Chapter One
March 18, 1820, London, England
Ester Croome sank into the hammered copper tub and let the warm, sudsy water soak her skin, kissing her in her favorite lilac scent. A copy of theMorning Postsat on the floor of the bathing room with big, wet fingerprints atop her friend’s advertisement for a marriage of convenience and a brutal review of her favorite actor, Arthur Bex.
“Miss Croome,” Mrs. Fitterwall, the family’s Irish housekeeper, said as she entered the bathing room with a silver pitcher high in her hands. “You must be part fish.”
Bashful, even to another woman, Ester ducked into the suds until just her neck showed. “You should knock, Mrs. Fitterwall.”
“I’ve been working here five years, and you’re still a shy one, Miss Croome, but you can’t lay about in the tub all morn. You’ve an appointment in town and then must come back and get ready for the party. No dawdling for a Croome.”
The woman glanced at the walls. “Your mother has only a few more things to restore and then everything will be done at Nineteen Fournier.”
Only an Olympian acanthus leaf indention in the molding needed fixing in the salmon-pink room. Her mother had three passions: Nineteen Fournier, newspapers, and knitting. Poor Mama. She needed something to be happy about.
“Come on, Miss Croome. I must rinse you off. Is that your mother’sMorning Post? She’ll be looking for it.”
Ester didn’t reply as the woman carefully poured the pitcher over her. It wasn’t time to wash her hair, and tender-headed Ester was grateful, but a splash too much of water would reduce her braided chignon to frizzy tangles. Wet Blackamoor hair could be unruly. At least Ester’s curls were.
“Don’t you fret. Not a drop of water will dampen your head. Your Mama’s big party is tonight. Five years in this house. You must look your best.” Mrs. Fitterwall gathered a robe and readied a fresh towel.
Ester unfolded her arms from about her bosom, a touch too large for her small height, stepped into the soft cotton, winding it tightly about her, then she dove into the robe the woman held out.
“The way you carry on, you’d think you hated baths.” The woman chuckled, but Ester didn’t think it funny. She was shy and small, but in her heart roared a lion. Someday she’d find the strength to show the world.
“I’ll send the maid to your room to help you dress.” She scooped up the paper and shook it as Ester rubbed lotion on to her hands. “And hurry. I think your father’s discussing your birthday.” The woman winked at her. “If you’re quick, you might find out what big surprise he has for you.”
But Ester was unmoved.
Papa always made a big to-do out of birthdays and holidays, but things hadn’t been right between them for a while. With a sigh, she offered Mrs. Fitterwall a small smile, then dashed to her room to dress.
In her closet, she flipped past the bright hues to her silver-gray gown, perfect for the outside world still in mourning for the king. Upon laying out the dress, she bathed once again in lotion, making sure to cover her elbows and knees. Mama said the ash on her skin could be so bad it would cut her stockings to ribbons.
She finished in time for the maid to come in and help. Once laced and properly corseted over her chemise, she slipped into her day dress then covered up in a dark spencer jacket and her favorite coral and pearl necklace. Pleased that she looked presentable, she fought the frilly lace covering her canopy bed to recover her sketchbook. Her friend, Frederica Burghley, would love this wedding gown.Oh, please let the man she’s corresponding with be the one.
Bouncing down one set of stairs and then the last, she heard her father’s deep voice. Remembering Mrs. Fitterwall’s hint about a birthday surprise, Ester slowed her steps in the hall outside his study and listened.
“Ester will marry on her birthday.”
The world stopped turning. Papa’s voice. His awful deal-making voice.
Unless the great actor, Arthur Bex, sat inside Papa’s study, Ester was doomed.
“My daughter will be so pleased—an April wedding. Your son is getting a diamond.”
Papa’s commanding tone stole her breath, made Ester crumple to the floor.
Almost sitting on her beloved sketches, she steadied herself against the creamy canary yellow walls.
This was a mistake.
That’s what it had to be. No arranged marriage for her, but something of her own choosing.
As the Croome wealth had grown, she’d become used to more extravagant presents—silver slippers, her coral necklace with a pearl, but not a man. Craning her ear, she heard Papa confirm his foul agreement, “Ester will be a good match for him.”
Who was the “him”?
Scooping up her sketchbook, she stood as Father’s thunderous laugh bellowed down the hall. No names had been offered. No voices other than Papa’s could she discern. To whom had he promised her?
