He thought of that morning, fishing with Lady Alexandra, so quiet and sweet and clean. He wanted to build a life like that, a life where everything could be fine and good. A life just like her. He knew he shouldn’t think that way; Mairie was more appropriate for him, was within his reach, only just. Someone like Alexandra, never. The terrible ending to their fishing meeting showed him that so clearly.
He pushed open the front door, loose on its hinges. Inside the small room, it smelled of smoke and mildew, of old whisky. When his mother was there, the floor was always swept, the furniture dusted, the air smelling of fresh herbs. He remembered when his father would come home in the evening, the way he would catch his mother up in his arms and kiss her until she laughed.
His parents had loved each other so much. Too much. His father had lost his way without her. Malcolm vowed never to love anyone like that, never to lose so much. He would never be helpless like that, never live his parents’ mistakes.
‘Pa?’ he called. There was no answer.
He found his father up in the loft, sprawled across his bed. Still wearing yesterday’s stained clothes, reeking of cheap whisky, his skin greyish and clammy, his jaw unshaven. An empty bottle had fallen to the dusty floor.
None of that was unusual any more. What was strange was the crumpled paper that lay next to the bottle. Malcolm scooped it up and read it quickly, anger burning higher and higher inside of him.
It was an eviction notice. Signed by the Duke of Waverton.
Malcolm remembered the sting of going last week to see the Duke, his hat in hand, to beg for time for his father. Time to gather the rent money. The Duke had only watched him, stony-faced, and said he would do what he could, but he could not help those who would not help themselves for very long.
Now, he had tossed Malcolm’s father out. Now, at their family’s most vulnerable moment.
One day, Malcolm vowed as he tucked the blankets around his father, the shoe would be on the other foot and the Duke would beg him for help. And Malcolm would never give it.
* * *
Near the gate that led to one of the tenants’ farms, Alex was surprised to see a glimpse of bright red against the grey-green of the fields. She looked closer and saw it was Mairie McGregor, the daughter of one of the shopkeepers in the village, perched on the gate. Alex always rather envied Mairie, for her beautiful, long dark hair and velvety-brown eyes, so different from Alex’s own pale looks.
Today, Mairie’s black hair fell free down her back and she wore a bright blue skirt and red shawl, looped loosely around her shoulders. And she was not alone. A man was beside her, leaning on the gate as he gazed up at her, their hands entwined. Their heads were bent together as they spoke together intently, seriously. Mairie tenderly touched his cheek and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.
It was Malcolm. Malcolm kissing Mairie McGregor.
Shocked, Alex tried to step back, to hide, even though she knew they could not see her. They were obviously much too wrapped up in each other to see anything else. And she felt the sinking, cold ice of disappointment.
Mairie jumped down from the gate and walked away, tossing a strangely angry look back at Malcolm as she left.
Impulsively, Alex called out to Malcolm as he started to follow Mairie.
‘Malcolm!’ she called. ‘Please, just a moment.’
He glanced back at her, but his expression was anything but welcoming. She had never seen him look so cold, so hard, so—so much older. ‘We can’t be seen together, my lady. You’ve already got me in enough trouble.’
‘I—I didn’t mean to, please believe me,’ she said, desperate. ‘I am ever so sorry. I didn’t think my father would see and—’
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. His Grace has done his worst by my family. Now I have to make my own way. And you have to make yours.’
Alex was baffled. ‘What has he done? I can go to him, explain…’ But even she knew her father would never listen. Never care.
‘Just take of yourself now, Lady Alexandra. That’s all any of us can do.’ For just a flashing instant, his hardness seemed to melt. He took her hand in his and squeezed it, holding on to it for one precious moment. ‘Never let them change you, no matter what.’
‘Malcolm!’ Mairie called and that hard mask came over him again. He gave Alex a bow and left her standing there alone in the middle of the road.
Alex tightened her hand over the feeling of his touch and shivered. She knew then she would never see him again.
Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies—spring 1888
‘Alex! Alex, are you awake? Let us in, quickly, before we’re caught.’
Lady Alexandra Mannerly wasn’t asleep, despite the fact that it was hours past the decreed lights out. She was huddled under her blankets, reading—no, devouring—The Ghosts of Wakefield Forest, a forbidden novel loaned to her by her friend Emily Fortescue, who had smuggled it back from London. Em, whose father was distinctly unstrict, quite unlike Alex’s father, the Duke of Waverton. He insisted Alex be the perfect ducal daughter at all times, which didn’t include reading scandalous romantic novels.
But her parents couldn’t spy on her at Miss Grantley’s at every moment. And Alex had friends who knew how to get around almost every rule without getting into trouble. She herself could never have been so brave before coming to school. She hated trouble, because trouble brought attention and attention made her heart race, her mind freeze, her tongue tie. Made her want to run away.
So being a duke’s daughter was rarely fun at all. And it would surely get worse next year, when she made her debut at a grand ball at Waverton House on Green Park and began the search for a high-ranking husband. But not yet. Not quite yet.
‘Alex! Are you there? We see your light!’
Alex tossed back the bedclothes and hurried to the door, her bare feet cold on the wooden floor. Her best friends, Emily Fortescue and Diana Martin, were waiting there, wrapped in their dressing gowns, dragging an enormous hamper between them. Giggling, they raced inside before Miss Merrill, the hall governess, could catch them. If they were found sneaking out together again, they would be in real trouble.
Yet Alex didn’t seem to mind trouble so much when it was brought by Diana and Em.
‘What are you two doing here?’ she whispered, locking the door behind them.
‘What do you think?’ Diana answered. ‘Midnight picnic!’
‘Father sent a lovely hamper today. I couldn’t possibly eat all this myself,’ Emily said as she spread a blanket on the polished floor. Her father, who had started in business as a wine merchant and branched out to open one of London’s first department stores, was always sending Emily lovely things. Hampers, fashionable hats, books.
‘Isn’t Mr F. lovely?’ Diana sighed. ‘My parents only seem to send foot warmers and peppermints.’ Di’s father had been a high-ranking diplomat in India, but it was true he never sent anything exotic like Punjab muslins.
‘There’s Brie cheese and some wonderful pâté. Tea sandwiches, petit fours,’ Emily said, laying it all out on their blanket. ‘And Lindt chocolates! Your favourites, Alex.’
‘Oh, it is! How blissful,’ Alex said. She couldn’t resist taking one immediately, popping it into her mouth.
‘What are you doing up so late?’ Diana asked as she opened a bottle of ginger beer.
‘Reading, of course,’ Alex said. ‘Did you think I had a boy in here? Jimmy Wilkins,