October, 1809
Trittonstone Park, Somerset, England
Lady Alethea Sutherton sank onto a thin-cushioned chair in the dark, dreary drawing room opposite her cousin and his wife. “Would you care for tea?” Alethea asked, which struck her as odd since her cousin now owned this house, and the master arriving at his new home could hardly be considered a visitor.
Wilfred, the new Earl of Trittonstone, frowned at the threadbare carpet. Alethea was about to mention how her father and brother had never spared the funds to refurbish the home when Wilfred slapped his hands on his knees and said, “No sense putting it off. Alethea, you have a week to pack up your things.”
It was the same sensation as when she was twelve, riding her horse through the woods. She’d arrogantly thought that as she knew every tree and twig, she’d be perfectly safe if she sped up to something faster than a walk. A low-hanging branch had thwacked her in the throat, dislodging her from her horse. She’d landed hard on her back, so in addition to her throat constricting, she hadn’t been able to make her lungs draw in air. She felt that way now.
“Good gracious, Wilfred, she’s going to faint.” But rather than assisting her, Mona leaned away from Alethea as if unconsciousness were contagious. “I told you to introduce the topic with more circumspection.”
“She should have expected it,” Wilfred groused. “It’s my house now, after all.”
Alethea managed to gasp in a breath. Yes, she had half expected Wilfred to arrange for her to leave, but she hadn’t thought she’d only have a week to pack and say good-bye to her childhood home. “Where . . . where will I go?”
Wilfred’s wrinkled brow cleared. “Is that all that’s worrying you? You’ll stay with Aunt Ebena in Bath. You remember Aunt Ebena, don’t you?”
For Alethea, her brother’s funeral had been a blur of faces, but she did remember Aunt Ebena—tall and thin, with a pinched mouth, a gigantic beak nose, and chestnut hair streaked with ash. “She wants me to stay with her?”
“I didn’t ask,” Wilfred said. “But she’ll do what I say, now that I’m the head of the family. Especially if I sweeten the deal with some money for your upkeep. Ebena’s always looking a little shabby.”
Alethea realized her cousin was against her like an icy north wind. A gust blew her down, and once she got her feet under her again, another gust knocked her over once more. She wanted to leave the drawing room, but she didn’t think her legs would support her. “I’ve lived here in the country all my life,” she said faintly.
Mona gave a lusty sigh. “Now, don’t be melodramatic, Alethea. You had your season in London, after all.” Mona’s nasally voice had an edge to it since her family hadn’t been wealthy enough to sponsor a season for her.
Alethea swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth. The majority of her time in London had been abject pain and humiliation, on account of her height and lack of social skills. And Trittonstone Park had been her haven from her father and brother.
But her father and brother were gone. She didn’t need a haven anymore.
And the last few years, with neighbors who avoided her because they thought she was odd, and with the two people closest to her heart gone, she had been fighting the bleakness of her life alone, the suspicion that there was something fundamentally wrong with her, the fear that the way her family had treated her was the way she would always be treated. Perhaps now was the time to find a new community. And hadn’t Wilfred said . . .
“Aunt Ebena lives in Bath?” Alethea asked.
“Of course. Isn’t that what I said?” Wilfred frowned.
Mona looked at her shrewdly. “Do you have an acquaintance in Bath?”
“Yes, my sister.”
Mona’s nostrils flared almost as large as her watery blue eyes, and Wilfred’s narrow face turned purple. “How dare you mention—” he sputtered. “You are never to mention such persons in this house.”
Considering they had ejected her from her home less than twenty minutes after arriving, Alethea had lost all pretense of politeness. In addition, she had an unfortunate tendency to rebel when someone told her what she could not do.
“Are you referring to my half sister, Lucy Purcell?” she said in a loud voice.
Mona’s narrow shoulders flinched. Wilfred’s grey eyes bulged and grew bloodshot.
Alethea’s anger sent strength to her wobbling knees and she rose, shaking out her brown woolen skirts. She had forgotten about the broken fingers on her left hand, and the motion sent a stab of pain up her arm, but it only stoked the fire in her chest. “Yes, Lucy lives in Bath. It will be nice to be close to her again. We have only exchanged letters since she moved two years ago to take a post as a housemaid. Your cousin is a lady’s maid now, Wilfred,” Alethea said sweetly.
“She is not my cousin!” Wilfred choked out.
“Half cousin,” Alethea corrected herself. “Pray, excuse me.” She swept toward the door, half amused when the butler opened the door from the outside of the drawing room before she reached it. She gave him an impudent smile, which the very proper servant did not return with so much as a crack in his stately facade, although Alethea could have sworn his chin twitched.
As she climbed the stairs, her smile faded, and her anger burned to ashes. This was no longer her home. Gone were the long hours walking the hills and running down them when no one was around to see her. Gone also were the long hours playing her violin . . .
She checked herself. She hadn’t played since the day her brother broke her fingers.
But perhaps in Bath she would find a better doctor, one who would enable her to play again. And Bath had more concerts she could attend, more access to published music. And Bath had Lucy.
What did it matter where she lived? She only had three more years to wait. She had thought she would spend them here, but instead she could spend them close to Lucy, where they could make plans and ready themselves.
Three more years before she would be free.