She paused as she drew close enough to observe her sister’s stockings and dress hem; both were streaked with brown mud. ‘And whathaveyou been doing?’ She frowned. ‘Please don’t tell me you went to the May village show after everything Harriet said? You’re eighteen now, on the cusp of your debut season, not some young schoolgirl climbing trees and grazing her knees!’
There was a moment’s silence as they both stared down at Matilda’s knees bearing earthy stains from her afternoon adventures.
Her younger sister yanked down her hem with an angelic smile. ‘It was only atinychicken race,’ she appealed. ‘And I only went on account of Bertie Briggs saying Knightswood chickens werehalfas fast astheirfarm chickens, and he would lay sixpence on it. So, really, it was a matter of honour when all is said and done,’ she concluded lightly.
Josephine closed her eyes in pained denial. ‘Dearest, have you forgotten the Briggs brothers were responsible for Phoebe’s fall through the stable roof onto poor Higgins? And let’s not even mention the pig race debacle…’ She paused to shudder. ‘Just tell me,please, that you didn’t gamble sixpence with him– otherwise it will be the gossip of Knightswood village by now.’
‘It will not!’ Matilda retorted with an obstinate purse of her lips. ‘For I won fair and square, and then I made Bertie promise he wouldn’t tell anyone which he readily agreed to on account of being beaten by a girl.’
Josephine stared at the defiant gleam in her sister’s eyes. ‘He didn’t agree, though, did he?’ she quizzed suspiciously. ‘Matilda Fairfax, did you wrestle Bertie Briggs? Is that how you got muddy?’
‘I may have arm-wrestled Bertie Briggsa little,’ Matilda replied mulishly, ‘but he called Knightswood chickens lazy layabouts! Our chickens! What else was I supposed to do?’
‘Did he now!’ Josephine scowled, her demeanour changing momentarily. ‘Now I’m almost glad you… But really, dearest, a chicken race and an arm-wrestle… if Thomas hears about this?—’
