Prologue
Denton School for Young Ladies
Lamby, England
Autumn 1811
Harboring anger against a woman on her deathbed was wrong. Cassandra Hale knew it to be true. How could any sensible, benevolent human feel anything but compassion for the dying?
Yet as she stared down at the woman who had been like a mother to her, indignation flared within Cassandra’s chest. The words spoken just minutes ago had confirmed the unthinkable.
She’d been betrayed. Lied to.For her entire life.
One might surmise that Mrs. Denton had been speaking from her fever or was delirious with sickness. And yet, despite her illness, she was quite lucid.
A biting wind whipped its way through the open bedchamber window, as if eager to divulge its opinion of the current situation. It fluttered the curtains and stole into the room’s corners. Eager for a diversion, Cassandra stood from her chair next to the bed and moved to the window. She nudged the heavy wool curtain aside and gripped the painted sash, preparing to close it, then stopped. The black murkiness of a stormy night met her. She squeezed her eyes shut as the cool air buffeted her face, her neck, her arms.
She shivered in spite of the fury raging within her.
This can’t be true. None of it.
“Come here, Cassandra.” The voice, even in its frailty, boasted an authority that would snap even the most iron-willed to attention. “I’ve more to tell you.”
“More?” Cassandra scoffed and slammed the sash closed with more strength than she’d intended, then pivoted away from the window. “I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
“Even so, it must be said. And you need to hear it before I’m gone.”
Summoning fortitude, Cassandra returned to the bed and made herself gaze upon Mrs. Denton once more. The gaunt woman, a mere shadow of her former self, lay beneath thin white linens. She’d always been petite and wiry, but now those physical attributes worked against her, making her appear feeble and weak.
Life would not linger in her long.
Grief seized Cassandra in its numbing grip, forcing her anger at bay.
Oh, if only Mrs. Denton had shared this information sooner!
It had been nineteen years since Cassandra first arrived at Denton School for Young Ladies when she was but five years of age. In all the years she’d been acquainted with the headmistress, first as a student and then as a teacher, she’d known—nay, believed—Mrs. Jane Denton to be honest, loyal, worthy of every esteem. Never had Cassandra known her to misrepresent the truth or bend facts to suit her needs.
Until this moment.
A struggle raged within Cassandra—a devastating struggle between the need to respect the woman who’d raised her and the compulsion to demand the truth.
“You’re furious with me. ’Tis understandable. But what have I told you time and time again? Such emotion will only cloud yourjudgment and diminish your ability to react rationally. You must listen to me now.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Cassandra faltered, willing her tone to remain steady when it so earnestly insisted on brashness. “You told me you didn’t know who my parents were or if they were even living. You declared so numerous times.”
Mrs. Denton’s sparse eyebrows rose, even as her chin remained tilted proudly, defiantly. “I told you only what was necessary. To protect you. To protect... others. I made a vow.”
“A vow? To whom?”
Mrs. Denton’s icy eyes sharpened with conviction. “That, I cannot say.”
Cassandra’s heart pounded. “Then why say anything if you are unwilling to divulge the entire truth? All these years I trusted you when you said—”
Airy coughs racked the older woman’s body, silencing Cassandra with their severity. In a single instant Mrs. Denton’s vulnerability and fragility reappeared, reminding Cassandra of just how afflicted the woman was. She retrieved a fresh handkerchief, drew close to her former headmistress, and pressed the embroidered fabric into her wrinkled hand.
After the coughing fit subsided, Mrs. Denton’s head lolled back against the pillow. “There, on the bureau. That letter is for you.”
With her attention redirected, Cassandra approached the mahogany chest of drawers. The missive’s red wax seal was broken, and when she lifted the letter, money shifted from within, nearly dropping to the ground.
