CHAPTER 1
August 1905
Hampshire, England
Lady Atherly didn’t dare look at her husband. She couldn’t trust herself not to overreact. And then what would everyone think?
She’d once thought William exceedingly handsome. But she’d lived with him too many years, endured that self-satisfied glint in his eyes too many times. Instead, she stared straight ahead at the swirling assembly of colorfully dressed dancers, the brilliant light of the chandelier reflecting off the ladies’ jewels, their dresses’ sparkling embellishments, the highly polished floor. The musicians, as good as any you’d find up in London, had begun the Lehár piece, “Gold and Silver.” Lady Atherly was partial to Johann Strauss II, remembering a time when she’d whirled about on the arm of a well-turned-out beau to Strauss’s “Viennese Blood,” but she loved all waltzes, even this new one. Lady Atherly’s jaw ached in her attempt to keep a scowl from her face.
“You’d think you’d be pleased, Frances.”
Pleased? William would say something like that. She knew why he was happy. He’d gotten everything he’d wanted. Besides, what did happiness have to do with it? This was about tradition, decorum, survival. And everything rested precariously on the shoulders of a young, ill-bred American girl. How could that possibly make her happy?
The girl in question whirled by, close enough the women’s eyes would’ve met had Lady Atherly not avoided Miss Kendrick’s gaze. The hem of Miss Kendrick’s ivory lace and rose satin gown swished along the floor as she yet again took a misstep. Even in the arms of a highly capable partner (Hadn’t she warned her son not to dance too often with the American?), the girl lacked grace.
“Isn’t she lovely?” William said. Lady Atherly rolled her eyes and held her tongue. Fool.
Of course, all the men admired her. How could they not? Miss Kendrick was beautiful and offered smiles and compliments to everyone like they were sweets. Her persistent questions made them think she was interested in what they had to say. But the women knew better. Just look at the way Mrs. Cowperth-waite and Mrs. Edsall whispered about Miss Kendrick behind their fans as the girl passed. No well-bred lady was interested in horse breeding or fossil hunting or fishing or who was elected to Parliament or any other such masculine pursuit.
And then Lady Philippa Fairbrother waltzed past. Lady Philippa was graceful. She was witty. She was stunningly beautiful. And she didn’t show her teeth like a horse. In her emerald and ivory satin gown, she was the quintessence of good English breeding. And hadn’t she adored Lyndy? As the daughter of a marquess, she was everything a mother-in-law could want.
If only Lady Philippa had married Lyndy and not Lord Fairbrother. Morrington could’ve been saved from ruin without Lady Atherly suffering the humiliation that was the Americans. If only Lady Philippa had inherited more.
“You insisted Miss Kendrick attend, Frances. So why are you scowling when your future daughter-in-law is the belle of the ball?”
Because no well-bred lady laughed while she danced either, nor would she ignore the disapproving stares of the society matrons. What did Miss Kendrick even have to laugh about? It certainly wasn’t something Lyndy had said. Her son was not that amusing.
From the beginning, Lady Atherly set out to put a stop to Miss Kendrick’s outlandish behavior. No more stepping out with Lyndy unchaperoned or driving herself in the motorcar. No public displays of affection, no unauthorized visits to the stables, and no more shirking her social obligations. But despite Lady Atherly’s best efforts, Miss Kendrick still acted on impulse, let herself be swept away by emotion, and worst of all, persisted in asking inappropriate questions. Lady Atherly had made the mistake of insisting Miss Kendrick and her insufferable family move out of Morrington Hall. With Miss Kendrick living at Pilley Manor, though, Lady Atherly lost control over the girl. Whom she fraternized with was a constant concern. Lady Atherly had already nipped the inappropriate friendship with that silversmith’s daughter in the bud. But just tonight, Lady Atherly heard an untenable rumor that Miss Kendrick was well acquainted with the old village hermit, a snakecatcher of all things.
Will the girl stop at nothing to embarrass this family?
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” the rotund wife of a minor landowner said, sidling up beside her. Her crimson silk dress clashed garishly with the woman’s ginger hair, her scent a vulgar overuse of rosewater. Lady Atherly had invited her to one garden party years ago, and the woman presumed to speak to her on familiar terms at every social gathering since. Lady Atherly acknowledged her with the barest of nods. The woman collapsed her fan and pointed it across the room. “Oh, dear. Whatever is your child up to?”
Lady Atherly, knowing her daughter, Alice, had gone in to dinner, sought Lyndy on the ballroom floor. A cluster of dancers had stopped and gathered on the far end. Lyndy and Miss Kendrick were among them. A footman, his expression uncharacteristically showing concern, spoke to the group and gestured toward the door. Before the footman had finished talking, Miss Kendrick hitched up the train of her skirt and dashed past him, disappearing from the room. Lyndy chased after her.
Lady Atherly let out a long, silent sigh. What now?
With all the self-control Lady Atherly could muster, she pinched her lips together, lightly pressed her fingertips against the cold diamonds in her tiara, and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
What she wanted to do was scream at her husband, “See what you’ve done to this family, William? See what I must put up with?” But she didn’t. She deliberately maneuvered her way across the crowded ballroom as she made her mind up. This was going to stop.
* * *
Tom Heppenstall flicked back the tap handle too late. The frothy head bubbled up over the rim and foam slid down the side of the glass. He shook his head in disgust as he reached for the towel draped across his shoulder. After wiping the glass dry, he set the pint down on the bar and collected the tuppence, all without glancing at who had ordered the stout. Instead, he stared across the sea of ruddy faces toward the door as it opened.
Ah, bloody hell.
Standing in the doorway, with an old potato sack flung across his shoulder, Harvey Milkham scowled beneath the dusty, worn hat that flopped down on both sides of his head. Had Tom ever seen him take it off? The snakecatcher’s hair was greasy white, Tom knew, in part because everyone knew Harvey was as old as the New Forest. Some joked Harvey once met King Rufus himself before that royal’s unfortunate premature demise. But also, Tom knew because of the thick, curly gray eyebrows that protruded wildly out from under the hat. It was a wonder the old man could see. But he had eyes as sharp as a tawny owl, and those eyes scanned the crowded pub.
On any given day, Tom would pour Harvey his usual, before the old bloke reached the bar. The regulars didn’t have a problem with the hermit; he kept himself to himself. On slow, rainy nights, Tom even enjoyed prodding the snakecatcher with questions. Had Harvey found a new barrow? Had he visited Lord Duddleton to feed His Lordship’s talking bird with snakes he’d caught that day? Had Harvey met with the gentlemen from the London Zoo? Or had he been to Pilley Manor yet again, to visit with the Americans? What an odd pair, those two, Miss Kendrick and the snakecatcher, but their friendship made a bit of sense; they were both a bit daft.