Chapter One
HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND, 1819
The scratching of a quill did little to settle my nerves. Neither did the pattering of rain, nor the abrupt plinking of the pianoforte from downstairs. In fact, all of these sounds produced quite the opposite effect.
Slamming my quill down on my writing desk, I jumped from my chair, striking my knee on the underside of the desk. The inkwell tipped, splattering my gown. I froze, staring at the teardrops of black. Propelled by a new bout of anger, I rushed at the door and threw it open.
I knew it was Clara at the pianoforte, rehearsing for a dinner party at which she was bound to humiliate us all. The rain had already been enough to upset me, and now my sister carried on with her horrifying display while I was trying to write a letter to my dearest friend, Alice. It had been two long months since I had visited her at Southcliff Manor, and I was eager to know if her eldest brother was still unattached.
I gripped my stained skirts as I stomped down the stairs toward the drawing room. It was such a relief to stomp. In public, I was only permitted toglide.
“Clara! Quit that horrendous music and look what you have done to me!” My voice was shrill. I cleared my throat, gesturing at the ink all over the front of my gown as I awaited her response.
Clara’s hands stopped for a moment, suspended above the keys. Her smile was tight as she took in my dirtied dress. And then she resumed her playing with renewed vigor.
“Clara!” I rushed at her and threw the music off the stand, missing the burning fireplace by inches. The sheets fell to the ground like dead petals. I placed my ink-smudged hand on her shoulder. “Content yourself with the fact that you will never play as well as me.”
Her face darkened to a deep shade of crimson—in anger or shame, I couldn’t tell.
“A well-bred lady will always maintain an even disposition,” I said. “I trust you haven’t applied rouge to your entire face.”
“Charlotte, stop!” She threw my hand off her shoulder. A dark smear of ink stained her ivory sleeve.
I glanced at it with mock regret. “Oh, dear sister, forgive me.”
With an animal-like grunt, she leapt from her seat and charged at me. Her palms slammed into my shoulders and I faltered, gasping. Clara was two years younger than me, but we were similar in proportion. I regained my bearings and returned the action, throwing her back several steps. It was a fair fight, to be sure.
“I am going to sit beside Mr. Weatherby tomorrow, and you will be placed beside Mr. Connor and his belching!” I screamed.
“Mr. Weatherby favors me!”
I scoffed. “Well he certainly wasn’t charmed by your musical talent.”
She cast me a look of contempt. “Do not ever speak to me again!” She gave me one last shove before crossing her arms. “I wish to play music, and I will play music, and you cannot stop me!”
I caught my breath, rolling my eyes. With the clean area of my hand, I brushed back my pale curls. “Very well, but you will never master the art as I have. You willneverbe like me.”
She stepped closer, the light from the nearby flames flickering over her features. I expected to see a look of anger or insecurity, but instead I saw pity. “I have never wanted to be like you, Charlotte.”
I stared at her face—at the defiant gleam in her eyes. What on earth was that about? I brushed her comment aside just as Mama entered the drawing room.
“What is the meaning of this commotion?” she asked in an offhand voice.
I stood tall at her arrival.
The graceful air of Lady Pembury never changed. Attending a ball, a musical, or roaming the corridors of our home, she walked the same. Her head remained at the same angle, and her striking green eyes always seemed to leak of disapproval. Even if I hadn’t won my fight with Clara, at least I knew that Mama had always favored me. And I fought to keep that favor. Every single day.
“Clara.” Mama gasped. Her eyes froze on my splattered gown. “What have you done to Charlotte?”
“I did nothing.”
Mama’s eyebrow lifted in doubt.
“She spilled the ink,” I stated. “I was writing a letter to Alice when she ran into my room and tipped my desk.”
Clara opened her mouth to deny my words, but Mama stopped her. “That will be quite enough from you. Remove to your bedchamber at once.”
“Charlotte is lying!”
