TWO

England, 1856

A cheerful country girl, Ada was only a year older than Letty. The scullery maid puffed as she lifted the coal scuttle to pour its contents into the grate. Seeing her struggle, Letty tossed aside her book, Oliver Twist, by Mr. Charles Dickens, and hurried across the library. “Here, let me help you.”

“No, ma’am, I can do it myself,” Ada said quickly.

Letty didn’t listen. She reached to help pour the container, uncaring of the black dust that smudged her new dove-gray frock.

“Letty Leighton! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

She jumped back at the sound of her father’s voice. Joseph Leighton filled the door of the parlor, fists on his hips. It was just her luck that he should arrive at that moment, Letty thought. She wiped her hand across her cheek, unknowingly leaving another streak, and tried her best not to sound defensive. “I’m helping Ada pour the coal. It’s far too heavy for her.”

“’Tis no matter, miss. As I told you, I could ’ave done it myself.” Ada wrested the now-empty scuttle from Letty and hurried out the door, ducking her head to avoid Mr. Leighton’s glare. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I promise ’twon’t happen again.”

As the maid disappeared down the hallway, Letty squared her shoulders and turned to face her father, who stared down at her with an expression she had seen all too often. He took in the smear of coal on her cheek, the streak across her dress, and her blackened hands, and his lips curled downward. “Why, anyone would think you were a scullery maid yourself, Letty. My own daughter!”

“Is that so terrible, Papa?” She lifted her chin. “I know you think I am too familiar with the servants, but after all, Ada and I both grew up together in this very house.” She hesitated before adding daringly, “My old nursemaid, Susan, used to say that all humans are equal in God’s eyes.”

His reaction was exactly what she feared. “Good heavens!” her father exploded. “I suspected your foolishness started with that accursed woman. I sent her away before she could finish radicalizing the servants, hoping you’d forget her.” With visible effort, he softened his tone and took Letty’s hand—the one that was less blackened with coal dust.

“My dear girl, is it not self-evident that if the distinctions between the classes are not observed society will collapse? A young lady of your position must never lower herself to behave as a scullery maid, just as Ada—is that the wench’s name?—must never give herself the airs of a lady. God has placed each of us in our stations, and it would be sinful to pretend otherwise.”

“But, Papa …” Letty was tempted to blurt out the dream she’d had long ago, the one about the dying woman who claimed to be her grandmother. That is, if it had been a dream. Sometimes she wasn’t sure. The memory was so vivid that sometimes Letty could almost believe the events of that night had actually happened.

Despite her efforts to forget the disturbing dream, it lingered in the back of her mind, making it impossible for her to see the servants and her father’s tenants as different from herself. Letty bit back what she wanted to say, and Joseph Leighton stalked out of the library, having apparently forgotten what he had come in for.

Picking up her discarded book, Letty wondered if her father would still love her even if she was not his daughter. If there had been some terrible mistake when she was born.

She shivered at the thought. Joseph Leighton was a good man, a kind man, but rigid in his attitudes and beliefs. Letty did not dare test his limits by confessing her fears.

Her desire to read Oliver Twist had ebbed. After staring sightlessly at its pages for several minutes, she returned the novel to its place in one of the bookcases that lined the room. One thing was certain, Letty thought: her life had never been the same since that night fifteen years ago. Since then, she had vowed to do whatever possible to prevent people living—or dying—in the hellish poverty that she had seen in the old woman’s home, dream or no dream.

So far, that hadn’t been much. As a woman, even a wealthy one, Letty had little power but did what she could, taking baskets of provisions to her father’s tenants, making generous donations to their church’s benevolent funds from her spending allowance, and begging her father to give more frequent raises to the workers at the factory and treat them fairly. But she knew it was not enough.

As she faced the bookshelf, Letty’s eyes fell on a new volume that her father had carelessly stuffed between the other books, a blue tome with gold letters that spelled out its title, Natural Remedies and Practical Solutions. She recalled that he had brought it home after meeting its author, Sir James Buckingham, at a party in London a few weeks ago. Her father had come home roaring with laughter, calling its idealistic writer a “utopian madman full of fanciful ideas. Almost as much a dreamer as you are, Letty.”

Letty had been curious to read it, but until now had not seen where her father had put it. Pulling the book out, she flipped through its pages, and a flicker of excitement lit and grew. When she left the library, Letty took the book with her. For the rest of the day and the next, she devoured its contents. When she finished the last page, a bonfire raged in her heart. At last, she knew what to do.

X

Letty busily scribbled at the library desk while her old dog, Merlin, snored underneath, his head lying on her feet. The door banged open, and Letty’s father strode in. Ada was close on his heels, cap ribbons fluttering. The girl made a helpless gesture to show Letty that she had tried her best to prevent him from entering.

Letty stuffed her papers in a drawer of the desk and slammed it shut. “Why, Papa!” She straightened in her seat as Ada hurried out of sight down the hall. “I thought you were at the mill, inspecting the new equipment with your foreman, Mr. Brown.”

“We finished sooner than expected.” Joseph Leighton’s eyes narrowed as he spotted a corner of paper protruding from the hastily closed drawer. “What is this, Letty? Are you hiding something from me?”

To her dismay, he yanked the drawer open and pulled out a thick stack of sheets covered with neat lines of Letty’s handwriting. Her father’s thick eyebrows shot up, and he met her guilty eyes accusingly.

Letty’s hands twisted in her lap. Ready or not, it appeared she had no choice but to reveal her plans. She remembered the words Susan had told her in the dream: “Someday, poppet, you will learn there is a time when you must not do as you’re told, but stand up and speak out for what you think is right, no matter the consequences.”

“I can explain everything, Papa.” Letty only hoped she could. “You know I have always been bothered that some have so much in this world, while others have so little. You have often chided me for wasting my time thinking about such things.”

He pushed up his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Indeed. As I’ve said before, the question of the poor is best left to the church or to Parliament. The duty of young women like you is to marry well and to bring children into the world.”

“I disagree, Papa. Helping the poor should be the concern of all Christians.” With effort, Letty lowered her voice. She had never been good at manipulating or coaxing others. Her nature was too blunt and straightforward, frequently getting her in trouble.

She took a deep breath. “I have been reading about a number of experimental communities in England and America, Papa, where land and other property are owned in common. You may have heard of Oneida, which was formed in New York a few years ago. There is another in Massachusetts, known as Brook Farm.”

Her father shook his head. “Yes, and a pack of nonsense is what they are! A bunch of idealistic fools wading about the fields waving farm implements they do not know how to use—that is, when they’re not sitting about reading poetry to each other. Every one of such experiments has failed miserably.” He paused. “What does any of that have to do with us, my dear? My, what a very odd conversation.”

She took another deep breath. “I am convinced that if I could only try Sir Buckingham’s ideas right here in Kent, they might actually succeed. Other reformers have already done so in the north of England.”

Mr. Leighton plopped into a nearby armchair. His complexion was noticeably less ruddy than usual. Tall and big-boned, the successful factory owner could not have looked more different than his slightly built daughter, whose lank hair would not keep a curl despite the best efforts of Ada, who had recently been promoted to the rank of Letty’s lady’s maid.

Fitting on his spectacles, he scanned the notes in his hand, which consisted of a list of structures needed for a self-sufficient community: a grainery, stables, smithy, a gathering room for meals and meetings, several cottages, and even a small flour mill. She had included a daily schedule as well.

In her planned community, everyone would arise at six o’clock, eat breakfast, and work for only eight hours, far fewer than the twelve hours in a usual work day. Morning and afternoon tasks would be broken up by a generous two-hour lunch. With such a light schedule, she imagined that everyone would have time and energy for long evenings filled with improving activities such as scientific lectures, amateur concerts, private theatricals, or reading good literature. Of course, not everyone would be able to read, Letty admitted to herself, but she planned to erect a schoolhouse and hire a capable schoolmistress for children and whoever else wished to attend.

Joseph Leighton turned to the last page, and his brows nearly disappeared into his hairline. She knew her father was reading her estimated annual costs of feeding and clothing a community of approximately fifty persons, the numbers coming from Sir Buckingham’s treatise. “Good gad, Letty!” he exclaimed, looking up. “What is the meaning of all this?”

She showed him the blue volume. “Sir James Buckingham presented you this book, remember?” The old excitement flared up again. “He believes the cure for poverty is to purchase land for farming and teach the residents to provide for their own needs, claiming that once people are completely self-sufficient and their children are educated, the cycle of poverty will be broken forever.” Letty clutched the book to her chest as if it were holy writ. “I plan to create such a community, Papa.”

Mr. Leighton stared at his daughter. Then his fist banged on the table, making her jump. “Oh? And just how do you plan to pay for such a … a radical experiment?”

“It will be expensive,” she admitted. “But we are not poor. You promised me a generous marriage settlement, and I thought that perhaps instead of marrying, I could use that money for …” She stopped.

Joseph Leighton was tearing her notes into pieces and scattering them onto the hearth. Then he snatched Buckingham’s book from her grasp and hurled it after them.

“Papa!” Letty leapt to her feet, horrified.

“I have been far too lenient with you, Letty. Had your mother not died in childbirth, perhaps I would not have indulged you so. The urge to help the poor may be commendable, but your fanatical devotion to the topic is … is … unnatural! You should be thinking of balls, marriage, and raising children, like other young ladies of your age.”

Letty lowered her eyes, remembering. “… That sweet old woman did not deserve her poverty any more than your father deserves his wealth. In this world, it all depends on luck: the luck of one’s birth.”

“Should a nobleman be counted of more worth than a beggar?” Letty looked up and met her father’s eyes boldly. “Are they not both equal in the sight of God?”

Her father looked as if he would burst with anger. Then he forced himself to speak calmly. “Of course we should all be kind to others, my dear. I pay double what many of my friends pay their workers, and my manager has been instructed never to hire anyone under the age of eleven. But did not the Saviour himself say the poor will be with us always?”

“The Bible also says we are our brother’s keeper.” Letty held her father’s gaze. “If you are concerned about the expense, Sir Buckingham says such farms will eventually become self-supporting. Of course the initial costs, including living quarters, livestock, seed, and equipment, would require a considerable investment, which is why I would need to help.”

“This idea about using your marriage settlement—and your inheritance too, once I pass away, no doubt—it’s absurd! So you plan to live like a papist nun, and never marry?”

“Surely you must see that any husband would object to spending my marriage money on—” she began.

Joseph Leighton’s face went dangerously purple. “Well, your father objects! Fine talk of throwing away all the money I have worked so hard to amass, by a young lady who has never so much as boiled water for her own tea or lit a fire. If you wish to help the poor, Leticia, then marry a clergyman. Now that would be a ‘practical solution.’”

Letty tried not to wring her hands in despair. “Don’t you understand? My intentions go far beyond delivering baskets of jellies to the sick and helping write Sunday sermons.”

“Yes, I see.” Joseph snatched the glasses from his nose and shoved them into his pocket with disregard for their condition. “I see all too well.”

Tears stung Letty’s eyes, and she blinked them away. “Father, the reason those communities you mention failed is that they were run by intellectuals who had never worked with their hands before, and who could not live without luxury. My community will be completely different. It will be populated by the poor, by people who have known nothing but starvation and misery.”

Her father’s chest heaved in a paroxysm of coughing, and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth. She stopped speaking, worried. He had suffered several such spells recently, and Letty hated to think she had set off yet another one. But, she reminded herself, everything depended on her persuading her father to let her go forward with her plans. Everything.

When he could speak again, Mr. Leighton’s words were heavy with sarcasm. “Do you really mean to say that your followers’ poverty and lack of education would be an advantage?”

“Why not? They would have nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

He pushed himself to his feet, mouth grim. “They certainly shall not benefit from my money. Do not workhouses exist for such people?”

“But—” Letty stopped. “I’m sorry, Father. I should have held my tongue.”

For once, her demure pose did not fool her father. “On the contrary. I’m glad to finally know to what extent your thoughts have taken you.”

“What do you mean?” Letty looked up warily.

“Tomorrow I shall go to London to visit my lawyer and amend my will. You’ll not get a penny of my money until you are married, and after that, your husband shall control everything.” She knew from the set of her father’s mouth that he meant it. “I am not cruel, Letty. I shall not force you into an arranged marriage, but that is the only concession I am prepared to make.”

Stricken, Letty watched him leave. Then, with a sob, she lunged for the fireplace and retrieved the book and torn bits of paper. Carrying them upstairs to her room, she hid them under her mattress until it would be possible to copy them again later. Letty did not know how she would accomplish her plan, but in spite of what her father had said, she was more determined than ever to find a way.

X

The stable boy looked up from shoveling straw when Letty stamped in. He was Ada’s younger brother, a fair-haired lad of sixteen. As children, the three had played together whenever the governess wasn’t watching. It now occurred to Letty that Simon was nearly grown. In fact, he must be the same age as her cousin, Robert Leighton, who was now studying at Harrow and who would, upon the death of her father, inherit Leighton Manor. The futures of the two youths, both equally well-formed and intelligent, could not have been more different.

Letty remembered her long-ago governess Susan, railing against the injustice of the English class system.

“Good morning, Simon,” Letty said. “Would you be so kind as to saddle my horse?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer the carriage, miss? ’Tis cold out, and you’re not properly dressed.”

“Not today, thank you. A ride will settle my nerves. I—I’m rather upset with Papa right now.”

Simon helped her into her saddle without further comment. He always kept his thoughts to himself and never questioned others about theirs, one of the reasons she liked the lad.

The cold, windy day matched Letty’s mood. After passing through the manor’s wrought-iron gates, she allowed the bay mare to break into a canter until the fresh air began to restore her calm.

After an hour or so, Letty was ready to return home. It was too soon to give up. Her father had been bound to discover her plans eventually, and it was no surprise that he disapproved of them. She would just have to find a way to persuade him.

With these thoughts in her head, she turned the horse to go home just as a rabbit shot across the road. Before she could react, her mount shied. With a cry of surprise, Letty lost her balance and slid off the sidesaddle. A moment later, she found herself sitting on the ground, jarred but unhurt. Fortunately, she had landed squarely in the center of a mud puddle, which had softened her fall, but now her skirts were sodden and filthy. Helplessly, Letty sat for a few more moments trying to catch her breath. Her head was spinning, and her mount was galloping off across the countryside, toward a distant copse of trees. Soon, it was out of sight.

That’s what happened when one allowed one’s emotions to get the best of one, she chided herself, and carefully pushed herself to her feet. Her left ankle throbbed and her seat was sore, but fortunately the worst damage seemed to be to her pride. Wiping her hands on the cleanest portions of her dress, she began to limp home, glad that no one had witnessed the humiliating spectacle.

About half a mile later, Letty heard hoof beats approach behind her, and a male voice called out. “Miss? Miss! I believe this horse is yours.”

Letty turned to see a dark-haired man seated on horseback, leading her sweat-soaked bay by the reins. The man sported a fresh scratch across one cheekbone, and his tanned face suggested he had recently spent time in sunnier climes than England. His tall hat and the cut of his coat showed he was a gentleman, although they were neither new nor fashionable.

Gratitude rushed through Letty at the thought that she would not have to explain the loss of the horse to her father. “Yes, it is mine,” she told him. “Thank you.”

“I am glad to be of service.” His eyes passed over her mud-soaked skirts and the tired set of her shoulders. “Do you need help remounting, miss?”

Letty hesitated. A better horsewoman might have managed it neatly without help, but she cringed at the thought of scrambling into her saddle in front of a stranger.

Without waiting for a response, the man slid off his horse and lifted her up with strong hands, transferring a considerable amount of mud from her person onto his own in the process. Perched high on her sidesaddle, Letty looked down at him, aware that her reddened face must contrast unflatteringly with her tousled hair and dirty clothing.

“I suppose I should introduce myself.” Her rescuer bowed before swinging easily into his own saddle. “I am Patrick Marlowe, a cousin of Rosaline Forster, your neighbor.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And you must be Leticia Leighton. My cousin told me that you were friends, and I must say, you match her description very well.”

Letty blushed more deeply. She wondered how Rosaline had described her. Short, plain, disheveled, and awkward?

She shot the young man a curious look. “Patrick Marlowe? Yes, I remember your name. Just last week, when Rosaline and I had tea, she spoke of you. She said that you had returned from a trip to Africa not long ago and that you hope to return there again.”

Patrick Marlowe’s eyes lit up, and he sat straighter in the saddle. “Yes. Like several others, I was searching for the source of the Nile River, whose origins in the heart of that great land have never been discovered. The expedition failed, but I learned information that gives me confidence that on my next attempt I shall achieve my goal.”

“Oh? What information is that, Mr. Marlowe?” Letty asked politely. Privately, she wondered why anyone should care where a faraway river started, when there were other matters of so much more importance right here at home. Eight-year-old children being forced to climb up narrow chimneys to clean out stifling soot or work from dawn to dusk in factories. Entire families starving in slums. Disease and poverty. Those problems were what that really mattered!

“On my first journey, I traveled from the north of Africa, an extraordinarily difficult route. Next time, my expedition will head overland from the east, toward a region that I have been told is known as the ‘Country of the Moon.’” His voice took on a slightly pedantic tone, making Letty wonder uncomfortably if this was how she sounded when talking about her own passion.

“Surely you catch the allusion, Miss Leighton. That title, I am convinced, is the key to the Nile’s origins.” When she shook her head blankly, he looked disappointed. “Does the name not bring to your mind Ptolemy’s ancient account of the ‘Mountains of the Moon?’”

“The Mountains of the Moon?” Letty repeated. “But Mr. Marlowe, what could the moon possibly have to do with the source of the Nile?”

She was teasing him, but he did not realize it. Instead, his eyes lit, and Letty noted, quite irrelevantly, that those dark-blue orbs were not only intelligent, but quite surprisingly attractive. It was a surprising observation. She was normally quite impervious to others’ appearances. Letty’s wet skirts chilled her limbs while their horses trotted side by side, and she fought down a shiver.

“According to legend,” Patrick said intently, “the region of that name has two lakes, from both of which the Nile flows. My next journey to Africa and back may take four years or more, but if my theory turns out to be correct—”

Patrick broke off, and his lean face grew contrite.

“I apologize, Miss Leighton. I should have realized that a young lady such as you wouldn’t care about such matters. At least, I have been told so repeatedly by many others, including my cousin, Rosaline, but it is hard for me to remember that not everyone shares my passion for discovery.”

“Believe it or not, I think I understand how you feel,” Letty admitted. “I have a passion of my own that no one else seems to care about, and I have no doubt bored many people with my speeches.” How often had she gotten carried away speaking of ideas for helping the poor, only to be met with blank stares or indifference, or even derision?

As she turned her attention to handling her horse, Letty shivered again. This time, however, the shiver was not entirely due to cold, but to something Patrick had said that caused an idea to stir and flutter in the recesses of her brain. A journey of four years, to the darkest center of Africa!

Perhaps, Letty mused, clutching the reins tightly, there was a way to fulfill her father’s hopes while giving her freedom to achieve her own dream. And Patrick Marlowe may have unwittingly provided it.

“A passion of your own? Perhaps I shall not find that topic as dull as you think, whatever it may be,” Patrick said, with an odd sort of smile.

With a cold assessment that was foreign to her nature, she glanced at the young man whose horse trotted next to her own. If marriage was inevitable, why not find a husband who would be absent years at a time, leaving one free to pursue one’s own interests without fear of meddling or criticism?

Letty surreptitiously studied her companion, noting the high forehead with black hair falling across it, the lean face as brown as a Spaniard’s. He was not handsome, despite those attractive dark-blue eyes, but there was something appealing about the narrow, angular face. Not that that mattered, she reminded herself quickly.

He turned unexpectedly and caught her staring at him. Letty flushed.

By the time they reached Leighton Hall, Letty had recovered herself, “Thank you for returning my horse and escorting me home, Mr. Marlowe.” For the first time in her life, Letty wished with all her heart she knew how to flirt. Instead, she smiled at him warmly. It was the best she could do. “I trust I shall see you at your cousin Rosaline’s ball next week?”

Patrick looked taken aback. Perhaps the sudden change in her demeanor surprised him. However, he politely bowed and tipped his hat. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Leighton.”

Letty passed through the tall arched iron gates of Leighton Hall. She sensed Patrick Marlowe staring quizzically at her back, and wondered what he was thinking.