Chapter 1
October 1898
London, England
It is often said, and usually with great sorrow, that one can never go home again. But then that presumes one would want to do such a thing. The admittedly unkind thought came to me as I stood before my parents’ pristine, white stucco town house in Portman Square.
“Mama, why have you stopped?”
I tore my gaze away from the imposing black front door and looked down at Tommy, my eight-year-old son, and forced a smile. “Sorry, darling. I was just thinking of something.”
More specifically, the last time I had been here. And, in truth, it was harder to remember than I’d like to admit. Had I really forgotten so much of my own life?
“Well, come along,” he said, mimicking the stringent tone I used when he was running late. “Grandmama and Grandpapa are waiting for us.”
I pursed my lips. Tommy, certainly. But I doubted my presence was much anticipated. For I was the errant daughter finally returning home after a scandalously long absence.And though my parents’ letters had been perfectly polite over the years while I was living in Greece, I truly wasn’t sure how I would be received.
However, I kept such thoughts to myself and allowed Tommy to lead me up the steps, his free arm swinging with purpose, and wished for a bit of his enthusiasm. We had been in London for nearly a month now, having moved here from the island of Corfu so that my daughter, Cleo, could attend school in Hampstead. My aunt Agatha had graciously offered the use of her home, as she was off galivanting around the Italian Riviera until Christmastime. But between helping Cleo adjust to her new school and settling into our temporary residence, I simply didn’t have the chance to arrange a proper visit.
Nor the desire.
But I had put it off for as long as possible. Tonight we were having dinner at my parents’ house, and the rest of my family would be in attendance. Or, rather, the family that lived in England. My brother Samuel, the sibling I was closest to by far, lived in Bombay. How I longed for his company this evening. Our eldest brother, Jack, was an ass of the highest order, and our sister Delia, the youngest, was an unknown quantity, given that she had been little more than a child the last time I saw her.
I had left England immediately after marrying my late husband, Oliver, and we had spent our entire married life abroad, first in Athens, where he worked for the British embassy, and then on Corfu. Oliver had died suddenly about five years ago, and I decided to remain on the island until Cleo confessed a desire to return to England for school. And because she had aspirations to attend Girton College at Cambridge, just as I had, it was in her best interest to leave the small English school in the town of Corfu for a more academically rigorous institution.
It was Aunt Agatha who had suggested the school inHampstead run by Lady Artemis D’Arcy, a well-respected champion of female education with a flair for the dramatic. Understandably, Cleo was quite determined to make a go of things at her school, and new students were strongly discouraged from leaving the campus during their first term. But I wasn’t yet sure how long Tommy and I would remain in London. We were allowed to visit on Saturday afternoons, which had made the situation more bearable, at least for me, but I still couldn’t imagine going all the way back to Corfu without my daughter. And, in truth, my impression of the island had changed since last spring.
The front door opened just as we reached the top step, and we were greeted by my parents’ dour-faced butler, who looked even more ancient than I remembered.
“Hello, Morris.”
“Mrs. Harper,” he replied flatly before shifting his dark gaze lower. “And this is young Mr. Harper, I presume?”
“Hello,” my son said cheerily. “I’m Tommy.”
I gripped his shoulder and shot Morris an apologetic smile. Our life on Corfu had been much less formal than what was expected in London, and Tommy was still learning the different rules of etiquette here. That children should be seen and not heard was a particular sticking point. As was the treatment of the servant class.
Our housekeeper, Mrs. Kouris, was like a member of our family. But here in London, maintaining the hierarchy between servants and employers was of particular importance, especially to a man like Morris, whose entire existence was built around following the most archaic rules.
He arched a brow. “Yes. Quite.” Then he stepped back from the doorway so that we could enter. There was a distinct trace of disapproval in his gaze as I passed by, but Tommy seemed entirely unconcerned by his faux pas.
While a young footman silently collected our coats and hats, Tommy wandered ahead into the grand, marble-flooredentryway, and his mouth actually dropped open as he stared up at the massive crystal chandelier. Behind us, Morris loudly cleared his throat. “The family is in the drawing room, madam. Please follow me.”
I turned around and shot him a bright smile. “No need, Morris. I remember the way.”
The look of disapproval deepened ever so slightly. “Of course,” he said with a stiff bow, then disappeared.
I took Tommy’s hand. “Come along. Everyone is waiting.”
“Mama, did you really grow up here?” Tommy whispered as we crossed the entryway.
“Of course, darling,” I replied. “Why do you ask? And why are you whispering?”
Tommy craned his neck, taking in the various gilt-framed paintings and assorted objets d’art that covered every available surface. “It’s like a museum,” he marveled.
“Yes,” I agreed on a sigh as my gaze traveled over the cold, elegant space. “It certainly felt that way.”
Then, just as we reached the hallway, the elusive memory suddenly came to me, and I nearly tripped on the Aubusson carpet.
