Prologue

THE WINTER STORM raging relentlessly for two days surely had the final say on any speculation that warm weather would arrive before the year’s end. Optimists—and the merely deluded—argued that because 1816 was a year without a summer, there was reason to hope that warm weather and sunny skies would simply be postponed to late December. They would most likely be proven wrong, for winter had arrived in these few weeks before Christmas with a ferocity unknown to memory.

Lady Leighton Kingswood was terrified.

Usually, the vagaries of weather had little interest for her, unless she needed to consider if the roads might be too muddy for a walk into Lowerwood, or if she ought to carry an umbrella to protect her fair complexion from the sun. The freckles across her nose were a daily reminder of the indiscretions of her childhood and summer days playing with her sisters in the fields close to Gainsmeadow.

But those days were long gone and she now knew better than most about the fragility of life and the futility of promise.

“I don’t know what is to become of us. Will we need to shovel the snow ourselves?”

Julia, Lady Leighton, turned from the isinglass window of her borrowed coach, somewhat surprised that her—also borrowed—maid now worried so. The young woman had been hired along with the coach and driver to accompany Julia on this journey. She seemed a flighty thing, unable to engage in any conversation or interest herself in the needlework she abandoned on the seat cushion. But she did seem to trust the driver, especially when he cheerfully assured them not an hour ago that he was quite accustomed to being out in such storms and more than capable of navigating them from posting inn to posting inn until they arrived in Rye.

Inasmuch as there had never been such a storm, Julia was doubtful about his claim. The young maid, however, had looked adoringly at him. Though, indeed, she might have looked the same if he promised to steer the poor horses right off a cliff. Julia had the sense that there was some sort of understanding between these two.

However, young Mimma now seemed more concerned for her life than confident in the abilities of Mr. Hedges.

“I am certain Mr. Hedges knows what he is doing; though he is quite young, he seems a sturdy and experienced sort, Mimma,” Julia said, attempting to keep her voice steady and calm. “And have we not progressed many miles today? We should arrive at Seabury well before Christmas—oh!”

Julia caught the strap on the door, trying to steady herself as the great coach lurched to the left. She cleared her throat and tried to look as if the unusually rough ride was perfectly normal.

Mimma was still not convinced and looked like a caged animal, shifting from side to side and scratching at the windows, as if she could wipe away the snow falling outside from the inside. Exhausting herself, with nothing to show for it, she put her hands to her face and shook her head.

“It will not work,” she said quietly, and then louder. “It will not work!”

Julia did not know what ought to work, in a year when everything seemed all topsy turvy, but scarcely knew what else she could say. It certainly would be vastly inconsiderate to complain about anything when poor Mr. Hedges was out there in the storm, attempting to deliver them safely to the home of her late husband’s sister and brother-in-law.

“Oh, it will work out just fine, Mimma. So you needn’t worry at all,” she chattered on, hardly convinced of her own words. “We will soon be at Seabury. Lord and Lady Howard have invited a great many estimable guests, including Princess Charlotte herself, and Lord and Lady Jersey. I understand a gentleman recently returned from Java will also be there, as well as a famous violinist from Vienna. Even I am expected to contribute my own poor singing talents to the party, though if we arrive a bit late, my absence may not even be noted. Indeed, my reputation might be saved if this cold air renders me unable to sing at all.”

Julia attempted to laugh, but her voice sounded frail and reedy. She coughed and cleared her throat.

Mimma placed her hand on the door latch, looking to steady herself.

“But I shall enjoy hot tea in abundance when we arrive at the inn in Southford. And you must do the same, for it would do us both a world of good. Did Mr. Hedges not say that we should arrive there by nightfall?” Julia spoke quickly, with an increasing sense of urgency. She glanced at the window, seeing nothing but the driving snow, and smiled cheerfully as she smoothed her heavy wool blanket around her. “It looks very nearly so.”

Mimma frowned, not at all convinced. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it looks like . . .”

Whatever Mimma intended to say was lost as the door suddenly opened, and she flew out into the storm. There came a crack as loud as thunder, and a great groaning of the wooden coach as it seemed to come apart. Julia thought the scream she heard was her own as she was flung out of the nest of warmth in which she sat, and her shoulders hit the front wall of the vehicle. She slumped onto the seat only a moment before the roof came down on her, and left her boxed into a space no larger than a coffin, where she could no longer feel her legs. She called for Mimma once, and then again, before she slipped down an endless tunnel, into darkness.