Prologue

Upper East Side, Manhattan

Autumn 1877

Fifth Avenue was Cora’s birthright, but that’s only if one adhered to biology rather than social expectation. People usually didn’t, which is why she and her sisters had never been invited to any of the exclusive addresses on the street. They were illegitimate. Secrets to be whispered about, sometimes scorned by otherwise polite citizens, and flatly ignored by Charles Hathaway. Despite her best efforts, Cora had never quite figured out how to not let that bother her.

Her knees were shaking as the driver helped her out of the cab in front of the Hathaway mansion. He eyed her dubiously, uncertain whether to place her among the residents or the servants that populated the street. She couldn’t blame him, because sometimes she didn’t know, either. The serviceable navy dress she wore was more suited to a governess than a Hathaway daughter. She thanked him with a coin, which he palmed while tipping his hat to her. His eyes seemed to wish her luck.

She inhaled deeply and took in the mansion before her. It was her first actual sighting of her father’s house. Five floors of brick and limestone, the home was imposing but not gaudy, built to blend in with the brownstones around it. A tiny lawn of grass and shrubbery was neatly contained within a wrought iron fence. It was exactly what she had expected from the Hathaway family. Ostentatious displays of wealth were better left to the new money that bled through the city. Old families like the Hathaways had no need to prove their affluence, because that had been established two centuries ago.

Her knees continued to tremble as she took the steps that led to the front door. The door opened before she could ring the bell. The butler, an older man with pale skin and drooping jaws, looked down at her as if he was on the verge of sending her around to the servants’ entrance. “May I help you, miss?”

Infusing steel into her voice to stop the inevitable waver, she said, “Good morning. I am here to meet with Mr. Charles Hathaway.”

The lines in his forehead deepened and his lips flattened. “Not possible, miss. The household is in mourning. Mr. Hathaway is not home to visitors.”

“Yes, my condolences. However, he’ll want to see me. Please tell him that Miss Cora Dove is calling.”

Her name didn’t seem to mean anything to the butler. His expression was as skeptical as ever. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”

Having anticipated this very reception, she withdrew the letter that had brought her here. She kept a tight hold on it but held it up so that he could see the Fifth Avenue return address on the envelope. Curious enough to not slam the door in her face, he withdrew a pair of half-rim spectacles from his pocket and leaned forward to read the text. It was from the late family matriarch, Ada Hathaway. The handwriting was spidery and frail, uneven from being written on the woman’s deathbed, Cora assumed, but it was legible nonetheless.

Not above a little ruthlessness when the situation called for it, she said, “I know that Mrs. Hathaway and her children are not at home.” The papers had written about how they had retired to their Westchester farm after the funeral. “I can return later when they are, if you’d prefer.”

His eyes narrowed with a shadow of contempt. Ah, perhaps he did know her name after all. They both knew that Mr. Hathaway’s wife would not like it that she was here. He gave a telling glance toward the street—so far, none of the people hurrying down the sidewalk had taken notice of them—and he loosened his grip on the door. “Come in, Miss Dove.”

The house was the epitome of elegance. A thick Persian rug covered the marble floor of the entryway and led to a wide and curving staircase, the balustrade a gleaming mahogany carved with tiny rosettes. Two rooms flanked the hall, each of them furnished with sofas and chairs covered in rich textiles and cushions; tables were strewn with delicate baubles, and walls were adorned with priceless artwork. The windows were dressed in black crepe, but she suspected they typically bore stylish and copious drapery.

It was all very tasteful and moderately extravagant—they weren’t the Vanderbilts, after all. The Hathaways were one of New York’s oldest families. They hadn’t earned their wealth through modern industry. It had been gained by new-world commerce—trading and importing—then inherited and reinforced through the generations by rising property values.

The butler indicated one of the drawing rooms. “Wait in here and I’ll let Mr. Hathaway know you have come.”

Cora might have done just that, but she spotted the portrait above the fireplace. Mrs. Hathaway stared out at her. She was a woman in her midthirties who might have been pretty had she appeared less severe. Her hair was pulled back so tight that it gave her a nearly cat-eyed appearance, and her mouth was held firm in disapproval. Cora almost felt as if Mrs. Hathaway were looking out at her, condemning her for daring to step foot inside her home.

The woman was seated, and standing behind either shoulder was a young boy and an older girl. From the papers, Cora knew the girl’s name was Agnes and she was around fifteen, only a few years younger than Cora’s youngest sister, Eliza. She stood tall behind her mother in a dress that probably would have supported Cora’s family for a year or more. Her heart ached for all that her own little family had been denied. It was strange to think that if things had turned out differently, she might have lived here.

“No, take me to him.”

The butler sputtered in protest. She insisted. She eventually prevailed when a young maid rushed into the hall holding a stack of linen, saw them, and scurried away. There would be gossip now, and prolonging their disagreement in the front hall would only make it worse if more servants came to gawk. He turned toward the deep recesses of the house with Cora on his heels.

The butler came to a stop at the back corner of the house and knocked at a set of polished mahogany doors. A voice inside called out, and he gave her a sharp look that held her rooted to the floor before he disappeared inside. He returned moments later and motioned her in before closing the door behind him with a slam that was a smidge harder than strictly necessary.

She paused to gather herself, taking in her surroundings, not ready to look toward the figure waiting on the other side of the room. Her courage had yet to catch up with her bravado. The study was paneled in dark wood with hundreds of leather-bound books lining bookcases. Eliza would love this room. A fire crackled in the hearth; the scent of woodsmoke, not coal, mixed with the sweet pungency of cigars. Charles Hathaway rose from his place behind his desk, and she had no choice but to finally acknowledge him. He stood larger than life after all this time.

She had last seen him around twelve years ago, but he hadn’t changed much. Silver wings now tipped his dark hair, and a few lines creased his face, only serving to make him appear more dignified. His looks perfectly matched his smart wool suit, his elegant home, and his disapproving wife. He was handsome in a bland and conventional way, as if his physical traits had come together to render him pleasing but never anything so garish as beautiful.

She’d only been eight or nine when she last saw him; now that she was older, she found herself looking for similarities. The middle Dove sister, Jenny, was their mother reborn, but Eliza had his strong chin. Cora had his eyes, grayish blue. She also recognized the slightly prominent slope on the bridge of his nose as a mirror of her own, though on a larger scale.

“Hello.” For a moment, she forgot what it was she had come there to say.

He searched her features, puzzling them out as if he, too, were looking for signs of himself in her. “Cora.”

Relief and welcome were evident in his voice, not the censure she had expected. Despite every other part of her vowing to despise him, the child in her that longed for a father stood up at that single word. He knew her name and had spoken it aloud. It was like stepping into a beam of healing sunlight after a long and bitter winter of darkness.

“You’re here,” he said as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Has something happened? Is Fanny . . . ?”

“Mama is well.”

He gave a slight nod, and they fell into silence until he motioned for her to take one of the chairs across from him. “How are your sisters?”

Did he remember their names? She didn’t want to ask and risk disappointment.

Settling herself in the plush chair, she answered, “We are all well. Please accept my condolences on the death of your mother.” Her grandmother, though no one had ever called her by that name in Cora’s presence. If she had ever met the woman, she couldn’t remember it.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise before he was able to rein in the expression as he sat. “Thank you. She had a good, long life.” He searched her features again before settling on her hair. “You look like her a bit. You even have the same auburn tint to your hair that she had when she was younger.”

Cora fingered the hair at the nape of her neck. They had always wondered where the distinctive color had come from. What else might she and her sisters have inherited from the family they had never known? They had been denied so very much. The anger she had carried around for as long as she could remember came seeping in.

“I wouldn’t know. I never met her.”

He had the gall to appear wounded. “Cora, I . . . I did the best I could.”

She didn’t agree but had not come to rehash the two decades of her life or expound on parental responsibility. Taking a deep breath, she pressed forward with the rest of the reason for her visit.

“She sent me a letter before her death.” This time he wasn’t able to get a handle on his surprise so quickly as she pulled the letter from her handbag. “It was delivered the day after her obituary appeared in the New York Times. She said that she had come to regret the way things were handled and she would leave an inheritance for me and my sisters.”

Wordlessly, he held out his hand for the letter. Everything in her rebelled at handing it over. All he would have to do is toss it into the fire and there would be no evidence that Ada Hathaway had thought of her at all. She withdrew the paper from the envelope and handed it to him. At least the envelope would serve as some sort of proof if the letter within disappeared.

He perched a set of reading spectacles on the end of his nose and settled back in his chair. The letter itself was rather impersonal, written by a woman who obviously kept her feelings very close to herself. It merely stated her regret that things couldn’t have been different and that she had left an inheritance and Cora should visit Charles for further information.

“I wasn’t aware she had written,” he said when he’d finished with the brief missive and given it back to her.

“Did she share her intentions with you?”

He nodded. “She did.”

The tight pain in her chest was unexpected. “Were you planning to contact us?”

He sighed as if the subject was wearying for him. “Eventually, yes. I hoped to give things time to settle.”

He retrieved a leather-bound folder from his desk drawer and opened it. After a moment flipping through papers, he pulled out a single piece of parchment. Scanning the page, he said, “She left you and your sisters a combination of shares in Central West Railroad and Hathaway Realty Investments. The shares earn roughly twenty thousand dollars a year. There is also a cash sum of two hundred thousand dollars each. All of this will be held in trust to be distributed to each of you upon your marriages.”

Two hundred thousand dollars with an income of twenty thousand a year. They were rich! With that amount, they could each buy an estate and the annual income would be more than enough to sustain them. But they didn’t have it yet.

She stared at him dumbly. “Marriages, not maturity?”

He shook his head. “She wanted to make certain you girls are provided for and set up for a stable life.”

Odd, considering the woman had never particularly cared about their stability before. “What if we choose not to marry?”

“I cannot see all of you deciding to become spinsters, but those who do won’t inherit the stock or the cash.”

“That’s preposterous.” The woman hadn’t given a fig about them until her conscience had finally caught up to her on her deathbed, and now she thought to dictate the rest of their lives.

“I realize it sounds that way, but it’s for your benefit. We agreed that I should guide your choice of husband to avoid any sort of . . . well, inelegance in the situation.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m to help each of you find a man of suitable means and social position. Someone worthy of a Hathaway even though you don’t carry the name.”

“You mean someone like your daughter Agnes would marry.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but not someone from Manhattan, or anywhere in New York, nor Connecticut.” He thought for a moment. “Not from New England at all, actually. Or Florida, and we do have acquaintances in San Francisco now.”

She gave a dry laugh. “Well, now that we’ve ruled out the entirety of the United States . . .”

He chuckled self-consciously. “You can see how running in the same circles could lead to embarrassment for my family. I couldn’t stand to bring further embarrassment to my wife or affect Agnes’s chances for a solid match. And there are fortune hunters who wouldn’t waste a moment’s time in a blackmail scheme.”

The chances of them ever collecting this inheritance were dwindling by the second. “Not every man would be looking to exploit the situation. There are noble men in the world.”

His voice pinched in annoyance, he said, “Of course there are, but most wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage.” Pressing a hand to his temple, he said, “I warned her this was a terrible idea.”

“A terrible idea to see us cared for?”

“No, for believing that a marriage of the sort she had in mind was possible.”

Having spent her life feeling inferior and unwanted by her father’s side of the family, that comment cut her to the quick.

She cast around mentally for some answer, but Mr. Hathaway had stricken practically all the men in the country from eligibility. There were noble men in the world. There had to be.

Noblemen. The Crenshaw sisters had famously married aristocrats from England a couple years back. Before them, Camille Bridwell, whom she had met as a child when her mother and Mr. Hathaway were still together, had married a duke.

“Aristocrats.” She almost shouted, happy that she had come upon some idea he couldn’t reject. More subdued, she said, “We could marry European aristocrats.”

He chuckled. “Let’s be reasonable, Cora.”

His dismissal stung. “I am being reasonable.”

But he wasn’t listening, because he had pulled out a ledger and was perusing the columns of numbers. “I can give you a sum now to forget this foolishness.” His voice was hard and clipped, all business now that he had disregarded his mother’s plan as ill-advised. This was how he had disregarded them so easily, she realized. He slipped into a character. Or, maybe, his warmth and concern earlier had been feigned and this was really who he was. “Ten thousand dollars.”

Disconcerted, she asked, “Ten thousand? Is that the going rate to buy your illegitimate children off so they leave you in peace?”

“Cora, no.” He looked up at her with that wounded expression. His sleek eyebrows pulled low over his eyes. He appeared so regretful that she started to see the hold he might have held over her mother at one time. Whether it was true or not, he could make you think that he cared. “I understand your frustration, but, despite appearances, I don’t have large amounts of cash sitting around.”

Everything he wanted had been handed to him from the day he was born. She rather thought he couldn’t possibly understand how she felt.

“I am doing my best to be fair. How about fifteen, then?” At her still horrified expression, he added, “Oh, come now, Cora. Be reasonable. I’ll invest it for you and you’ll have a proper income, enough to have a little room for yourself somewhere.”

Is that what he expected of her? That she would hide away in a spinster boarding home accepting her allowance and causing no trouble for him? Meanwhile, his conscience would be clear. “That’s a far cry from what your mother wanted.”

He sighed. “Despite what you think, I am not a cretin. I want you to be settled in life.”

“I want my inheritance.”

“Cora—”

Led by desperation, she asked, “If I bring you an aristocrat, will you approve the marriage and release the funds?”

He laughed again, sending her anger bubbling higher. When he saw that she was serious, his amusement died away. “You have no family or name to recommend you. Do you honestly believe you stand a chance in hell of marrying an aristocrat?”

She hadn’t when she’d suggested it. Not really, but she would be damned if she would sit here and allow this man to laugh at her as he was clawing back what was rightfully hers, all to save him and his real family a bit of embarrassment.

“Can you write a letter guaranteeing the dowries for all three of us?”

He stared at her in shock. “You’re serious about this?”

Her spine ramrod straight, she said, “Yes, but I’ll need proof of funds written in your hand.”

“This won’t work. You have nothing to recommend you.”

She didn’t answer because there was no refuting that. Instead, she did what she had learned worked on her mother when they were at an impasse. She stared him down.

“Oh, what the hell?” Bemused, he reached for a clean sheet of parchment from a basket on the corner of his desk. His name and address had been printed in embossed type near the top. “On the chance that it does work, an aristocratic connection could be very beneficial.”

She had no idea how to start the search for a bridegroom, except to reach out to Camille for help and hope the woman remembered her from their meeting so many years ago. “You’ll have to come to England or wherever we are . . . once we’re successfully matched.” The letter would only get them so far. He’d have to come and arrange things with the banks and the bridegrooms.

He chuckled without mirth as he wrote. “You find yourself an aristocrat, and I’ll walk you down the aisle.”