Chapter One
Nottinghamshire, England
December 24, 1814
“But which way is Farland Meadows?” Marion shouted into the biting wind. She hadn’t anticipated being left on an empty public road.
The coachman pointed directly behind her before cracking his whip over the heads of his team, sending the mismatched beasts into a frenzied run. The mail coach rattled and swayed at the abnormal speed.
“Typical,” she muttered to no one in particular. Being abandoned in a part of the country she’d never set foot in fit perfectly with the unpredictable nature of her life lately.
Two days earlier she’d been hired sight-unseen, based on nothing more than a single recommendation, to fill a position for which she knew she was completely unqualified. She swallowed back a lump of guilt. She not only hadn’t earned that recommendation, but she had also written it herself under an entirely fictitious name—though, she thought with pride, she’d done remarkably well disguising her handwriting. If her current occupation proved unsuccessful, she could seek her fortune as a forger.
Forging was probably wrong, she reflected, especially the references she’d created for herself. That lie was not nearly as white as she would have liked. Lamentable. But starvation is also lamentable, she reminded herself. A clear conscience was a poor substitute for a full belly.
Watching the hasty retreat of the mail coach and its two passengers, Marion could do little but review the journey and determine what to do next. Since she’d changed mail coaches at Southwell, Marion’s fellow passengers had been a middle-aged spinster of the working class and the woman’s nearly blind father of exceedingly advanced years. They’d struck up an easy conversation, something Marion had feared for months would never happen again. She’d resigned herself to a myriad of depressing fates. If her imagination hadn’t had a tendency toward the absurd, she might very well have submitted to an interminable bout of blue-devils.
“’Ave you family in Collingham, child?” the woman in the mail coach had asked.
Marion had reminded herself that age could be a relative thing. At nineteen, she was hardly a child. But compared to the octogenarian seated beside the woman, Marion was an infant.
“No,” Marion had replied, keeping her eyes on her folded hands and, with some difficulty, her voice low and submissive. “I’ve found a position.”
“Don’t sound like a servant,” the older man had observed gruffly.
Ah, furuncle! She’d need to practice more. She had repeated her words silently, trying out a few different inflections.
“Don’t look much like one either,” the woman had added. “Though I s’pose ye can’t ’elp yer looks.”
A few miles of blessed silence had followed, in which Marion had tried to devise ways to make herself look more like a servant, although she wasn’t sure what particular features screamed “servant” and why she seemed so entirely without them. Perhaps red hair was frowned upon for a member of a household staff. A generous amount of walnut rinse might darken it. Marion had pictured her reflection in her mind. A very generous amount would be needed—even when caked in dirt, carrots were orange.
Maybe she should frown. Were frowns more servant-like than smiles? Perhaps a pout would help. She’d have to think on it and see if she could find a mirror to practice in front of.
“An upper servant?” the male traveler had then asked, his overly loud voice making Marion wonder if his hearing was failing as well.
“Most likely.” His daughter had shown not a hint of confusion, though Marion hadn’t the slightest idea what the two were discussing. “She’s too young to be a governess.”
“I am a governess,” she’d responded with a smile after realizing they were talking about her.
The woman had seemed shocked for a minute then had slowly nodded her perfectly round head in approval. “There are several large estates not far from Collingham. Lampton Park. Finnley Grange. Sarvol House. Carter Manor . . .”
Marion had smiled. None of these apparently grand estates even sounded close to the paradise for which she was destined.
Farland Meadows.
It sounded straight from a fairy tale. She’d amassed a wide collection of fanciful mental images of what the picturesque estate must look like. It would be lined with stately trees, she was certain. Rolling hills. Meadows, of course. It would be positively overrun with meadows filled with flowers and bright grass. Perhaps a stream trickled through one end of it. Farland Meadows would be perfect. It simply had to be.
“And where are you ’eaded to?” her curious companion had requested.