Prologue
Cornwall, 1800
Fletcher Basildon thought it was a grave injustice that his father insisted on him continuing his lessons into the summer, when by rights, he should have been outside, enjoying this fine weather, and not trapped inside this stuffy drawing room.
The tutor Father had hired was droning on about the history of British relations in Ireland and the Basildon family role in it—“the Greystone title is an Irish one,” the tutor emphasized—and it all seemed rather sordid. British monarchs were forever trying to invade Ireland, and some Basildon ancestor had marched alongside whichever Plantagenet king had invaded and built a castle that was now just a crumbling ruin on the Irish coast, and Fletcher was supposed to take pride in this triumph of territorial expansion. Instead, he asked, “Butwhydid the king invade Ireland?”
The tutor didn’t seem to have a good answer for that, beyond, “It was there for the invading.”
When at long last Fletcher was dismissed, he immediately ran outside. It was a warm day, but at least there was a nice breeze. He had a mind to run to the pond at the back of Mother’s garden and jump in it, but first, he encountered Lady Louisa and her governess.
The governess—a stern, prim woman named Mrs. Blanchard—sat on a bench, her hawk-like gaze trained on little Louisa as she was arranging a tea party for her dolls at a small Louisa-sized table.
Fletcher paused. He was too old now to play with Louisa. That was what his mother said, at any rate. He was at the dawn of adulthood, she said, although he was dubious. He was still tooscrawny and short to be labeled as anything other than a boy, but Father said any day now he’d grow.
Still, the two of them were often the only children about, and they’d gotten into a fair amount of trouble together over the years. They’d horrified Lady Petty by making mud pies by the pond, they’d once crushed one of Fletcher’s mother’s rose bushes—and ripped up Fletcher’s favorite shirt—after a game went awry and Fletcher fell onto the bush. They liked to catch frogs at the pond together and occasionally leave salamanders for each other by hiding them under teacups at the Greystone formal dining table. And although Louisa in many ways was trained to be a girl—dainty, polite—she’d loved playing in the dirt as much as Fletcher did.
Although now Fletcher was older. Perhaps none of that was appropriate anymore.
“Fletcher!” Louisa said when she spotted him. “Come have tea!”
“We have lemonade, too,” said Mrs. Blanchard, which was the main thing that got him to stop. Hewasthirsty. A glass of lemonade might be just the thing.
He sat in a little chair that made him feel like a giant. The other chairs at Louisa’s play table were occupied by dolls and Louisa. Louisa was too small to pour anything but air into teacups, but Mrs. Blanchard produced a pitcher of lemonade and poured some into one of the cups. So Fletcher partook. The lemonade was a bit warm, but it was still refreshing. The cook here at Basildon House made her lemonade tart, without much sugar, and Fletcher loved it.
The Petty family—Louisa’s parents—were here to visit for a few weeks. They came every summer. Louisa’s father had been close friends with Fletcher’s father since their days at Eton,so Fletcher generally saw a lot of the Pettys. He was fond of Louisa, and their five-year age gap had mattered a lot less to him before he went off to school, but as he approached his thirteenth birthday, hewasstarting to feel that perhaps he was too old to play with a little girl.
“Fletcher,” said Louisa, “my dollies and I have been talking about weddings.”
“Oh, no,” said Fletcher.
“Sally wants to know who you will marry.”
“I don’t intend to marry anyone.”
Louisa shot him a sardonic look, silently admonishing him for not playing along.
“What?” Fletcher said. “I’m too young to marry.” His protest came out with a squeak.
His voice hadn’t changed yet. He knew from encounters with older students at Eton that it likely would soon, but he still sounded like a child when he spoke, and he resented it. He could not wait to be grown. To be a taller man who spoke with authority instead of a boy who squeaked.
“Not tomorrow, silly,” said Louisa. “I mean, when you grow up.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t met her yet. I don’t need to decide right now, do I?”
“You couldpretend.”
Fletcher glanced at Mrs. Blanchard, who had a faint smile at her face as she resumed reading the book she had in her lap.
“Who areyougoing to marry?” Fletcher asked.
“You,” she said. As if it were obvious.
“You can’t marry me,” Fletcher said.
“Why not?”
“We’ve been raised as siblings. Do you not think it would be strange for us to be married?”
