January 1814 found Napoleon in retreat and most of Britain and Europe still in the relentless grip of the worst winter in living memory, putting to shame even 1795, which was referred to as the famine year. Deep snow had now fallen too, and the Thames was covered with ice so thick that it supported a makeshift fair to which thousands of people had resorted.
At first Jovian’s enigmatic warning by the statue had remained in Anthea’s head, but as the days passed and nothing happened, she began to believe him to have been in drink after all that day, just concealing it well. She did not see him again, and by the time the lavender in the vase in her bedroom was past its best, she had all but forgotten what he’d said, although occasionally his words would cross her mind. “Beware, Anthea, for things might soon happen that are far, far beyond your experience.”
One particularly cold afternoon, she and her aunt were once again seated in the warm drawing room when another letter arrived from Ireland. Anthea’s heart sank as she saw that it was black edged. Oh, no! Papa?
Lady Letitia saw, too, and sat forward in dismay, but then Anthea saw that the letter was in her father’s hand. “Be easy, Aunt Letty; it cannot be Papa for he has written it.”
Lady Letitia had gone quite pale but now breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank heaven, thank heaven!” Then her brows drew together. “Then it must be Lisnerne, I suppose.”
Anthea thought the same as she broke the seal, but when she read the brief lines, she found it was not Jovian’s uncle either. “Mrs. Pranton has passed away,” she said haltingly. “At least—I mean—Papa’s new wife ... er, Lady Daneway, has passed away.”
Lady Letitia’s hand crept to her throat. “Lord preserve us,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“She died unexpectedly in her sleep.”
Lady Letitia stared. “She must have been very ill.”
“Not that it was realized at the time, but the doctor now supposes it to have been a frail heart.”
“Oh, my poor dear brother ... Is he coming home?”
“No. He is so distressed that Lord Lisnerne has persuaded him that the only possible diversion is a long-discussed expedition to Brazil. Up the Amazon, to be precise. They plan to leave in April, and Papa will not return here beforehand.”
Lady Letitia stared at her. “The Amazon? Well, I daresay it will give them both something else to think about. Such as caimans, flesh-eating fish, and boa restrictors.”
“Boa constrictors,” Anthea corrected gently.
“Mm? Well, whatever one calls them, delightful feather fashion accessories they are not. I would much prefer him to simply come home, instead of wandering off across the world. But grief takes us all in different ways, I suppose. When I—” Lady Letitia didn’t finish, and busied herself quickly with the notes she was making from Culpeper.
Anthea looked quizzically at her. “When you what, Aunt Letty?”
“It doesn’t matter, my dear.”
Anthea did not pry further, but was once again prompted to suspect a sad love affair. Had Aunt Letty’s sweetheart died? It would seem so from the tears that were now being blinked away.
Lady Letitia dabbed her eyes in a way she imagined was surreptitious enough not to be noticed, then spoke again. “Your father has always wanted to explore the Amazon river. As a boy he was quite home loving, but from the moment he was sent on his Grand Tour he became a veritable Egyptian.”
“Egyptian?” Anthea was perplexed.
“Gypsy,” Lady Letty rephrased herself. “Does the letter say anything else?”
“Well, the most important thing as far as you and I are concerned is that my new stepsister, Corinna, is to come here to be with us.”
“Oh. Well, I daresay the Amazon is hardly the place for young slips of things. If she is to be with us, I suppose we will have to wear mourning, even though we never met her mother.”
Anthea nodded. “Full black, I should imagine. Well, for a time anyway.” She glanced at the letter again, and for the first time noticed another sentence written in haste at the very bottom. “Oh, one moment, Papa mentions mourning here. He says we are not to wear black, or even gray. It seems the late countess loathed mourning, and Corinna has not worn so much as a black ribbon, so we must not, either.”
“I have to say I agree about mourning, which is becoming a most onerous custom.” Lady Letitia sat back in her chair. “That is that, then. Now we will never know what Mrs. Pranton was like.”
“Lady Daneway,” Anthea corrected automatically.
“Oh, yes. Lady Daneway,” her aunt murmured sadly. “Still, we will meet Corinna.”
“Yes.” Anthea lowered her eyes sadly. “Poor Papa, he is destined to remain lonely after all.”
* * *
In sunny late April, with the ferocious winter over at last and the defeated tyrant Napoleon on his way to exile on Elba, eighteen-year-old Corinna Pranton walked across the park at Castle Lisnerne toward island-dotted Lough Erne as it sparkled beneath the cloudless County Fermanagh sky. Tomorrow her new stepfather would leave for far-off Brazil with Lord Lisnerne, and later today, under the protection of her mother’s former employer, Lady Fisher, she would commence her journey to England. It was the country of her birth, although she could not remember it at all.
Anthea’s new stepsister was golden haired and beautiful, with green eyes to match the emerald countryside around her. Corinna turned heads wherever she went, but in her innocence hardly noticed anyone. She was being as brave as she could without her mother, whose sudden demise had left her quite bereft.
Death had come from nowhere, for there had seemed nothing wrong the evening before, but come the next morning, she was cold in the bed beside her adoring new husband. The earl’s grief had matched Corinna’s, and he had gladly seized upon Lord Lisnerne’s suggestion of Brazil. There was no such escape for Corinna, who now had to confront two ladies who might not feel at all like welcoming her into their household.
It had not seemed possible that the Earl of Daneway could in so short a time have made Corinna feel he really cared about her, but he had, and she loved him for it. She wished he would first come to London with her, instead of going so far away, but so intense was his anguish over the loss of her mother that he could not quit these shores fast enough.
On a day like today, however, with daffodils and creamy narcissi nodding among silver birches along the lake shore, Corinna found it a little easier to face her new future. She hummed “Lavender Blue” to herself as she walked. Her mother had often sung it to her when she was small, and it had remained a favorite ever since.
Corinna enjoyed the warmth of the spring sun on her face, and the scent of the flowers was so enticing that she bent to pick a particularly fine double-headed narcissus. But an Englishman’s voice made her straighten guiltily.
“What’s this? A fair flower thief?”
On a track nearby she saw a dashing gentleman in a yellow phaeton that was drawn by black horses. He was dressed in the finest that London tailoring could provide and was tall and handsome, with dark hair, flashing eyes, and the sort of roguish smile that banished her embarrassment. How could he have driven up without her hearing? Was he a friend of Lord Lisnerne’s?
He jumped lightly down from the phaeton, made the reins fast to a birch branch, then came over. Bending, he picked the narcissus for her. “It may not be lavender, and I may not be a king, but if I were, you would certainly be my queen,” he said engagingly, as he held the flower out to her. "Take it. Allow me to be the despoiler of this beautiful corner of nature’s garden.”
Corinna gazed shyly into his eyes and unwisely accepted the bloom, even though she knew it was wrong to have anything to do with a stranger. A fragrant narcissus was what she perceived; yet in reality it was a sprig of mistletoe. The dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger had given her the mystical golden bough that marked the beginning of her beguilement, and from that moment, she was in the utmost peril.