Prologue
KEATLEY HALL, GILLHAM, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER1810
THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD ELLA WILDEknew one thing with certainty: Her mother was not a murderer.
Had Leonora Wilde been eccentric? Unconventional and challenging to a fault?
Without a doubt.
But a murderer?
Never.
A bead of perspiration slipped down Ella’s flushed face, and she swatted at a fly buzzing about her. The late afternoon was unusually muggy and thick, and the dazzling sunlight sliding through the west-facing conservatory’s windows compounded the stifling humidity within the glass walls.
Unable to bide the conservatory’s oppressive, still air a moment longer, Ella wiped her brow, removed the apron she’d been wearing to protect her crepe mourning gown, and stepped out to the verdant back garden—a vibrant, luscious extension of the exotic conservatory, with intricately shaped brick paths bordered by meticulously manicured hedgerows, brilliant amethyst Michaelmas daisies, and vibrant aureate chrysanthemums.
The damp breeze gusting down from the western moorlands met her, and she turned her face into it, relishing the momentary distraction of the rich, earthy scent. Ella lifted her long blonde hair off her neck, desperate for relief from the searing heat.
In a few short weeks autumn would creep onto the Keatley Hall grounds, quietly at first, with soft tendrils of cool air, and then suddenly, with an abrupt frost. The oak leaves would fade to gold, and the wind would sweep away all petals of color, leaving behind a gray dormant landscape.
Seven months had passed since her mother’s death. Seven long, agonizing months.
Everyone had assured her that time would alleviate the tormenting ache residing in her chest—that breathing would once again become natural, and she’d no longer hear her mother’s voice in every creak or puff of wind.
Initially Ella had believed them. She longed for it to be true, but as one monotone, endless month slid into the next, this new, haunting reality cloaked her like a burial shroud. The chasm of disconnected loneliness was widening, and she feared it would swallow her whole.
At first Mother’s demise had been deemed accidental—a gown’s hem that had passed too close to the fire, catching ablaze with such immediacy that nothing could be done to stop it.
But then . . .
Polite, feminine laughter coming from the adjacent boxwood garden captured her attention. Ella pivoted, curious as to who would venture out on such a blisteringly hot day.
The previous day, nearly fifty guests had descended on Keatley Hall—which was not only a school for boys but her family’s ancestral home—for the annual symposium of the Natural Philosophers Society of London.
Normally Ella anticipated the symposium’s activity and elegance. It was the one time of year when the expansive halls and corridors were teeming with people other than students. But this year was different, and for now the amber sun hung low in the western sky—so low it seemed to be staring at her, challenging her with its disorienting brightness.
Ella moved into Keatley Hall’s sizable shadows, finding comfort in the ancient structure. Her gaze climbed the rust-colored ironstone, up more than three stories to the slate-capped roof and series of symmetrical mullioned windows, as she tried not to think about how her mother could often be seen standing at the windows, surveying the grounds below.
Seeking distraction from melancholy thoughts, Ella rose to the tips of her toes to reassess the voices’ origin. Three refined ladies—each the wife of a Society member—stood on the far side of the hedgerow with their backs to her. Their hushed words carried on the breeze.
“You read the pamphlet, did you not? Have you any reason to doubt it?” asked one of the women. “It was written by experts in phrenology—Mrs. Wilde’s very own friends.”
Ella’s family had long been supportive of phrenology—the idea that a person’s personality and dispositions were predetermined by the shape of their head. Her mother had been uniquely passionate about it and devoted many years to the study and research of it.
Ella wished she’d never even heard the word.
“So-called friends, I’d say,” responded the second lady, “for who would write such atrocious things about someone they considered an acquaintance, let alone a friend?”
“I’m inclined to believe it,” the first voice replied. “Mrs. Wilde was volatile by nature. What reason would we have to doubt themen who wrote that pamphlet? What motive would they have to lie?”
Ella inched toward the hedge’s edge, wrinkling her nose at the sickly sweet scent of a nearby phlox bloom and holding her breath to hear.
“I simply can’t envision Mrs. Wilde intentionally setting a blaze. It’s absurd!”
“Absurd or not, several of the servants insisted they heard her shouting prior to the fire, and we all know her opinions and behavior were increasingly radical and at times bizarre.”
