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Rochester, England

9 December 1817

Early afternoon

“Miss Winterborne?”

Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny’s sleep-thickened, warbly voice yanked Joy from her pleasant daydream about where she’d spend her half-day off this Saturday.

Walking in The Vines Gardens?

Browsing the shelves at Barclay’s Book Shoppe and Emporium?

Or—the thought nearly made her sigh aloud in anticipation—perhaps enjoying a cup of strong, sweet tea with milk at that quaint tea shop on High Street where she and her friend Mercy Feathers had enjoyed maid of honor tarts two years ago?

Mercy was the governess for two young charges here in Rochester.

Had it truly been two years since Joy had seen her friend?

Lips pressed tight, she shook her head the slightest bit.

It didn’t seem possible that much time had passed.

She clearly remembered the Christmas decorations and gingerbread cookies that day. She could still almost smell the evergreens and the cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Aromas she’d not enjoyed the pleasure of since.

Joy missed the other young women from Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women who had become her sisters in every way except for by blood. She especially missed Mercy, Chasity Nobel, and Purity Mayfield. The four of them had shared a room at the academy for as long as Joy could remember.

All of the cast-off girls who’d ever called Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women their home had shared a middle name too. Shepard. The name was a slightly altered version of the kindly but strict and extremely pious Hester Shepherd’s own surname.

That sweet, Godly woman had bestowed a Biblical given name upon each discarded child in her loving care. Mrs. Shepherd, now a spinster in her sixth decade, vowed she adored the girls she’d raised since infancy like her own daughters.

The honorary missus before her last name was a matter of formality. No proper instructor was ever addressed as a miss.

As Mrs. Shepherd had been taking in unwanted charges—all by-blows in one form or another of the wealthy or aristocracy—for two-and-one-half decades, she’d been a mother to nearly seventy girls. All of which she’d raised to be prayerful, moral young women despite their unfortunate beginnings.

“Each of you are a gift from our Lord. He has a purpose in everything. ‘All things work together for good to those who love God,’” Mrs. Shepherd quoted to her girls from the scriptures. “Even your presence at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women is no accident. Never forget it, my dears,” she admonished fondly.

What was more, Mrs. Shepherd and her discreet staff had provided every girl with an education and skills for respectable employment. Not, however, entirely out of benevolence. Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women and Mrs. Shepherd had been well-compensated for her discretion and the girls’ decorous upbringing.

Joy was eternally grateful. She missed the headmistress’s light-hearted scolds and contagious laughter. Naturally, they corresponded—quite regularly as a matter of fact. But a piece of paper slashed with tiny, neat script was no substitute for one of Mrs. Shepherd’s soft, comforting rose and violet scented hugs.

How very different was the plump, genial headmistress compared to the pinch-faced woman across the room blinking sleepily behind her spectacles, her mouth pursed in a perpetual grimace of disapproval.

Or perhaps Mrs. Thackpenny’s turned down mouth was a result of her recent propensity to pass gas with the offensive regularity and unfortunate exuberance of a barnyard animal. A large barnyard animal.

Joy held her breath, hoping her employer would settle back into her nap, which was her habit in the afternoon. She longed to return to her daydream about delicious tea and sweet cakes in a cozy teashop. If she couldn’t actually consume the treats, at least Joy could fantasize about doing so.

A slight nasally snore resonated from the afghan covered lump, and tension eased from Joy’s spine and shoulders. A few more minutes of peace was a treasured blessing.

Mrs. Thackpenny—pinchpenny is more apt—only permitted Joy used tea leaves. Leaves which the difficult widow had already used twice herself. The resulting brew was slightly bronze-tinted water, which scarcely tasted of tea at all.

And no sugar or milk. Ever.

“A body can never economize too much, Miss Winterborne,” the rail-thin woman had intoned when she’d first retained Joy as her lady’s companion. “You’ll learn soon enough that though I’m extremely frugal, I’m not miserly.”

Only tightfisted and parsimonious.

“Save a penny, save a pound.” As was her wont, Mrs. Thackpenny emphasized the latter colloquialism with a resounding thump of her worse-for-wear cane.