Prologue
Dorset, 1829
“This isno place for you, Miss Goode,” Paul Foley said.
His thin, spare features settled into disapproving lines as he surveyed the dockside tavern. Neither the dimness nor the smokiness could hide that this was a disreputable place. The patrons were rowdy, the drinks cheap; the air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and roasting meat.
In her eighteen years, Maggie Goode had been in worse places. She wiped down the sticky counter in front of her friend and gave him a reassuring smile.
“I’m grateful for the work, Mr. Foley,” she said. “The Crown ’n Anchor pays two shillings more a week than Mr. ’Arper did.”
“I suppose that explains your choice to leave the butcher shop,” he replied with a troubled sigh.
Leaving Harper’s butcher shop hadn’t been her choice, a fact she wasn’t keen to share.
“Can’t say I mind leaving behind the blood ’n guts,” she said brightly.
At that moment, a patron began spewing his guts out nearby, his cronies roaring with laughter as they jumped out of harm’s way.
Mr. Foley’s greying brows rose over his spectacles.
“Least there ain’t blood,” she said with a shrug.
She’d started at the Crown and Anchor a fortnight ago. As she’d been working since the age of thirteen (and before then, she’d helped her departed ma, a dockside washerwoman), she’d gotten the lay of the land quickly. Friday nights like this one were boisterous. Local men and passing sailors arrived, their week’s wages burning a hole through their pockets.
“This is no place for a young lady,” Mr. Foley insisted.
The fact that he considered her a “lady” was one of the things Maggie liked about him.
She’d first met him when he’d wandered into Harper’s butcher shop. His spectacles and rumpled garb had marked him as a scholarly gent. In a cultured voice, he’d confessed to having a hankering for a roast supper yet knew nothing about cuts of meat or how to prepare them. Before Mrs. Harper, the butcher’s wife, could swoop in and sell him a costly beefsteak he would undoubtedly ruin, Maggie had told him the name of a local cook looking for work.
The relief in his faded blue eyes had almost made up for the flogging she’d later received from Mrs. Harper’s sharp tongue.
To Maggie’s surprise, Mr. Foley had returned to the shop a few days later, this time with a list in hand from his new cook. His visits became a weekly event, and Maggie learned that he was a bachelor in his fifties. He’d taken up residence in the village to pursue his study of fossils, which were plentiful here on the Dorset coast. She’d been shocked at the amount that Mr. Foley claimed his fellow collectors would pay for old bones.
As Ma used to say, some folks had more money than sense.
Unfortunately, Maggie came from a family that was infamous for having neither.
There goes another No Goodewas a familiar refrain in the village. The Goodes were notorious for being hot-blooded and feckless. Maggie’s father had died when she was young, breaking his neck during a drunken ride. Her older brothers carried on his legacy through their tavern brawls and shady money-making schemes. Delilah, her older sister, got entangled with one dishonorable fellow after the next.
Take care o’ your siblings, Maggie. They ain’t got your sense.On her deathbed, Ma’s voice had been weak, yet urgency had lit her green eyes.Most o’ all, don’t let your Goode blood lure you into sin. Don’t be like me and Delilah, looking for a prince to sweep you off your feet. For us Goodes, there won’t be no fancy violins, flowers, and faerie tale endings. But if you work ’ard and be a good girl, maybe you’ll find the respectability that we ne’er did.
More than anything, Maggie craved respectability.
She dreamed of one day opening a flower shop. Ma had had a way with flowers, and she’d passed that love onto Maggie. Maggie couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than to work surrounded by fresh blooms and foliage, her favorite roses scenting the air. As a successful proprietress, she’d dress in spotless bombazine and learn to speak proper-like, too (with Mr. Foley’s help, she was already working on refining her accent).
Then people would no longer look down their noses at her. She would prove that a Goode could make something of herself. She’d start a new family legacy, one that she’d be proud to pass onto her own children…
“Oi ain’t paying you to be idle!”
At the shouted words, her dream dispersed like a dandelion puff. Mr. Marsh, owner of the tavern, was a short man with an even shorter temper, and he was scowling at her as he drew ale into tankards. “Can’t you see the pool o’ vomit on the floor? Quit palavering and clean it up!”
“Yes, sir,” Maggie said hastily. In order to attain her dream, she needed this job. She turned to Mr. Foley. “Can I get you another ale afore I go?”
“Thank you, no. It’s getting late, and I’d best be going.” Mr. Foley left his stool and a generous tip. “Adieu until next week.”
Fetching a mop and bucket, Maggie went to take care of the mess.
