Ella Wood: The Complete Trilogy

By Michelle Isenhoff

Includes all three books in the Ella Wood trilogy:

ELLA WOOD

As slavery pushes the nation toward civil war, Emily must battle her father in her own bid for freedom. She's prepared to pay any price to escape the plantation and attend a northern university newly opened to women. Meanwhile Thaddeus Black, her handsome and unwanted suitor, simply won't take no for an answer. While her mind is willing to strike out alone, her heart stubbornly refuses to accept that a choice for independence must be a choice against love.

"Poetic" and "nuanced," Ella Wood is the story of a young woman standing at the edge of war and struggling with questions of morality, purpose, and love. 

BLOOD MOON

Charleston lies in ruins and so, it seems, does Emily's future. She's been banished from Ella Wood over her vocal disapproval of slavery, and her relationship with Thad comes to an impasse when his support of her university career falters. Stepping out alone into a war-torn future will require all the fortitude she can muster. In the midst of such uncertainty, she finds that hope rises from ashes, determination grows with adversity, and love can take root in the most stubborn of hearts.

"Richly textured," "absorbing," and "impeccably researched," Blood Moon was reader-nominated for a Cybils Award. 

EBB TIDE

When the Union navy fires on Charleston, Emily must flee to Ella Wood—and to a father who has never forgiven her for attending the Maryland Institute against his will. There, she grapples with Jack's secret plans for the plantation and his final admonition that she carry them to fruition. But as a woman under the authority of her father, evoking even the slightest change may prove too much to hope for. In the meantime, old jealousies place Emily's life in danger, and her desperate hope for Jovie's return begins to fade. As the war rumbles to its conclusion, she must draw upon every ounce of courage in one final bid for love and freedom.

All three books in the Ella Wood trilogy are clean and wholesome. Don't miss this sweeping Southern romance.!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Isenhoff
• Release date: Jan 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386501992

Michelle Isenhoff

MICHELLE ISENHOFF's work has been reader-nominated for a Cybils Award, the Great Michigan Read, and the Maine Student Book Award. She's also placed as a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Review Book Awards, a finalist in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards, and earned multiple Readers' Favorite 5 Star seals of approval. A former teacher and longtime homeschooler, Michelle has written extensively in the children's genre and been lauded by the education community for the literary quality of her work. These days, she writes full time in the adult historical fiction and speculative fiction genres. To keep up with new releases, sign up for her newsletter at http://hyperurl.co/new-release-list.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Ella Wood

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Historical Notes

Blood Moon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Historical Notes

Ebb Tide

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Historical Notes

Ella Wood Novellas

Also by Michelle Isenhoff

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About Michelle

The Ella Wood Trilogy Boxed Set. Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Isenhoff. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Edited by Amy Nemecek.

Candle Star Press

www.michelleisenhoff.com

Ella Wood

Ella Wood Trilogy

Book One

Michelle Isenhoff

To light a candle is to cast a shadow.

—Ursula K. Le Guin

Introduction

Four years ago I published The Candle Star, a stand-alone title among my collection of Civil War middle grade fiction. The book was well received by a general adult readership, and I began receiving emails asking questions like, Why didn’t you follow Emily’s storyline? and What happens to Emily?

Ella Wood is my response.

Parents of middle graders, please note that I have bumped Ella Wood into the young adult genre. Emily is now sixteen, standing at the edge of war and struggling with questions of morality, purpose, and love. Slavery, dealt with so carefully in my series for young readers, is shown in a much harsher light, and some themes are adult in nature. A clean read, Ella Wood is nevertheless intended for an audience of some maturity.

You need not read The Candle Star to enjoy Ella Wood.

And now, readers, the continuing story of Emily Preston…

Chapter 1

Ella Wood Plantation

October 27, 1860

The sight of blood had a powerful effect on Emily Preston. It was just a trickle of red oozing from a black woman’s finger, but it rocked the very foundation of her upbringing.

She nudged Chantilly down the dim riding trail. Dawn was her favorite hour, when mist hung low over Ella Wood and cloaked the plantation in a veil of solitude. Moist, earthy breaths billowed up from the bottomlands to condense on the foliage and roll off in lazy droplets. High above the sleeping earth, trees held a solemn vigil until the sun sneaked its gentle, prodding fingers beneath their branches. Emily treasured these quiet moments before the air grew cluttered with the sounds of waking.

She shivered beneath her riding habit. Autumn had cast a chill over both sides of midnight, though no South Carolina season ever conjured up the frigid temperatures she had experienced in Michigan. She could hardly believe a year and a half had passed since her visit. When she’d grown unmanageable as a child, her parents had sent her away to her mother’s brother in Detroit. She'd resented the exile initially but came to develop a tremendous respect for Uncle Isaac. And it was in his hotel that Julia Watson had drawn her own blood.

You’s so full o’ yo’ own color you can’t trade places wid a black person even in yo’ own imagination, Julia had bristled when Emily flaunted her ancestry. But when we’s hurt, we bleed de same color, Miss Emily. The woman picked up a paring knife, flicking her fingertip with the sharp point. Look here, she demanded, shoving the drop of blood before the girl’s eyes. When we’s hurt, you and I, we both bleed red.

The image had seared itself into Emily’s mind, the words plunging like boulders through the smooth surface of her schooling. Eighteen months later, the waves still rocked her.

A low melody drifted into the meadow. The slaves were beginning their day’s labor. Though the harvest was over, plenty of tasks awaited attention during the off-season. Fences needed mending, outbuildings stood in need of repair, and the earthen dikes and ditches that scored the rice fields required constant maintenance. Their people did the work dutifully. Ella Wood followed a predictable pattern, season by season, with all parts working together like intricate clockwork.

Emily had always thought the world was designed to work in such a way—strong black bodies to do the labor and sharp white minds to manage the details and ensure provision. Until Julia Watson thrust a bleeding finger under her nose. Until Julia’s son Malachi displayed a mind sharper than her own. Until she was exposed to a thriving free black community comprised of individuals with dreams and ambitions as lofty as her own.

The path grew less wooded and opened into a field toothed with stubble from last season’s corn. The light shone brighter here, unhampered by leaves that still clung to the trees with tenacious fingertips. She could begin to pick out the colors of the hardwoods on the low hill that guarded the estate’s northernmost border—shades of vermillion, raw sienna, and burnt umber that would grow bolder and more vibrant with the strengthening of the sun.

Ella Wood was so beautiful, so sheltered, it was hard to believe disharmony existed elsewhere in the world. But Emily knew the ideas she’d been exposed to in the North could never coexist with the way of life in the South. Bloodshed in faraway Kansas had proven that compromise no longer purchased peace. Every day she feared an incitement that would escort the rumble of violence into her own back yard.

What a world to bring a foal into, eh, Chantilly? The mare stamped a hoof, chuffing out a geyser of vapor. Emily patted the black neck. Oh, don’t get excited. You have a few months yet.

She turned the mare toward home, startling a deer that grazed in the shadow merging forest with farmland. Eager for her breakfast, Chantilly broke into a trot. They soon passed the corn barn, followed by the rice barn, the winnowing yard, and the mill. Nearer to home, Emily could make out the quiet clamor of livestock pens and smell the distinctive odors of cattle, sheep, and hogs. A wayward goose fluttered off the road. Then only a cluster of slave cabins lay between her and the stable yard.

Emily slowed as they approached the village. The cabins stood like a ring of secrets just within sight of the big house. She had played there often as a child and still recognized most of the faces, but as she’d outdistanced her youth, an invisible curtain seemed to draw itself around the perimeter of the community. Open smiles morphed into polite greetings that lacked the warmth she remembered from childhood. She’d grown into an outsider, the master’s daughter.

The smell of cook fires lingered in the air, though the only chimneys still smoking belonged to the elderly who cared for the slave children during the workday. Emily adored the little ones. Tolerated and even indulged by her parents, they were free to roam the plantation. For them, age and experience had not yet solidified into caste.

A pair of dark brown eyes peered from a doorway. Good morning, Lottie, Emily called.

The girl smiled shyly, clutching a brown-skinned doll to her chest. Mornin’, Miss Emily. Approximately ten years old, she was bright, with delicate features and an agreeable temperament. Emily’s mother had handpicked her to begin training as a new parlor maid and possibly even her personal maid, since Phoebe was getting along in years.

Was Herod able to fix your doll?

He got de arm workin’ again good as new. Lottie demonstrated by lifting the jointed limb.

The toy had been given to Emily by Aunt Margaret, her father’s elder sister, who often traveled to exotic locations. It had lain in a box for years, until Emily rediscovered it a week ago.

The child’s smile pleased Emily. I thought he might if you asked prettily enough. He can fix just about anything.

When he ain’t bein’ ornery.

Big brothers are like that sometimes, she sympathized. Will I see you after breakfast?

Lottie nodded.

Emily gave her a little wave and rode on past.

Zeke, the elderly manumitted slave who had chosen to remain as butler of Ella Wood, occupied the cabin nearest to the stable. He could have his pick of rooms in the servants’ quarters on the third floor of the big house, but he preferred the small shack. Most days he arrived to work while the sun was still rolling over in bed, but this morning a blur of movement near his porch caught Emily’s eye.

It wasn’t Zeke at all. A white man, a stranger, darted from the cover of trees behind Zeke’s cabin and hustled toward the stable door, staggering slightly beneath the weight of his burden. Over one shoulder was slung the limp figure of a man.

Emily reined Chantilly to a halt.

The stranger met her eye. Holding the body steady with one hand, he brought a warning finger to his lips then disappeared like a shadow into the barn.

Emily sat frozen to the spot, eyes as round as marbles. She should yell. She should alert one of the slaves or run to inform her father, but she could only stare wide-eyed at the empty stable door. For in that brief moment of stillness she had recognized the inert man.

It was her brother.

***

Emily sat severely upright, her tightly laced corset forcing her to take shallow breaths as she watched the evening soften the landscape into shades of lavender and puce. Hers was a corner bedroom, and from the front window she had a lovely view of the manicured lawn rolling down to a dusky line of cypress trees at the river’s edge. The house had been built facing the river, the only means of transportation in those early days. To the right stood the wharf in a swampy estuary that had been widened and deepened to accommodate her father’s schooner. And from the side window she could just glimpse the sandy drive that made a wide sweep around the back yard. She turned away from the view and yelped as a hairpin burned against her scalp.

Miss Emily, you hol’ still or yo’ hair be comin’ loose when you dancin’ wid some gen’leman.

Emily winced as the maid pushed in another pin. I think I’d rather take my chances.

The colored girl glared at her in the mirror. What would Marse Preston say if you showed up lookin’ raggedy? You set still now an’ save Lizzie a beatin’.

Emily rolled her eyes. Her maid had been given to dramatics even when they were childhood playmates. At Ella Wood, reprimands were never meted out more harshly than their due. You know I don’t care about this silly ball.

You’s sixteen now, Miss Emily. Time fo’ you to start carin’.

Emily sighed in dismay. Her parents were hosting tonight’s party in honor of her birthday. The summer fevers had run their course, so the family returned from Charleston to hold the ball in the country. It would be her debut into society, even if the date did fall into an odd corner of the social calendar.

I’ve spied through the banister enough times as a child to know these events are nothing but gossip and matchmaking, Emily pronounced, and I have little use for either. I refuse to act the part of a silly, frivolous girl desperate for a husband. She whirled to face her maid. What would you say if I told you I have plans for the future that don’t include marriage?

Lizzie raised an eyebrow. I’d say you always knowed yo’ own mind, Miss Emily, and never much feared what others thought of it. But you better be on yo’ bes’ behavior tonight or you can bury dose dreams in de back yard.

Emily bit her lip. Lizzie was right. If her unconventional plans had any hope of success, she would need to curry her parents’ favor. That meant enduring an endless string of these balls. She plucked a purple mum from a vase on her dresser and began picking the petals off one by one. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I’d stayed in the North.

"Coulda fooled me. You poked yo’ nose into every corner o’ dis plantation since you come home. I’d think you was settin’ to inherit instead of Jackson."

Emily lifted her chin. Is it wrong for me to wish to understand my father’s business? Despite a few misgivings, she was proud of her heritage. Ella Wood had been established along the banks of the Ashley River in 1784 by the first William Samuel Jackson Preston. Originally a sea captain, he had made a fortune privateering during the Revolution. He'd invested his wealth into rice cultivation soon after the war, taking advantage of the devastation to amass a small kingdom. Within a decade he had turned the swampy acreage of four separate properties into productive land.

His son, Emily’s grandfather, had taken a particular interest in botany. He'd improved the local strain of rice, designed Ella Wood’s formal gardens, and expanded his father’s empire, including the purchase of a Charleston home and an estate on Wadmalaw Island, where he'd experimented with long staple cotton. Later, after Europe began demanding cotton to fuel their textile industry, Emily’s father had expanded production. But rice remained their primary crop, and Ella Wood endured as the jewel of the Preston crown.

No, miss. But mos’ white women leave such things to dey menfolk.

Emily picked off three more petals. I told you I have no intention of marrying.

Her explanation was only a partial truth. She’d been astonished by the ideas she encountered in the North, and she wanted to examine for herself the line between truth, exaggeration, and accusation.

I don’ know nothin’ ’bout such plans, but I know what I see. It ain’t right, you botherin’ dose people in de slave village all de time. Dey work hard fo’ yo’ daddy. Jus’ let ’em be.

Emily’s temper flared. It was her turn to glare into the mirror. "My father owns that village and the people who live there. I can enter whenever I wish."

I don’ know what you lookin’ fo’, Lizzie grumbled, but you ain’t gunna find it in a slave cabin.

Emily clamped her teeth closed and yanked at the purple flower. She knew exactly what drew her back to the circle of huts again and again. Not loneliness, though the remoteness of the plantation could be isolating. Behind the invisible curtain, she was searching for the intelligence, ingenuity, and skill she had found in Detroit. The unique blend of spirit and confidence she had discovered in Malachi Watson.

Malachi was the most determined person she had ever met. He alone understood her desire to cling to an unlikely dream—he was studying to become a doctor. The two of them had established a tenuous friendship despite the many differences that existed between them. He had forced her to consider life from a new perspective and tried to convince her that America could be better. Stronger.

She had not forgotten her promise to Malachi, that when she returned home she would look for little things she might do to bring about change. But she feared the kind of change Malachi sought. It threw her into confusion. If slavery were abolished altogether, the Southern economy would fall. There must be some middle ground between the two extremes. But where?

The bedroom door burst open. Her brother stood outlined within the frame, rumpled but alive. Feeling better? she drawled, tossing the handful of petals and the naked flower stem onto her dressing table.

He stepped inside. Does Father know?

She understood him perfectly but asked nonetheless. Does Father know what?

He glowered at her, holding out the monogrammed handkerchief she had pressed into his hand that morning. What did you say to him?

You mean, did I tell him I found you passed out drunk in the stable? She crossed her arms pertly, savoring his discomfort.

Did you?

No, I did not. I’m no snitch. A secret that powerful was too good to spill too soon.

He dropped the handkerchief on her floor and exited as abruptly as he entered. Emily wrinkled her nose at the sour odor he left behind. He better take a bath if he wants to keep his secret.

Lizzie shook her head. He a troubled man.

Jack? He’s got everything. Wealth, horses, land…freedom, she said with a twist of bitterness.

The girl moved to tuck in one last stray strand of Emily’s hair. Dey’s people in de slave cabins mo’ peaceful dan yo’ brother.

Emily considered her maid at length in the mirror. What about you, Lizzie? Are you happy?

The girl glanced up briefly. Dey’s worse places to live. It was the kind of vague response Emily received from all their people.

I asked if you’re happy.

Happy ’nough.

Emily turned around in her chair and sought the girl’s eyes. Lizzie, are you happy?

The maid’s glance came up slowly and held. Don’t really matter, now, does it?

Emily opened her mouth and then closed it, uncertain how to respond.

The maid turned back to her work. I s’pose neither of us should be askin’ questions we don’t really want to hear de answers to.

Emily sat in silence as the girl finished her task. If given the choice, would Lizzie leave? Were their people as capable as the free blacks she had met in Detroit? Was she selfish for wishing things would always remain just as they were?

She glanced again at the colors spilling across the landscape. But this time she was blind to the fading orange of the horizon, the russets lingering in the Thoroughbred paddock, and the purples deepening between the slave cabins. This time she saw only shadows.

Chapter 2

You finished, Miss Emily, Lizzie announced, smoothing her young mistress’s skirt and giving her hair a final pat. And none too soon. Dey’s a mess o’ carriages outside. Time to make yo’ entrance.

Emily considered her appearance in the mirror. Lizzie had twisted her sun-streaked brown hair into a braid that wrapped around her head. A single azalea bloom served as her only ornamentation. Even her gown was simple, with a deep blue bodice and a skirt that fell in gentle folds, revealing the petticoat beneath. She pulled on a pair of new white gloves and nodded approval. Her reflection looked reserved and demure. Anything but frivolous.

She glided toward the door and swallowed down a wave of apprehension. She hadn’t told Lizzie that in addition to her aversion to matchmaking, she disliked conversing with strangers one on one. Making pleasant conversation with someone she didn’t know was as bad as wearing a corset. Both left her uncomfortable, sweaty, and breathless.

In the upper hallway, the soft strains of a string quartet caressed her ears. She paused a moment to let the soothing tones wash over her. She had no aptitude for music, but she luxuriated in the sheer beauty of its sound. Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined putting the notes to canvas. She would paint them as dragonflies darting through the dappled light near the river with every color reflecting from their gossamer wings.

A small shriek roused Emily from her musings. A young woman a few years her senior stood in the hallway, brunette hair twisted in an elaborate upsweep and voluptuous curves clad in wine-colored silk. The woman’s hands clasped dramatically at her heart. Emily, you look radiant!

Sophia! Emily exclaimed and embraced the young woman. She should have known her old friend and neighbor would search her out before the festivities began. Sophia had married in the spring, and the girls had not seen each other since the wedding. It’s been so long. Are you staying with your parents?

For two whole weeks. I insist we get together for tea. I have so much to tell you!

What’s it like being Mrs. Matthew Buchanan and mistress of your own plantation?

Sophia’s eyes sparkled. You must see for yourself. Will you come and stay with me after the holidays?

I'd like that very much.

I’ll have Matthew speak to your father. Sophia held her out at arm’s length. Just look at you! Remember how we dreamed of being the belles of the ball as little girls? Now I’m married, and you’re a debutante!

Emily smiled. Sophia had spent every minute of her childhood yearning for her first social season. Since Emily was younger, she usually went along with whatever Sophia dreamed up.

Sophia leaned in and lowered her voice. I overheard James O’Neil tell Brady Thompson that he saw you in Charleston with your father in September. She grinned conspiratorially. He was astonished at how you’ve grown up. I think he’s taken a liking to you. Just wait till he sees you in this! She gave Emily’s hoopskirt a poke. He’s set to inherit the largest estate in Georgetown, you know. I’ll make sure you receive an introduction. Do you have your dance card?

Emily held up the small booklet dangling from a cord at her wrist.

Then come along. Your public awaits.

She steadied her nerves and allowed Sophia to tug her toward the curving stairway. A murmur of voices now rode the undercurrents of music. She fought the impulse to jerk away, flee down the servants’ stairway, and retreat to the stables until the evening was over. Cowardice would not serve her ambitions. Instead, she fixed a smile onto her face and descended into the sea of humanity.

For a moment, she was able to observe her guests unseen. Most of them were neighbors—planters, small farmers, and businessmen from the nearby towns of Summerville and Ladson. But she also recognized a few friends from Charleston. Dr. Malone and his wife were in attendance, as was Mr. Ingersoll, the owner of the jewelry store her mother frequented. They would stay overnight and return to the city in the morning.

Jovie Cutler spotted her first. She stood near enough to see the green flecks in his eyes brighten but let her glance skitter away as if she hadn’t noticed. She held little fondness for Sophia’s twin. He and Jack had usually been in league in their mischief—often at her expense. She hadn’t missed either of them when they started at the College of Charleston last year.

A few more faces lifted to her and the room filled with polite applause. Emily fought to keep the smile plastered to her face when Jovie met her at the foot of the stairs. Hello, Emily. May I have your first dance?

She was rescued by her father. I’m afraid that honor belongs to me. William Preston tucked Emily’s hand snugly in the crook of his elbow. Happy birthday, daughter.

Her smile grew warm. Ignoring the watching eyes, she pulled free and threw her arms around his neck. She revered her father. He was the kindest, gentlest, most endearing man she’d ever known. A former assemblyman, he had returned from a series of political meetings in Charleston the evening before, especially for her birthday. She missed him fiercely when he was gone.

Marie Preston stood at William’s side, poised and graceful. Accustomed to her husband’s frequent absences, she had planned the entire ball single-handedly. She raised a gloved hand to Emily’s cheek. Have a wonderful evening, honey.

In that instant, Emily adored them both. The reception had been given with the very best of intentions. Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Papa.

Shall we? William asked.

He led her past the refreshment tables with their many tempting offerings and straight to the dance floor. With a nod at the musicians, her father began the Grand March, the first promenade of the evening.

Emily moved carefully, her feet following the steps she had rehearsed. She breathed in the music and concentrated on this special moment with her father. He was still a handsome man. Of medium height, with an erect bearing that made him seem taller, he maintained a healthy physique. Unlike most of the guests, his face was clean-shaven. His longish curls, just beginning to gray, were parted on one side and allowed to climb over the top of his crown.

I’m glad you made it home on time, Papa.

I wouldn’t miss this for the world. He gave her hand a squeeze. But you do know I can’t save you from every young man who would dance with you tonight, he teased.

Of course not.

I see their eyes following our movements. And I cannot blame them. You are the very image of your mother at your age. Stunning.

Her cheeks grew warm, and she didn’t begrudge the steps that spun her away and saved her from replying. The dance required no talk, just polite smiles and a measure of concentration. She traveled the room three times before circling back to her father. As the last note of music faded, he drew her into an embrace. Just relax, he whispered, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Enjoy your evening.

Emily was immediately approached by Sophia’s husband, Matthew Buchanan, who brought along the son of the Georgetown rice planter. Sophia had wasted no time arranging the introduction. Emily danced the next number with the young man. When they parted with an exchange of pleasantries, the following four lines on her card were promptly filled. Forty minutes later, she was warm, breathless, and ready for a respite.

Jovie approached with two glasses of punch. For you, he offered, placing one in her hand.

She sipped at it delicately then tipped back the entire contents.

Would you like mine also?

She glanced up sharply at the amusement in his voice. No, thank you.

He tipped his head to one side. You’re not pleased to see me, are you?

Should I be? I’m half afraid you’ll slip a frog down the back of my dress.

His eyebrows lifted. That was seven years ago!

I could list a dozen more grudges I haven’t forgotten.

He fidgeted, wiping condensation from his cup. The cocklebur under your saddle?

And the poison ivy in my stockings, the worm in my milk, the beetles in my bed linens…

He winced. I was a regular barbarian, wasn’t I?

She smiled icily and turned away.

He placed her empty cup and his full one on the tray of a passing attendant. You must allow me to atone for my sins. With an exaggerated sweep, he dropped to one knee and took her hand. Please accept my most sincere apologies.

His actions attracted a few curious glances. Jovie, get up.

She tugged at her hand, but he gripped it tighter. Only if you say you'll forgive me.

You’re being ridiculous. More heads were turning in their direction. She jerked her hand free and moved away from the watching eyes.

He followed, catching her in the grand entryway just outside the ballroom door. Emily, stop. Grasping her elbow, he turned her to face him. He had lost his air of levity. The apology is genuine. As a child, I never gave a thought for the young woman you would become. An oversight I now sorely regret. I didn’t know how to demonstrate my affection any other way.

Your affection? Is that what you call it?

He shrugged his shoulders and let them drop. Why do you think I spent so much time thinking up ways to capture your attention?

She searched his face. Jovie no longer looked like the boy who had tormented her. In the year since she’d last seen him, he had lost the soft chubbiness she remembered. His body was lean beneath the black dress coat, his dark hair cut short. The planes of his face had turned hard and strong. Perhaps he had outgrown his delinquency as well.

He sensed her weakening. I’ll have you know, I itched for two weeks after planting that poison ivy.

Serves you right. The faintest of smiles lifted her lips.

If you accompany me to the garden, I solemnly swear to remain on my best behavior.

She narrowed her eyes. No frogs?

He inverted both of his palms. No frogs.

Twilight lingered, quiet and dim. Emily welcomed its coolness. They meandered through paths lush with holly and camellias. It’s good to be home, Jovie said and drew in a long breath. The city lacks the freshness of the countryside.

Do you miss Fairview when you’re at school?

Of course. But I enjoy living independently.

You’re hardly independent. She stopped to admire a single, hardy bachelor button. I’ve seen how much money my father sends to Jack every month. I dare say your father does the same.

Jovie paused beside her, folding his hands behind his back. I’ve met plenty of classmates who have to spend their free hours laboring as clerks, dockhands, or tutors. I can’t say I’m sorry not to be among them. I simply meant it’s been good to escape my parents’ shadow.

Her lip twisted in a sardonic smile. Their oversight, you mean? I could take a guess at some of the unchaperoned activities you and my brother engage in. She marked the bachelor button’s location and strolled on.

That isn’t what I meant. Jovie frowned, falling in beside her. In Jack's case, however, your guesses are probably accurate.

But your behavior is above reproach, of course.

I didn’t say that, either. But I’ve had to— He paused to consider his words. —put some distance between Jack and myself.

You share a room.

Emotional distance.

You were thick as thieves growing up.

He glanced at her to make certain the observation wasn’t another veiled reference to his prior behavior. Apparently satisfied, he answered, Jack’s…activities…don’t leave a lot of time for study. I can’t match his marks without a good deal of effort.

What do high marks matter to you? she asked frankly, stopping to gauge his reaction. You’ll inherit Fairview with or without a certificate of graduation.

I suppose. But I’d like one thing that is justly earned and not handed to me by my parents.

You don’t want Fairview?

He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, a habit Emily recalled from their younger years. You keep twisting my words. It’s not that I don’t want Fairview. I’m just trying to find my own identity.

She gave him an appraising stare. Before she could question him further, Jack approached with another young man in tow. Emily recognized the stranger from the stable. Apparently, he remembered her too, for he grinned conspiratorially.

Jack slapped Jovie on the back. What are you two discussing so earnestly? He wore a clean suit and his fragrance had greatly improved. Jovie, you aren’t making me look bad in front of my little sister, are you?

There isn’t a thing I could tell her that would surprise her.

Jack barked out a laugh. You’re probably right. But if you paint college life in too fair a light, Emily might take it into her head to become one of these women trying to gain admission. Can you imagine girls at school?

The acid she beamed his way nearly burned her eyes.

The stranger spoke up. If they were all as pretty as your sister, I’m sure I wouldn’t mind.

Emily, this is Thaddeus Black. Jack drew the young man forward. Thaddeus had an athletic build, aristocratic features, sandy blond hair, and a bold stare. He rents a room in our building. He’s from Savannah, so I invited him up for the weekend. Thad, my sister Emily.

Emily curtseyed politely, a thousand questions about that morning swirling in her head. By the time she had worked up the courage to go searching for Jack to see if he was dead or alive, his companion had disappeared.

Thaddeus made a show of kissing her hand. My pleasure. His smile was confident. The shadow of a dimple revealed itself in the dim light, and she couldn’t tell if his eyes were brown or dark blue. The next moment she rebuked herself for wondering.

Would you do me the honor of granting me your next dance? he asked.

I am afraid I've already promised it to Jovie. She turned to Sophia’s twin. I believe I hear the music starting.

If she'd surprised Jovie, he didn’t show it. He simply inclined his head and ushered her back inside. That was a cold reception, he observed. Thad’s not a bad fellow.

Not cold. Just honest. I don’t want to give Jack’s friend the false impression that I care at all for his attentions.

Jovie raised his eyebrows.

Nor any man’s, she emphasized.

I see. He paused. What about the company of old friends?

She allowed him another faint smile. No frogs?

He chuckled. I promise.

She danced twice with Jovie and, with her boundaries firmly in place, found herself relaxing in his company. She even laughed at some of their reminiscences. For the next two sets, she participated in every dance. She called out a short greeting to Abigail Malone, the doctor’s daughter, who appeared pleased to be the momentary focus of Jack’s attentions. Then she found herself facing another neighbor, Micajah Northrup.

Happy birthday, Miss Preston.

Tall, with unruly hair and a beefy physique, he’d been another of Jack’s accomplices. Though he hadn’t come by as frequently as Jovie, the mischief he initiated occasionally involved the sheriff.

She dispensed with formalities. Hello, Cage.

I believe you promised me the last dance in this set.

She forced pleasure into her face. So I did.

Cage and his father worked a shoddy farm and supplemented their income by tracking and returning runaway slaves. It was a skill that ingratiated them with many of the county’s planters, though Emily found them both repugnant. Northrups were shrewd and feral. Maybe even a little dangerous.

Cage guided her over the dance floor. His hand was heavy, but he moved with quick, light steps. You’re looking prettier than a speckled pup this evening.

Cage, she said patiently, I know you mean that as a compliment, but most women won’t find it flattering.

Why not?

Cage! A dog?

His brows lowered slightly. What’s wrong with a dog?

Nothing, except it’s an animal. That’s not exactly a charming comparison.

Apparently, Cage had little use for charm. A dog is useful, loyal, good-tempered. They don’t talk back. They aren’t needy; you just throw ’em a bone now and again and they take it to their corner. I’d be lucky to get a woman half so good. He met her eye. Maybe my dog should be offended.

She shook her head. Don’t ever come calling on me.

His lip curled. One good whack will put a dog in its place. And if it gives you any trouble, you shoot it.

That last bit was designed to get a rise out of her, but she wasn’t certain where his needling ended and his reality began. No wonder his mother had been in such ill health of late, poor woman. Emily made her escape as soon as the set ended, fleeing to a refreshment table where she squeezed between guests to snatch a dainty egg salad sandwich.

Excellent party, young lady!

Emily turned to find Sophia’s father munching on a chicken leg. A fruity smear staining his shirtwaist proved it wasn’t his first turn at the table. Hello, Mr. Cutler. She paused to catch her breath. Cursed corset. You look like you’re enjoying yourself. Is your wife here?

He waved the chicken leg toward the back of the house. Edna’s somewhere. When we arrive, she is always adamant about wishing to dance. Then she starts gabbing with the old women and I, he grinned triumphantly, am left to my own devices.

She laughed. I see you are putting your time to good use.

Most assuredly. He took another large bite.

Emily perched on one of the chairs positioned around the room to eat her sandwich. Her shoulders ached. Her feet ached. She wriggled her toes inside the satin slippers. They had done nothing to protect her feet from one fellow’s low-heeled boots. The moment of rest was most welcome. But then she spotted Cage approaching. She lost no time placing a buxom old dowager between them and slipped into the dining room.

It swarmed with servants carrying trays from the outdoor kitchen to replenish the tables in the ballroom. In addition, preparations were underway for the sumptuous buffet that would be served in the dining room at midnight.

Emily leaned against the wooden paneling and closed her eyes. Knowing she’d never withstand the remaining hours if she didn’t claim a few minutes for herself, she crossed the room in search of the quiet darkness at the opposite side of the house.

Emily sidestepped a footman hoisting a tray of drinks to his shoulder and collided with Josephine, the tall, rawboned cook who was delivering a fresh batch of hors d’oeuvres. The tray bobbled dangerously. A passing servant helped her lower it safely to the table.

Josephine set hands to hips. Miss Emily, what you doin’ underfoot?

Emily had learned long ago that the woman’s bark was worse than her bite. I was taking a shortcut to the music room.

And why you goin’ to hide in Mrs. Preston’s music room?

I’m not hiding, Emily contradicted. At the cook’s steady glare, she straightened her shoulders defensively. I’m not. I just need a few minutes alone.

Well, go ’round nex’ time.

Emily escaped through the opposite doorway as the cook muttered about inappreciative children.

At the end of the hall, she came to the spacious room containing her mother’s baby grand piano. The other furnishings were sparse—a few hard-backed chairs, a music stand, a table, and a cello—but a pair of French doors opened into the quiet side yard within sight of her grandfather’s extensive gardens. Dropping her dance card onto a chair, she slipped into the quietness of the night.

The fragrance of angel trumpets sweetened the air. Emily sank onto a marble bench, inhaling deeply, and kicked off her shoes. It was an old habit, one her mother detested. If Marie only knew how often Emily had roamed the plantation as a child, barefoot and wearing only half the clothing she’d started with... She chuckled at the memory.

Laughter helped ease the tension from her body. Throwing back her head, she let the rest of it slide off into the grass and focused on the crescent moon waxing in the heavens. Today was her birthday, by golly, and she deserved a little peace and quiet. It hardly seemed fair that she had to spend her special day playing nice in a crowd she’d prefer to avoid.

Sixteen. It seemed unreal that she was old enough to consider marriage. Only Malachi knew her true ambitions. She held them close to her heart, guarding them like a lucky hand of cards, afraid that if she played them too soon she’d lose the game. But the time was almost ripe to reveal them. In recent correspondence, Malachi had agreed to help her take the first steps in making her plans a reality. She eagerly awaited his next letter.

Emily yawned and stretched. The night was still young. After dinner, dancing would resume until the wee hours of morning, giving the neighbors just enough time to travel home to prepare for morning worship services. Not that anyone would be sharp enough to listen to the sermon.

A pair of silhouettes rounded the corner of the house. Emily’s heart sank. She’d been discovered. But the shadows didn’t meander like a pair of lovers escaping for a bit of privacy. They were both unmistakably masculine, and they moved unerringly in her direction.

Have you been sent to find me? she asked with a trace of disappointment. When no answer met her question, she tried again. Am I needed in the house?

More silence. She didn’t recognize either figure. Who are you?

They approached from either side, grasping her by both arms.

What are you doing? she screeched, attempting to fight as they dragged her upright. Fear elevated her voice to a pitch she didn’t recognize. Unhand me or I’ll—I’ll scream.

I wouldn’t recommend it, the larger one growled. He flashed something in front of her face. Moonlight glinted along the black silhouette a knife.

Chapter 3

Emily grew still, but her submission lasted only ten or twelve steps. With a mighty jerk, she wrenched free of her captors and sprinted barefoot toward the house, skirts held high and screaming at the top of her lungs. The many races she had run as a child gave her a quick lead, but encumbered by corset and hoops, she was soon recaptured.

One of the men held the blade to her cheek. Try that again, my dear, and I’ll mar your pretty face.

They hustled toward the road, dragging Emily between them. The fragile dike that stemmed her terror was mortared with pure audacity. What do you want? Money? Jewels? My father will pay you. Send for him.

This has nothing to do with your father. You can thank your brother, William Samuel Jackson Preston IV. The man snorted with derision.

Jack? she asked, startled. Are—are you friends of his?

The man laughed, a low, dry rasp. Sure. We’re good friends.

How do you know my brother?

The man had no time to answer. As they passed a hedge of cherry laurels, his partner landed spread-eagle on the ground. The flying tackle came from behind, jarring Emily’s arm loose. She recovered more quickly than her remaining assailant and brought her fist down on his knife hand. The weapon tumbled from his grip. Flinging Emily away, the man leaped on her would-be rescuer.

She scooped up the blade but lacked the skill to use it. As the men wrestled on the grass, their outlines traced with moonlight, the sharpened steel dangled awkwardly from her hand. Instead, she utilized a weapon she could wield well—her voice.

Help! she screamed. Help! Please, somebody help us!

Within half a minute, four new figures dashed around the corner of the house, babbling to one another in confusion. There! someone yelled.

One of her abductors let out an oath. Let’s go!

The two men scrambled to their feet and sprinted into the darkness. Three of the newcomers pursued them across the lawn. The fourth stopped beside her. Emily! What happened? Are you all right?

She recognized Jovie's voice. I’m fine. Dropping to her knees, she probed the crumpled figure of her rescuer. Quick, she ordered, help me roll him over.

Gently, they turned the man onto his back. Sir, are you wounded?

Moonlight sparkled off teeth bared in a cocky grin. Hello, Miss Preston. Might I have the honor of your next dance?

She met the dark eyes of Thaddeus Black. Worry transformed into fury. With a flounce of her skirts, she stormed back inside the music room—detouring to snatch her slippers from beneath the garden bench—and left Jovie to help the young man to his feet.

In the darkened room, she paused to steady her nerves. Who were those men? What did they want? Why had they abducted her? Icy water trickled down her spine. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened had they succeeded.

But she couldn’t attribute all her agitation to fear. She peered again at the handsome young man now attempting to straighten his clothing and clenched her hands together to still their trembling. Thaddeus hadn’t stopped to consider the risks to his own neck. He’d simply jumped in and given her an opportunity to raise the alarm. Quite possibly, she owed him her life.

She pressed her hands to the heat rising in her cheeks. She had no room in her plans for weak emotion.

The three men who had chased after her assailants straggled back into the yard. By now several others had swelled the gathering, including her father, who demanded an explanation. She watched half a dozen animated figures indicating the place where the men had attacked and gesturing out toward the lawn. One handed her father the knife she had dropped. Then someone pointed to the still-open French doors. She went in there.

Emily smoothed her dress and cleared her throat in preparation.

Emily! William shouted, bolting through the doorway.

I’m right here, Papa, she replied calmly. I’m not hurt.

He crushed her against his chest and whispered her name in a gust of relief. Emily! What would I have done if— He couldn’t make himself finish the sentence.

She gently pushed against him. I’m fine.

You’re certain? he asked, peering down into her face.

Yes, just some bruising on my arms.

I’ll have Doctor Malone look at it immediately. He’s in the—

Papa, she broke in with a shaky laugh. I’m okay. Really.

His eyes flickered over her face, then he embraced her again, more gently this time. Would you like me to make your excuses to our guests? No one would blame you if you’d prefer to rest. I can send Lizzie up with some supper.

The offer sounded heaven sent. Only then did Emily realize how drained the incident had left her. She nearly accepted before considering what an uproar her disappearance would cause. There’d be a million questions to answer, a million speculations to put to rest, and a million callers to entertain as well-wishers sought to satisfy their curiosity. How much easier to rejoin the festivities and make a show of health. Then perhaps when dinner was over she could slip away, claiming some trivial malady.

No, I’ll return to the party. But first, she said with a glance out the door, I have some unfinished business to attend to.

If you’re certain. He sounded unconvinced but planted a kiss on her forehead.

She wrestled her shoes back under her skirts. Then, pausing to scoop her dance card off a chair, she swished back out the French doors.

Her reappearance brought the lingering crowd to silence. She marched directly up to Thaddeus, her back straight and her chin high. I owe you an apology, Mr. Black, as well as my gratitude. If you still desire a dance, you may enter your name on the line of your choice. She held up the wrist from which dangled her card.

Thaddeus slipped the booklet from her hand. I’d be honored. Perhaps you would accompany me to some better lighting. They made their way to the front door, followed by a dozen companions, where he wrote his name in her booklet. I’m glad to see you’re unharmed, he said, wincing slightly as relinquished her dance card. I will leave you here where I trust you will be well attended.

Her cheeks flamed as she realized she had not asked after his injuries. Mr. Black, are you unwell?

It’s not my favorite way to win a dance, but in this case, I think it worth the effort. He flashed a smile and slipped into the shadows.

Emily stood in the midst of the crowd, momentarily at a loss. She had expected him to accept the next dance. Glancing at her card, she saw he had chosen one several spaces down, the last before dinner. It was a waltz—one of the few dances not performed as a group but one-on-one, face-to-face. Her blood thickened to honey, slowing her pulse, strengthening its beat.

She fought to regain her composure as her card was requested by two more individuals and an introduction made to a third young man. Through it, Jovie never left her side. Will you help me find my mother? she pleaded. She’ll be worrying about me, and I’d like to set her at ease.

He smiled warmly. Of course.

She reentered the noise and brilliance of the house, grateful for Jovie’s steadiness.

Emily! Marie Preston pushed through the crowd, graceful even in a rush. Thank goodness you’re all right. She pressed her daughter in a close embrace. William followed in his wife’s wake and winked at Emily over her head. Behind him trailed Edna and Walter Cutler.

Emily told the tale of her near abduction again and assured both her parents and the gawking bystanders of her well-being. During her narrative, Walter tugged an empty pipe from the pocket of his waistcoat and chewed absently on its tip.

When she’d finished, William kissed his daughter on the top of her head. It won’t happen again, he assured her. We’ll find them. I’ve sent out four of my best men, and six or seven of our guests have mounted up to give chase. If the intruders are still on the property, they will find them.

Do you want me to send Cage round for his dogs? Walter asked. Men could miss something in the dark.

He’s already gone after them. William smiled reassuringly at his guests. Dance, he encouraged. Enjoy yourselves. The problem is being addressed with all earnestness.

The musicians started up again, smoothing the rumpled atmosphere, and Emily’s next escort accompanied her to the dance floor. Two dances later, Jack unexpectedly broke into a quadrille. Sorry, he growled to her three partners, clutching her by the arm and pulling her from the formation. I need to talk to my sister.

Jack! she protested. You’ve ruined the dance!

They’ll get over it. He dragged her out of the ballroom and into a quiet parlor off the main hallway, interrupting a pair of lovers who had slipped away for a few moments alone. Get out, Jack commanded, holding the door open.

Jack, what is the matter with you? she demanded as the affronted couple swept past them.

Thad told me what happened. Her brother reeled slightly, grasping the doorjamb for support.

She set her hands on her hips. Have you been drinking again?

Never mind. He slammed the door and glowered down at her. Those men, did one of them have a chip in his front tooth?

How could I possibly know that? It was pitch black out there.

Describe them.

She sighed. One was a large brute of a man with rounded shoulders like a bull. The other was smaller, wiry, and did all the talking. He carried a knife with a tip that curved upward like elf shoes.

Her brother’s oath echoed around the room.

Jack, what is this about? She rose to her full height. I insist you tell me this instant.

They’re just some people I owe money to. It’s nothing.

Nothing! she screeched. Nothing for them to steal me for ransom from my own yard? Who are you associating with, Jackson? Why are you borrowing money?

His lips compressed in a flat line.

How much do you owe?

I’ll take care of it.

Tell Papa, Jack, she said more gently. He’ll help you.

Jack’s face darkened. Don’t breathe a word of this to him, do you hear me?

And if I do? Emily crossed her arms defiantly. What if this happens again? I don’t relish getting dragged into the middle of your poor decisions.

The muscles in her brother’s neck stretched taut as bowstrings. It won’t happen again, he said with deadly certainty. I promise you that. Opening the door, he strode into the hall without looking back.

What are you going to do, Jack? she called after him. Jack!

He disappeared around the corner, leaving Emily to fume in silence. When had her mischievous brother turned into this hardened, intoxicated man? What have you gotten yourself into, Jack?

The beginnings of a real headache began to pinch between her eyes. Perhaps it was time to make her apologies to her guests and retire for the evening. She’d never been one to claim the fashionable weaknesses women suffered, but after the night she’d experienced...

Thaddeus met her as she reentered the ballroom in search of her father. There you are. He smiled broadly and caught her elbow. Our waltz has already started.

She protested as he led her to the dance floor. Mr. Black, I really must decline. I’m not feeling—

Nonsense, he interrupted, whisking her into the steps.

Her eyebrows notched upward. Pardon me?

You heard me. You are the most hale and healthy young lady in the room, and I don’t believe for a moment a plea of ill health.

Irritation flashed through her. And you, Mr. Black, are the most reprehensible man I’ve ever met. She struggled to break free, but he tightened his grip on her hand and waist.

Let me go!she hissed.

He grinned again, his eyes never leaving her face. It will take more than an insult to make me give up a dance with the prettiest girl at the ball. You’ll have to cause a real scene. But I don’t think you will. You’ve already received more attention than you like for one evening. Am I right?

Her eyelids were angry slits. You are insidious.

He laughed. I’m also a very good dancer. Just relax and maybe you’ll enjoy yourself.

The young man moved with poise and grace. Had she not been so furious, it would have been the most pleasurable dance of the evening. Thaddeus didn’t speak another word, but he smiled down into her eyes the entire time. She scowled back with unveiled contempt.

When the music ended, she jerked away. I will bid you good evening, sir, she said coldly.

Thaddeus bowed with a smirk. Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Miss Preston. The impression I have left you with is not the one I would have preferred, but I trust it will follow you to your chambers this evening.

Emily’s eyes snapped open. She would have slapped his face, but he was right. She had caused enough of an uproar for one night. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room.

Chapter 4

Sleep eluded Emily. Her body felt thick and weighted, but her head swirled with images of the evening. Blurs of light and color flashed behind her eyes while the memory of music lingered in her ears. Futilely, she pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead to squeeze her brain into a state of rest.

Nearer to dawn than midnight, buggy wheels grated on the gravel outside her window as guests took their leave. Muffled traces of conversation traveled through the panes of glass and trailed the buggies into the night. The party was over.

A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door. She was tempted to feign sleep and ignore the summons, but her father’s voice whispered, Emily, are you still awake?

Sitting up in bed, she pulled a dressing gown over her nightclothes. Come in, Papa.

The door opened and an applique of golden candlelight adhered to the hardwood floor. Marie glided ahead of her husband to rest a cool hand on Emily’s forehead. We just wanted to check on you before we retire.

And give you this. William held out a brown paper package tied with pink ribbon. Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Emily took the rectangular gift. It rested heavily in her hands. Peeling off the wrapping, she unveiled a book with a golden cover that sparkled in the dim light—Paradise and the Peri, by Thomas Moore.

I sent for it from London, her father explained. I realize you outgrew picture books a long time ago, but this one was made with a new technique called chromolithography. Every single page is printed in full color.

She let the book fall open to a random image of an angel in pale pink robes weeping among a starry host inked the most brilliant shade of blue. It’s beautiful! she gasped, thumbing through several more pages. Each one featured bold patterns and eye-popping colors—crimson, avocado, cerulean, and gold.

We thought you’d like it. Marie caught her daughter’s hair and lifted it away from her downturned face.

Emily looked up with sparkling eyes. Thank you.

Her parents each kissed her cheek. Get some sleep, her father said. Then they retreated, taking the candle with them.

Moonlight shimmered on the gilt cloth of the cover. Emily ran a hand over it admiringly, knowing she could not sleep till she had explored its pages more thoroughly. Lighting an oil lamp, she opened the book reverently and pored over images that nearly overwhelmed her eyes.

Her parents had long known of her fascination for art. As a young child, Emily would stare for hours at the priceless oil paintings gracing the walls of their home and attempt to copy them. Marie had framed several of her best works to hang alongside the masterpieces. The contrast was obvious, but rather than growing discouraged, Emily warmed with pride at her mother’s encouragement and tried harder with each new attempt.

The year she turned eight, William had taken her on a special outing, just the two of them, to an Exhibition at the Maryland Institute for the Promotion of Mechanic Arts. Emily remembered how fascinated she’d been by the variety of entries—quilts, leatherwork, wood engravings, perfumes, agricultural products, lithography, furniture, photography, metal work, machinery... It seemed that anything capable of manufacture had been represented. But her favorite had been the fine arts, particularly the paintings. Over the years, her father fed her interest by supplying pigments and paper, literature about the great masters, and even two summers’ worth of watercolor lessons with Widow Harris, the cobbler’s mother. He considered the arts a proper pastime for a young girl growing into womanhood, especially as it soothed her boisterous nature.

He had no idea she planned to pursue it professionally.

Emily’s hands dampened at the thought of revealing her secret. Southern women managed the household and bore children. They did not pursue employment. They rarely left the home. Though William had provided a liberal education for his daughter, training her in all the same subjects as his son, it was always with a mind to her eventual marriage. Higher education? Independence? He was certain to disapprove.

She closed the book’s cover and set it gently on her bedside table. Then she turned down the light and cozied under her blankets. Her secret would have to wait awhile longer.

***

When Lizzie woke her the next morning, light was streaming through her bedroom window. What time is it? Emily asked, blinking against the glare.

Ten o’clock. You's to be at table in half an hour. Missus ordered a late breakfast.

Emily stretched luxuriously. Only when she’d been bedridden with measles or influenza could she remember skipping church on a Sunday morning. Is someone ill?

Lizzie shook her head and set a full pitcher of water in the basin on Emily’s bureau. Yo’ pa made allowance on account of de late evenin’ and you almost gettin’ dragged off las’ night. ’Sides, we got company.

Emily frowned as her memory returned. Were the attackers found?

Not a trace.

Did Jack return?

He downstairs.