WHITBY, NORTH YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 16, 1914
A heavy tempest slashed against Cumberland Hall as I sat in my bed, eating my breakfast and looking out the windows at the tumultuous North Sea. It reminded me of the storm that had been brewing in Williamsburg for the past four months as Mama and I lived in constant awareness of the soldier staying on our property—and the heightened tension in the colony. We feared the censure that could be brought upon us if the governor learned of our Patriot leanings. Thomas Jefferson’s pamphlet had been a success, as Mama had said, and we had made thousands of copies in the late hours after Louis had retired for the evening. Abraham and Mariah helped us, and the income had been a blessing—though we knew the risk we were taking.
But it wasn’t just Lieutenant Addison who was watching our every step. Louis had become increasingly difficult to work with, and I had found him loitering about the kitchen more than usual that autumn. Mama and I were careful in what we saidand where we said it. We only spoke of my other path late at night in her room, when we knew we could not be overheard.
A gust of wind shook the windowpanes, bringing me back to the present. I had been in Whitby for over four months now and had grown to love the turbulent weather, even if it meant I must stay inside.
Edith busied herself in my bedchamber, tidying up the secretary where I had spent the preceding evening writing letters. One to my father, one to my mother, and one to Reggie. Each was different from the others. To my father, I spoke of the moors, of a beauty I had not at first appreciated. I told him of the walks I took with Edith, of the sea breeze tugging at my skirts, and how the purple heather had turned brown with the coming of autumn and winter.
To Mother, I spoke of Cumberland Hall, of the addition I had made to the number of servants now that we could afford to hire more help. I told her of the social gatherings, the few I had been invited to attend in Scarborough and Whitby. Of my help for the war effort in rolling bandages, sewing, knitting, and raising funds.
And to Reggie, I wrote the most businesslike letter of all. Surprisingly, I’d come to know him a little better through his weekly letters. Though they were formal in tone, his letters conveyed to me his longing for Cumberland Hall, the North Sea, and the moors. In a way, I connected with him through this place I now called home. Though he was not here with me, I felt bonded to him and his family just by being at the manor house.
It was not hard to feel linked to Cumberland Hall. I had never felt so at home anywhere other than Williamsburg, nor so in control of my own comings and goings. Something about the sea and the moors and the house captivated my imagination like nothing ever had before. It hadn’t happened all at once, but over time and in the smallest of ways. Though there was a war raging and the North Sea had gone on alert, with soldiersstationed up and down the coast, I had come to see this place as a refuge.
“Do you want me to have your letters posted?” Edith asked as she set them in a pile on my desk.
“Yes, please. The sooner the better.”
My letter to Reggie was full of details about the work I had done on the house. It had not been easy to find individuals to do the repairs. Almost all able-bodied men had enlisted to fight. Even the two footmen who had been here when I arrived left shortly thereafter. The only men on the property were Mr. Wentworth, who was too old; Williams, who had a limp from a childhood injury; and the old gardener, Mr. Ryker. Since I was the only Fairhaven at home, I did not dine formally but took all my meals on a tray in my room. There was very little need for the footmen, a reality that didn’t set well with the traditional Mr. Wentworth.
“The carpenters have arrived,” Edith said. “Mr. Wentworth has set them to work on the stairs and asks if that is suitable.”
I nodded as I buttered my toast. With the war on and the lack of handymen about, I had decided to have only the necessary repairs done for now. The windows and roof had been fixed and the plaster repaired. The decorating could come later, though I didn’t think much about that. I was simply biding my time until my birthday. Reggie could decorate however he wanted after I was gone.
But that thought sent a strange longing through me. It wasn’t difficult to envision what Cumberland Hall could look like given enough time, attention, and imagination. A part of me was sad that I’d never see it complete.
“What would you like to wear?” Edith asked.
“It doesn’t matter. No one but the staff will see me today.” I had thought about going into Whitby to purchase Christmas presents, but the weather looked too severe for such an outing.
Perhaps I would spend some time in the library or theconservatory. Working with the plants was a delight, connecting me with Mama. The smell and feel of the soil beneath my hands was comforting when I would have rather been in Williamsburg. And the books in the library had been an unexpected gift. I rarely had time to read for pleasure in my path in Williamsburg, though I loved it dearly. The library at Cumberland Hall was one of the most incredible I’d ever had the pleasure of exploring.
Edith pursed her lips in thought. “Perhaps the blue—?”
A strange noise reverberated through my chamber, rattling the windowpanes.
I frowned as Edith looked to the windows.
“Was that thunder?” she asked. “In December?”
The wind blew sleet against the house and tossed up great waves against the cliffs, but surely this squall wouldn’t produce thunder.
I set my breakfast tray to the side and removed the blankets. The room was warm, thanks to the fire Edith had lit when she’d come in earlier, but the floor was still cool against my bare feet. I didn’t bother to put on my slippers as I moved to the window.
Another boom shook the house, and this time it sounded louder and more sinister, echoing through my chest.
“Edith,” I said on a breath.
Clutching my wrapper, she raced across the room and joined me at the window. It was difficult to see, with the wind and rain and waves. But another boom rattled the windows, quickly followed by another.
“It sounds like a bombardment.” I swallowed the shock and fear racing up my throat.
“Where are they?” she asked, looking to the right and left, peering out the window.
“It sounds like Whitby.” The village was less than a mile south, but the storm made it impossible to see anything on the sea.
