Once Upon a Dream

1

Ballycastle

County Mayo, Ireland

April 1821

Mutton and cabbage again?

Lady Kincaid slammed the cover back on the pot of stew Lucy had just hung over the kitchen fire and shoved her bony hands onto her bony hips with a grimace of disgust. Can’t you for once be a little more original, Lucy? This is the third time this week you’ve cooked that slop.

Lucy turned from the tub of washing in the sink, wringing out one of her stepsister’s nightdresses. I’m sorry, Aunt Eunice, she said, pushing a damp lock of hair off her forehead with one tired wrist. A haunch of mutton was all I could find at the market this week that was affordable. There’s not enough money left in this month’s budget for anything else.

And whose fault is that, I wonder? Certainly not mine. Certainly not Fiona’s or Amaryllis’s—my poor daughters have suffered aplenty because of you. You can lay the blame for our troubles at your own door, Miss Lucy Kincaid, and don’t you forget it the next time you think to complain.

Yes, Aunt Eunice, Lucy said wearily. There was nothing else to say, and in any case, she’d heard it all a hundred times before.

Her fault. Her fault that they lived in a ramshackle house on a windswept cliff, her fault that there was hardly enough money to support the four of them, her fault that Amaryllis and Fiona had to make do with last year’s dresses and she had to make do with dresses she’d outgrown three years ago. Her fault, her fault, her fault. It was a never-ending litany of blame, heaped on her from morning until night. She bowed her head, wishing she was anywhere else than in this dark, dank kitchen, listening to her stepmother’s shrill voice. But that was nothing new either.

The girls and I are going into Ballina to pay calls, her stepmother said, pulling on her gloves. We’ll be back by six, and I expect the washing and ironing to be done and the house to be spotless. Oh, and Lucy, there’s a basket of mending in my bedroom. Be sure you have it completed before we return.

And my bed linen needs changing, Lucy, Fiona said, prancing into the kitchen. I spilled my morning cocoa on it. Her long pointed nose went up in the air like a badger’s, sniffing, then wrinkling in distaste. "Not mutton and cabbage again! Oh, Mama, I think I’m going to be sick. Can’t you do something with the girl?"

Poor darling, I know what a trial she is to you, but I’m afraid that, as usual, Lucy squandered our monthly allowance.

Typical, Fiona said, plumping up the carrot-red hair that Lucy had painstakingly arranged for her. She can’t do anything right. She put her bonnet on top of the pile and marched over to Lucy. Tie the bow, and for goodness sake, dry your hands first, she commanded, leaning forward and sticking her pointy chin within an inch of Lucy’s face.

Lucy obliged, silently longing to pull the bonnet right down over Fiona’s ears. There, she said, turning back to the washing, wishing they would go and leave her in peace. Peace. That was a joke. She hadn’t had a moment’s peace since the day eight years before when her stepmother had arrived on her father’s arm and turned her life into a living hell. It had only gone downhill from there.

Mama! Mama, Fiona’s stolen my petticoat, the one with the lace trimming, Amaryllis cried, barreling into the kitchen, her round, pimply face mottled red with rage.

I did not, Fiona said, turning on her sister. It’s mine, mine I say! You tore yours last week, remember, and you sneaked it into my drawer after Lucy mended it, thinking I wouldn’t notice that you exchanged them.

"Liar! I did not. It was you who tore your petticoat last week. Isn’t that right, Lucy?"

I wouldn’t know, Lucy said, disgusted with both of them. Would they never stop squabbling? They both look the same to me, and what difference does it really make? The tear is virtually invisible now.

You may think so, but I know it’s there, Amaryllis said sulkily. Look. She hoisted her skirt, showing one plump calf, and stretched out a length of white material. There’s the rip, right there, as plain as day.

Lucy peered at the tiny stitches that bound the flounce to the linen. She could barely see them herself, and she knew exactly where they were, for it had taken her over an hour to painstakingly execute them. Amaryllis had never offered a word of thanks, but then if she had, Lucy would have fallen on her backside in shock. I’m sorry the stitching is not to your satisfaction, she said curtly. I’d offer you my own petticoat, but I don’t think you’d care for the coarse cotton.

Eunice ignored her, waving her hand at her daughters. Come along, girls. Time is wasting. Let us leave Lucy to her cleaning or she’ll never have it done by the time we return.

She swept out of the kitchen, Fiona and Amaryllis in tow, the sounds of squabbling fading as the front door slammed.

They were gone. Thank the Good Lord for small mercies, Lucy whispered, glancing up at the clock, already bone weary. Eleven o’clock, and she had at least two days’ work to fit into seven hours. But if she was quick and thorough, she’d be able to escape for a walk before they returned. Her stolen time outside, drinking in fresh air and walking over the land she loved, was the only thing that renewed her, that kept her sane.

Oh, for the old days at Kincaid …

Once life had been so grand, so glorious, when Kincaid and its people had prospered under her father’s tender care. And then it had all fallen apart.

Kincaid. Lucy covered her eyes with her hand, willing away the image of lush trees and rolling green fields cut through by the sparkling blue of the River Moy, willing away the memory of the great stone house where sunshine blazed at the windows in summer and winters were warmed by roaring fires in the grates.

Kincaid, where she had spent her childhood with a mother and father who loved her and gave her a life as free as a bird in the sky. Gone, all gone now, both her parents dead and the house fallen into neglect, the man who had stolen the estate from her father not even caring enough to look after it. Thomas Montagu had been nothing more than a boozing absentee squireen who had allowed his land agent to evict more innocent tenants than she could count and who had brought the very land to ruin from sheer negligence, interested only in enriching himself at the expense of the poor.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing away the tears that threatened. She would not cry. She’d given up crying six years ago, on the day she’d buried her father, the day that her stepmother of only twenty months had boxed her ears and told that she wouldn’t stand for tears, that their impoverished situation was all Lucy’s fault and she’d spend the rest of her life paying for it. So far she had, and there was no end in sight.

Nothing was ever good enough for Eunice, not that there was money to manage anything else, thanks to the dishonorable Mr. Montagu. But a fat lot of good it did to blame him now, with him six feet under and no way to put the situation back the way it had been.

Oh, she had rejoiced indeed when news had come the year before that Thomas Montagu had broken his filthy English neck on the hunt field. She hoped with everything in her that his black soul would bum in hell for all eternity for what he’d done to her father, although the question now was what further calamity was going to befall Kincaid, now that Thomas Montagu’s cousin was the new owner.

Not a word had been heard from him since his cousin had died. What did Kincaid matter to him? What did he care about the suffering of the evicted tenants, whose bellies ached with hunger and whose children had little chance of surviving rampant disease even if they didn’t die of starvation?

Lucy glanced out the window of their bleak house on the edge of the peat bog and gazed longingly toward the cliffs of Downpatrick Head where terns and seagulls wheeled freely and unfettered in the overcast sky, beckoning to her.

Hurry, hurry, she told herself. If you’re fast enough, you’ll have a good half hour of freedom. A half hour to forget your misery and exhaustion, to forget this prison, a half hour to let your soul fly free, a half hour to dream …

She turned back to the sink and began scrubbing in earnest.

It’s a damned good thing you broke your neck, Thomas Montagu, or I would have broken it for you.

Raphael Montagu, eighth Duke of Southwell, hissed the words out from between his teeth as he stood on a bluff looking down over the sorry sight of Kincaid Court, the property he’d become responsible for on the day his cousin had died. Rafe hadn’t received the news for a full six months, the solicitor’s letter informing him of Thomas’s death following him around the Mediterranean until it finally reached him in Nice just as he was about to embark for England after a year’s absence.

Fortunately, his various competent stewards and solicitors had looked after his assorted properties with solid heads while he’d been away. Nothing untoward had greeted him on his arrival. Nothing, at least, until this moment.

Rafe shaded his eyes and cast his gaze over the house, standing simple and proud in its emerald-green valley, the mottled gray stone reflecting the hazy light as if it had been built for that purpose alone.

Its basic structure was clean, but the dilapidation that had fallen on what once must have been magnificence was in evidence everywhere. Windows were broken, the roof dripped with damp, and grass had grown up in a wild tangle outside what had once obviously been a well-kept courtyard. Now sheep and horses grazed there with abandon.

He’d had a sinking feeling as he rode down the long carriageway that something was badly amiss, for the fields lay fallow and cottages stood empty, shutters and doors hanging loose on hinges. He knew poverty ran rife in Ireland, but he hadn’t expected to find such a miserable state of affairs at the great house, not after he’d seen the papers that had documented the condition the estate was in when Thomas had taken it over some six years before.

He turned to the land agent who silently stood ten paces behind him, his cap pulled low over his brow and his arms folded across his chest. How long has this been going on? Rafe demanded in icy tones.

How long has what been going on, your grace? Paddy Delany replied, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

This—this travesty, Rafe said. This complete lack of attention to the estate? I find it hard to believe that in the one year since my cousin’s death the property has fallen into such a deplorable condition.

There was no money, your grace, Paddy said, tugging at the brim of his cap. No money at all, not to run things the way they should have been, he added.

No money? It was my understanding that my cousin had income aplenty from this estate, more than enough to keep it going.

Had, your grace, that being the point, you see. I’m not wanting to speak ill of the dead, but your cousin was fond of his excesses, if you catch my meaning … He shrugged and smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Rafe didn’t like the look of antagonism that lay behind them in the least. Paddy Delany might behave as if he were a beleaguered land agent, but Rafe strongly suspected that the story went far deeper. I see, he said evenly. And yet it was my understanding that you have been responsible for the running of Kincaid Hall for these past six years. As I said, before that time the estate returned a handsome profit. Where, may I ask, has that profit been invested since?

Paddy Delany crossed his arms, meeting Rafe’s unwavering stare as if he were Rafe’s equal, if not his better, an attitude that Rafe was not accustomed to and not appreciative of. "I wouldn’t know, your grace," he said, his tone barely concealing sarcasm. As I said, your cousin had his ways, and he wasn’t likely to put back profits into the land that he might otherwise put in his pockets.

What, exactly, are you implying? Rafe asked, his tone stony.

"Why, nothing at all, your grace. What I’m telling you is that your cousin wasn’t here all that much, preferring his own country to ours. I had to make do with what I had. And then when he died and there was no money at all … Paddy Delany shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed heavily. We all suffered, your grace. It’s a blessing you showed up when you did, sure it is, or who knows what might have happened? My sainted mother was on her knees in thankful prayer when she heard you were coming, she that close to her deathbed with the cold and barely any peat left for the fire."

I’m not interested in your sainted mother, Delany, or her supposed proximity to her deathbed, Rafe said impatiently, thoroughly tired of being treated like an imbecile. I am only interested in what has happened here, and why.

Well, then, and aren’t you just like the rest of your grand countrymen, caring nothing for the plight of the Irish you’ve robbed and swindled? Delany said, his tone now cocky. You show up here asking all sorts of questions, but since you don’t seem inclined to hear the truth of the matter, you’ll get no more answers from me.

As far as I’m aware, I haven’t robbed or swindled a soul in my life, Rafe said dryly. And to be perfectly blunt, I find your insinuation insulting.

"And to be perfectly blunt, I find your questions insulting, your grace. If you don’t trust what I have to tell you when you have no other word to go on, then you’re a fool. What do you know of our lives, our miserable conditions, when you yourself have admitted you’ve never before stepped foot in our country? What do you know of poverty, of hunger?"

He kicked at a clod of grass, sending a shower of earth into the air. "Do you see this? This is good soil that could have fed—and once did feed—at least a hundred people until your cousin demanded it be turned into hunting ground for himself and his friends, and they rarely showed up to use it even for that. And you all but accuse me of being responsible for the state of things here?"

Rafe ran his gaze over the land agent’s tattered cloth coat, the worn leather of his boots. He nodded, making a silent decision to keep the man on despite his attitude. Paddy Delany might be an insolent devil, but he had a point—Rafe had no one else to rely on.

You had better show me the most recent books, Mr. Delany. We need to formulate some sort of workable plan. Clearly the estate cannot be allowed to deteriorate further or it will lose what little value it has left.

Right you are, your grace, Paddy said with a brisk nod of his head, as if to say that he was pleased that his new employer had finally seen reason. Let’s have at it then, although you won’t find much there. It was a fight keeping a single penny out of Mr. Montagu’s hands, but you’ll see that for yourself by the time you’re finished.

Rafe unfortunately believed that—he’d known his cousin a little too well and had never had a moment’s liking for the man, an undisciplined, profligate bastard with no sense of responsibility toward anyone or anything. If there was one thing Rafe could not tolerate, it was a man who didn’t take his obligations seriously.

What about the family who lived here previously? What happened to them? he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Thomas had had a way of leaving destruction in his path.

Paddy cleared his throat. I really couldn’t say, your grace. I know they moved away to a poor showing of a house and one not befitting the station of an Irish baron, but it couldn’t be helped. Their leaving had something to do with political troubles, I can say that much, but who doesn’t have political troubles in these parts?

So I understand, Rafe said shortly, his heart taking a dive even as he spoke the words. He also knew how ruthless Thomas could be, how he’d never let anything stand in the way of something he wanted. And apparently he’d wanted Kincaid. Where is this house?

Paddy Delany jerked his head toward the north. It’s that way, outside of Ballycastle, not so far from the sea. Lord Kincaid died six years back, and his widow and the daughters live there alone near the cliffs of Downpatrick Head, that much I do know. He cleared his throat again. But what would you be wanting with them?

Rafe asked himself the same question. But the answer wasn’t really so difficult or obscure. If Thomas had behaved in his usual fashion, then chances were that he was responsible for their plight. And if that was the case, then it was Rafe’s responsibility to find out the circumstances. Tomorrow. He’d see to it tomorrow, for he’d had all he could take for one day.

He walked over to the white gelding grazing nearby that he’d hired from a reluctant blacksmith in Killala, and taking the reins, he mounted it. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, Delany. Have the books ready. And in the meantime, open the house. I intend to move in tomorrow.

Where will you stay tonight, your grace? Delany asked, his eyes reflecting nothing at all.

At an inn in Ballina. Surely someone will be willing to take a filthy Englishman’s money?

That remark shook the neutral expression off Paddy Delany’s face. You might try Mulligan’s on the main street, he offered, his eyes flashing suppressed fire. They could use the custom, and their linen is clean and the food decent. At least they won’t shoot you in your sleep.

I thank you. It’s a reassuring thought that I might wake to see another dawn. Good day, Mr. Delany.

Rafe didn’t bother to wait for an answer. He turned the gelding’s head and kicked it into a gallop, wishing only to clear his head by the sea. But first he had to collect his belongings and his valet, Adams, and check into the inn. The Kincaid family and their problems could wait.

An hour later he mounted his horse again and headed north. He finally drew to a halt on the edge of the double-sided cliff called Downpatrick Head and gazed out over the ocean, the waves crashing and spuming against the sheer foot of rock, an impossibly long drop below. He pressed his fingers to his temples as if he could still the pounding that had started in his head when he’d first viewed the desperate wreck Kincaid Court had become.

Ireland. It was a strange country. Something about it disturbed him; perhaps it was the cold, misty light that obscured everything it touched, or perhaps it was the starkness of the wild, windswept wastes and bare cliff faces, so suddenly contradicted by undulating verdant landscapes. Rafe relished clarity; it gave life form and definition. The world was complicated enough as it was without the added confusion of a country that couldn’t make up its mind about what it was.

He shook his head. Even the people couldn’t decide who they were. He knew all about the constant uprisings, the ongoing fight for Irish republicanism. Protestant, Catholic, neither was happy with the other, nor could they agree on anything, including their mutual national identity. Anglo-Irish were pitted against Gaelic Irish, peasants were pitted against landowners, and Protestants relentlessly squeezed the life out of the Catholics, forcing them to pay tithes to the Anglican church, not allowing them to hold office or even own a decent amount of land.

Everything in this bloody place was a battle. He’d never encountered ruder, more obstreperous or antagonistic people in his life. Even getting the barest civility out of the innkeeper in Ballina had proved impossible, and all he’d done was ask a few simple questions, such as what had become of the Kincaid family. Apparently Paddy Delany wasn’t the only one unwilling to talk about them, and he wondered why.

I wouldn’t be knowing anything about Lady Kincaid and her daughters, your grace, Mulligan had said sullenly as he’d handed Rafe his room key, the contempt in his voice barely disguised. I’ve worries enough of my own without adding other people’s troubles to them. In any case, Lady Kincaid is British and her business is none of mine.

The implication was clear. Raphael was also British and not welcome to information or hospitality beyond what his money bought for a room and meal. Charming. With the exception of Paddy Delany, whose job depended on being marginally civil to his new employer, not a single soul he’d met had anything pleasant to say to him.

Rafe, my boy, he murmured, shifting in his saddle as he patted his horse’s neck, you are about to embark on the single most foolish act of your life, and may God save your sorry soul.

He rubbed his face hard, then dropped his hands and looked back over the roaring sea. And then a movement on the cliff directly opposite him caught the corner of his eye, and he drew in a sharp breath of surprise.

A woman was walking across the top, a young woman. His gaze narrowed. One didn’t see women who walked like that in the drawing rooms of London. There was nothing modulated about this woman’s movements; she walked over the land as if she belonged to it and it to her, as if they existed in perfect harmony together. Her dark hair blew liberated of restraint, streaming out behind her, the red cloak fastened around her shoulders beating hard around her body as she moved toward the edge of the cliff, facing into the wind that blew in from the ocean.

She appeared perfectly free, as if she had no constraints, no ties that bound her. Freedom … Rafe released a heavy sigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt free.

He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her lithe, sure strides reminded him of one of the ancient goddesses. It was as if somehow she represented everything he was no longer and would never be again. Egeria—that’s who she reminded him of, the Roman goddess connected with water who had so wisely advised Numa Pompilius, second king of Rome. Theirs had been a beautiful story, symbol of the human heart’s search for an ideal love, immortalized by Byron.

Romantic love was a quest in which Rafe personally had been thoroughly stymied, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that unless an Egeria of his own fell across his path, a highly unlikely event at this late date. In theory, one couldn’t miss what one had never had, but there was some small corner of his soul that longed for love nevertheless.

His horse tossed his head and let out a soft whinny, and Rafe steadied him with a firm hand.

His eyes hungrily drank in the woman as she halted on the cliff’s precipice and turned her face up to the sky, a smile on her lips. He wished … he didn’t really know what he wished, only that he might feel as peaceful as she looked in that moment.

And then she began to speak, words called in a soft, musical Irish accent, words he knew by heart, words blown over to him by the grace of a westerly breeze, each one clearly enunciated.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Something tight squeezed at Rafe’s heart, an indefinable emotion that caused him to lean forward in the saddle and grip the reins tighter in his hand. She knew. She understood. The private words she spoke to the wind were Byron’s, culled from the fourth canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the poem he had read over and over again in his quest to try to make sense of the Universe, of his life. And she spoke them as if she knew them and their meaning as surely as he did. As if she understood the deep wounds that afflicted a soul and rendered it helpless, as if she too had been wounded by events beyond her control.

Rafe was possessed with a mad desire to kick his horse and try to find a way over to the other side, to find out who she was, where she came from, to tell her that he too understood. But there was no fast way over to her that he could see, not without going a half mile around and back again.

She suddenly turned as if she’d felt his gaze upon her. Her eyes met his across the expanse that separated them and her body went utterly still, one hand pressed against her throat.

Rafe’s breath caught. He could not make out every detail of her features, but there was no mistaking the wild beauty of her face even at that distance, or the spellbound expression in her eyes. The moment stretched endlessly as if time ceased to exist, the two of them caught in a mystical enchantment that bound them helplessly together, neither able to tear their gaze away.

The ocean crashed violently against the edges of the separate cliff faces, but even its roar couldn’t drown out the words that pounded in Rafe’s ears as if pulled from his very heart, and he wanted to speak them aloud to her in acknowledgment. But the wind blew the wrong way, and he knew she’d never hear.

And then a miracle occurred, for the wind suddenly died down and a silence fell, leaving only the distant crashing of wave against rock as a backdrop.

And so he spoke, seizing upon the immediacy of the moment and taking the opportunity to offer back to her the gift of Byron’s poetry, hoping she would hear and know that he did understand, that they stood in the same place, even though they were separated by an abyss. He called the words to her, as loudly as he could, yet they sounded soft in his heart.

Egeria! sweet creature of some heart

Which found no mortal resting-place so fair

As thine ideal breast; what’er thou art

Or wert,—a young Aurora of the air,

The nympholepsy of some fond despair;

Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,

Who found a more than common votary there

Too much adoring; whatso’er thy birth,

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

A startled look came over her face, and then she took two halting steps backward. And spoke again in reply, staring directly at him, hand gripped to her white throat, her voice filled with emotion—and an anger he didn’t understand.

There is the moral of all human tales;

’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,

First Freedom, and then Glory—when that fails,

Wealth, vice, corruption,—barbarism at last.

And History, with all her volumes vast,

Hath but one page,—’tis better written here,

Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass’d …

Her voice broke off suddenly and she turned, taking another step toward the precipice. And just as suddenly she fell over the edge and plunged from sight.

Rafe stared, horrified, the breath leaving his body in a great rush. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be gone, just like that. He was having another nightmare and any moment he’d wake up …

But he knew perfectly well he was awake. And he knew that she was gone, never to return. She had taken her life as he had unwittingly watched.

He kicked the gelding furiously, urging it toward the path that led to the other side of the cliff, galloping at breakneck speed toward the spot where he’d last seen her. A darkness clouded his vision, caused not by the waning light but by a desperation in his soul.

He knew all too well the wrenching despair that led people to such acts of self-destruction. Maybe the freedom and purpose he’d seen in her stride as she’d approached the face of the cliff had been just that—an intent to free herself from the harsh tethers of life, just as his father had freed himself on that awful day twenty years before, taking Rafe’s freedom with him.

On that day Rafe’s life had irrevocably changed. On that day a nine-year-old boy had been forced to become a man. On that day Rafe had discovered the meaning of secrets.

He flung himself off the back of his horse, running to the place where she’d last stood. Wincing, he looked down. The ocean swirled far beneath, crashing furiously against the sheer rock edge below, sending great angry sprays up into the wind. A slight ledge jutted out two feet below, but it led nowhere. Nowhere at all.

There was nothing else to be seen, nothing else to be heard. Just the heaving water and the haunting, melancholy cries of the gulls and terns, as if they too mourned her passing. She had been swallowed up by the sea, gone as if she’d never existed. And he’d only just found her.

A harsh cry ripped from his throat as a terrible surge of anguish swept over him. Had she looked at him in her last moments of her life, her gaze unwavering and so eloquent, so full of heart, because she knew it was the last time she would gaze on anyone? And he hadn’t even known what her eyes had been telling him, poetry clouding his brain.

… To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal …

It all sounded different now, the words taking on ominous meaning. And later, she had spoken of the moral of all human tales, of vice, corruption, and tyranny. What had her life been like, to drive her to such an act?

If only he’d realized—had called something to her, done something different, something to let her know that he could have changed everything, whatever it took. He would have done it. He would have done it.

Rafe finally raised his head as dark drew in. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, only that he was tired, hungry, and cold to the depth of his soul.

He’d felt alone for the majority of his life, but he had never felt as alone and helpless as he did now. So futile and empty. And yet there was nothing to be done. Even in his dismay, he was wise enough to realize that reporting the incident would be a mistake. Feelings ran high against the British, and he didn’t need a trumped-up murder charge to contend with along with everything else. Her body would wash up somewhere and someone would claim her.

He was back to keeping secrets. But what was one more secret now?

Poor Egeria. Poor, desperate Egeria.

Rafe mounted his horse and turned its head toward Ballina and the prospect of a solitary meal he no longer desired in front of a roaring fire at his inhospitable inn. He doubted the night would hold much sleep.

2

British Lucy muttered, stopping to catch her breath. She bent and rubbed her sore knees, grazed by her tumble on the rough rock. If she hadn’t been so upset, she would have watched where she was going, for the hidden path down through the sinkhole that she used as a shortcut home was narrow and dangerous and only to be used with great caution.

She straightened again and planted her hands on her hips. Wouldn’t you just know it? That’s what you get for letting your head be turned by fairy tales, Lucy Kincaid. It’s a lucky thing you didn’t kill yourself.

It was a miracle, really, considering the narrowness of the ledge she’d tripped on, upended by shock and disappointment.

If he’d just kept silent, all would have been well and her lovely fantasy would have stayed intact. But he hadn’t. He’d gone and opened his mouth, and out had come the vile accents of an Englishman. An Englishman, of all despicable things. No prince at all.

But in all fairness to herself, he had looked like a prince of old, sitting on his white horse, with his halo of golden hair and handsome features, his piercing eyes that gazed at her as if she were the princess he’d been seeking in all the four corners of the earth. A prince who had all the right qualifications, for he knew poetry, well enough to quote the correct verse back at her. A prince who had come to rescue her from her miserable life and carry her off on his white charger to a bright future.

What a fool she was. Worse, she was a late fool, and if she didn’t hurry, she was bound to hear all about it as soon as she returned home.

She knew better than to linger on the cliffs, but the day had turned so fine, and the sunshine and fresh air felt so wonderful after a long day stuck indoors frantically trying to finish her chores. She didn’t know how the time had gotten away from her, only that the prince—no, the Englishman, she quickly corrected—had held her enthralled.

It just went to show how true the old adage was that looks were deceiving. If she’d known what he really was, she never would have given him a second glance. Her mistake. And a big one if she didn’t get home before her stepmother.

She picked up her skirts and began to run in earnest.

Where have you been, you odious girl? Eunice flung the front door open just as Lucy barreled toward it. She took in her stepmother’s furious face with a sinking heart.

I was just out walking, Aunt, she said, ducking as her stepmother’s hand swung out, but she didn’t move fast enough. The hard slap echoed in her ear and left her cheek stinging painfully.

Just walking, you say? A likely story. I came home to find the house empty and the stew burning in the pot! And this after I distinctly told you to do your chores!

But I did do my chores, every last one of them, Lucy said, covering her cheek with a shaking hand. The washing and ironing and mending are done and the house is scrubbed spotless, just as you wished. I only wanted a breath of fresh air.

You know you are forbidden to leave this house on your own, Eunice said, grabbing Lucy and pulling her through to the kitchen so violently that she nearly wrenched Lucy’s arm out of its socket. She released Lucy with a sudden jerk that sent her flying onto the floor.

Look at what your disobedience has caused this time, she spat, pointing accusingly at the pot that now hung sideways on the hook. Its cover lay on the hearth where Eunice had thrown it, and the contents dripped slowly down into the fire, sending up spurts of greasy smoke. The unpleasant odor of scorched lamb and burning fat filled the air.

I—I’m sorry, Lucy said, staggering to her feet. I thought I had left enough stock in the pot to keep the stew from burning. And then she realized that in her exhaustion and her haste to get away she had forgotten to add the two extra cups of liquid that she’d set aside for that purpose.

You’re sorry, Eunice sneered. You’re always sorry, Lucy, and I’m tired of hearing it, for your apologies mean nothing, and we both know it. She took two steps toward Lucy, her posture menacing.

Please, Aunt Eunice, Lucy said, backing away. She didn’t think she could bear to be struck again. She knew all too well the extent of pain her aunt could inflict in anger. I didn’t mean any harm, really I didn’t. I’ll make something else for dinner—it won’t take me a moment—

Eunice caught her by the ear and twisted it. Oh, you’ll make something else indeed, not that you’ll be eating any of it. That’s the least of your worries, my girl. Her eyes narrowed. I’ve warned you what I’d do if I caught you sneaking out to engage in seditious activities and who would pay. It would only take a word from me to the magistrate and your precious O’Reillys would lose their land and their livelihoods, no less than any of them deserve. I am an Englishwoman, and my charge of sedition would be taken seriously, very seriously indeed, especially given the circumstances I have been thrown into because of you.

Lucy’s eyes widened in fear. Oh, please, Aunt—please don’t! I swear that I only went for a walk—I saw no one, no one at all. You can’t turn in innocent people for crimes they haven’t committed—that would be as bad as what happened to us!

Her stepmother dropped her hand and Lucy clapped her fingers to her burning ear. No peasant in this despicable country is innocent of subversion, and you least of all, Eunice said. I know all about the insurrectionist thoughts you still harbor in your heart, despite the calamity you caused. Your father would be alive today if it hadn’t been for you.

Lucy closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She could tolerate almost anything at all, even the charge that she was an insurrectionist, but the accusation that she was responsible for her father’s death cut more deeply than she could bear, for that much was true. Her stepmother only brought out that particular allegation when she was hell-bent on making Lucy suffer, and Lucy refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I made a nice vegetable soup for tomorrow’s lunch that you can have for dinner tonight, and I’ll cut some cheese, she said, raising her chin. The bread I baked this afternoon is still warm. I’m happy to go without, and I’ll take any other punishment that you wish to give me, but please, do not harm the O’Reillys, for they have done nothing wrong.

Her stepmother smiled coldly. Very well, I’ll spare the O’Reillys this time, since you beg so prettily. Now get on with preparing another meal. The girls and I are famished.

Lucy nodded, grateful that her stepmother had rescinded her threat, or at least for the moment. As soon as Eunice left the kitchen, Lucy immediately went to the stove and heated the soup. Then she quickly laid the table and scoured the scorched stew pot, knowing that if she didn’t fulfill her tasks, Eunice would not hesitate to wield the sword she’d been hanging over Lucy’s head for six long years.

It was blackmail, pure and simple, but diabolically effective. With one word from Eunice, dear Mr. O’Reilly would be thrown into