chapter 1

a Fresh Start

april 1818: derbyshire, england

William Gunn gaped as the estate of the sixth Duke of Devonshire crept into view of their private coach. Even from across the river and its arched stone bridge, Chatsworth “House” appeared impossibly grand. It could have easily encompassed William’s regimental training grounds and housed his entire former regiment, with enough room left over for the servants’ quarters, stables, and hunting lodge.

William smiled as he watched his daughter, Sarah, caress the drapery inside the coach, finer than any fabric she’d ever felt. She was so absorbed that she hadn’t yet noticed the castle looming outside her window. The look on his four-year-old daughter’s face when the duke’s luxurious carriage had trundled up to their grimy South London flat—appearing like some kind of inner-city mirage—reassured William he’d done the right thing.

After the war ended, the only lodging they could afford was a flat in a run-down section of London populated mostly by former soldiers and unemployed factory workers. With the English victory at Waterloo and the end of the Napoleonic Wars, thousands of former soldiers returned to England, where they drifted to the larger cities seeking work in the new factories. But many factory jobs had already disappeared, and soldiers found themselves unemployed, injured, and forgotten as they barely survived in the dangerous and squalid slums of every large city.

William was no exception. Endless months of fruitless job hunting had depleted his family’s meager savings. He had promised his wife, Miriam, he would never give up Sarah to an orphanage. With a young child and winter fast approaching, William had resorted to his last, desperate measure: he had petitioned his former commanding officer, Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington and field marshal of the combined European armies, for his assistance in securing a position.

Even though the Duke of Wellington had enthusiastically agreed to help his young aide-de-camp transition back into civilian life, William couldn’t help feeling vaguely ashamed that he’d begged his former commander for help; not only that, but he still didn’t have the slightest idea of what he’d been called to Chatsworth House to do for the Duke of Devonshire. He’d known only the military life since he was a boy: long marches and searching for a spare bit of dry ground to make camp. He wondered what possible use he would be on an estate. Was he here only as an act of charity? To settle a debt between dukes?

One look at his daughter, however, and any misgivings evaporated. It was the happiest he’d seen Sarah since the passing of her mother six months before.

The drive to the great house seemed to stretch on forever as they rode past fountains and elevated statues and a mock temple to Apollo. William averted his eyes from the main facade, where the windows gleamed in the light of the setting sun like the scales on a dragon. Departing from the coach by the servants’ entrance, Sarah and William were met by a smartly dressed young man who acted as if they were one of a hundred father-daughter pairs he had shown inside that day. He admitted them to a foyer lined with coat hooks and bade them wait, before disappearing down a long corridor. Feeling as if they were peering inside a beehive, William and Sarah watched the continuous stream of servants and maids who came and went from the kitchen across the hall.

Oblivious to the activity, a cat slept between the legs of a stool. Sarah bent down and attempted to coax the creature out from the kitchen. Miriam would have told her off for being a nuisance, but William had never had the inclination. Especially now. He smiled as he watched his daughter, intent on the cat, who seemed just as intent on ignoring the child.

“What do we have here? Are you a little mouse?”

Startled, William looked up and saw that the voice belonged to a cook. She stood by the servants’ entrance, an empty pail in her arms. She looked to be in her early thirties, about ten years older than William, and had strong forearms and a bluff demeanor. William could tell she was the kind of person who would brook no nonsense from anyone, but now she was smiling at the young girl. Sarah looked up at her, eyes wide. William’s daughter solemnly shook her head.

“No? Well, you could be.” The cook sighed as she looked at the sleeping cat. “Tom is so lazy we’d have more luck catching mice with a butterfly net. Here, try this.” Reaching into one of the pockets of her apron, she pulled out a pinch of herb, and showed the little girl how to hold it out.

Like a sleepwalker, Tom the cat ambled between the legs of the kitchen staff, carried toward Sarah by the scent in her hand. Sarah allowed him to nuzzle her palm as she rubbed his back, causing her feline companion to arch.

“Thank the kind woman, Sarah,” William prompted.

Sarah said nothing.

For the first time, the cook looked at the father, who stood awkwardly by the coats. By his strict posture and broad shoulders, he had clearly served in the war.

The cook instinctively dried her hands on her apron and introduced herself. “Mrs. Hudson. You’ll be the new man, I expect.”

“I’m William Gunn. And I am the new man . . .” William trailed off, hoping Mrs. Hudson might provide him with some clue as to what kind of man he was expected to be on the estate. But instead, she was studying him, with an expression strangely like regret.

William’s blond hair was tied tightly back, revealing his smooth clean-shaven face. He was even younger than the last one, Mrs. Hudson thought.

“William Gunn,” a solemn voice intoned. The footman had returned, accompanied by a man of unapproachable majesty and unmistakable identity—the head butler. The butler continued his address, “My name is Smythe. If you would.” With a gesture no less magisterial than a duke’s, he indicated for William to follow him.

William went to collect Sarah, but Smythe stopped him with a word. “Alone. Your daughter will be looked after.”

The footman approached Sarah, but Mrs. Hudson had already placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. She smiled easily. “Don’t worry, my Annie can look after her.”

The footman looked uncertainly to the head butler. Impatient, Smythe nodded and turned on his heel.

William knelt in front of her. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, stroking her hair away from her face. Sarah turned her face down and mumbled something only her father could hear.

“She can manage without you, Mr. Gunn,” Mrs. Hudson said, watching the man with a curious eye. He spoke to his daughter as if he were afraid she was going to disappear. “Go on—it won’t do to keep His Grace waiting.”

William gave a look of gratitude to Mrs. Hudson and reluctantly followed the butler deeper into the great house. Smythe led William to a pair of broad oaken doors—This must be the duke’s study, William thought. But instead of showing him in to introduce him to his benefactor, Smythe turned sharply past, continuing further into the house.

“You will be an apprentice gardener.” Smythe spoke without looking over his shoulder, expecting William to keep up. “You will see Mr. Turner, our head gardener. He will instruct you in the fine art of tending to greenery.” Smythe gestured toward a window. “Our gardens are second to none, and we are constantly making improvements and acquiring new specimens, so you will be kept quite engaged.”

William quickstepped to keep pace with the butler while trying to avoid running into him should he change direction, which he suddenly did, leading them both into a service corridor. “Are you sure this is what was assigned for me? When will I speak with the duke?”

From over his shoulder, Smythe shot a frown at William. “When he calls you,” he said slowly, as though concerned William might understand less than was desirable for someone employed to hold a pair of gardening shears.

Smythe added as an aside, “There will be other tasks more suitable for you. In time.”

“I want to thank His Grace—this means the world to me,” William said, suppressing an underlying sense of foreboding he couldn’t quite define. This was so much more than he could ever have envisioned. A good job in a good house. A place for Sarah to grow.

Smythe had returned to looking bored. “Turner knows his business, so pay attention and you will be up to speed in no time.”

The head butler stopped abruptly, making an about-face. They had come to a door that appeared conspicuously clean. Its handle had been polished to a gleam, clearly by someone desperate for it not to appear what it was: the entrance to the gardeners’ shed.

“Remember, Mr. Gunn, this is not a battlefield, this is Chatsworth House.” And with that, Smythe departed to return to his own duties, which seemed no less significant than the maintaining of the planets in their orbits.

Uncertain whether it was the battlefield or the great house where the consequences were more grave, William wiped his hand on his pants leg and reached for the door handle.