Chapter 1
September, 1901
Thelandofopportunitysmells an awful lot like dead fish.
Rose lifted her fingers to her nose, grateful she had sprayed rosewater on the kid leather of her gloves before disembarking. She scowled as she dropped her hand to grab the handle of her trunk and breathed through her mouth to avoid retching at the scent of sweaty, teeming humanity surrounding her.
She was no stranger to crowds; navigating packed London ballrooms and busy shops akin to breathing. But when her boots—from last season but still in fashionable grey suede—first stepped on American soil, she felt small, insignificant and unnoticed, a complete unknown.
“Move it, lady!”
A mountain of a man shoved past her, nearly knocking her off her feet. “I’m not a lady, actually. My father is a viscount so my title would be miss!” Rose called to his retreating form.
The man turned, his furrowed brows resembling two bushy caterpillars clamoring towards each other. He gave her a once-over, then sniffed. “None of my business, but I wouldn’t go shoutin’ that ’round here.” He rubbed his hand under his nose and grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth. “Good luck, whatever you are!”
Rose blinked as the crowds descending onto the dock wrapped around her, claiming every inch of available space. She lurched forward, caught up in the swell of passengers desperate to leave the confines of the ship. The past week had been an exercise in patience and humility; the small amount of money her parents offered for her passage only covered a second-class ticket. She’d shared a miniscule cabin with a widow from Edinburgh who held a fondness for snacking on dried herring and sharing intimate details of her romantic life with her deceased husband, who met his untimely demise in a grisly encounter with a pair of sheep shearers.
If only The Lark could see me now.
Years ago, the society pages of theLondon Larkhad adored singing Rose’s praises, declaring her a debutante of the highest caliber before she even debuted. The papers followed her across the finest ballrooms and soirees of theton, speculating that she was holding out for an offer of marriage from a foreign prince.
Fate tends to work in your favor when you are wealthy and beautiful. Invitations to exclusive events appeared without question, her sitting room was always packed with admirers, and she ordered the latest fashion knowing her father would foot the bill. But that was before. Before the most recent mention of Rose Waverly had been plastered across gossip rags and tittered over across London.
Perhaps the diamond of the ton was nothing but paste jewels all along.
“‘Scuse me, miss, need some help with your bags?”
Rose focused her gaze on a pair of boys standing before her, her heart squeezing at the sight of them. They couldn’t be older than their early teens, with hollowed cheeks and gangly limbs hanging out of their worn clothing.
“Yes,” she breathed as she pressed her hand to her chest to still her pounding pulse. “I need transport to my cousin’s home on the Upper West Side. Do you know the area?”
The boys exchanged looks, and their eyes widened beneath the brims of their caps. They looked back at her wearing identical grins. “We sure do, miss,” the taller one said. “Who’s your cousin? We’d be happy to bring it there for you.”
New York City is a remarkably friendly place, she thought. “The Waverly family, Mr. Edmund Waverly.”
The smaller boy flexed his fingers and beamed. “We can have it there in a jiff, miss—”
“If you pay us in advance,” the tall boy interrupted, extending his palm.
“Of course.” Rose withdrew a few coins from her reticule. She’d been clever and exchanged most of her pounds into dollars, courtesy of a gentleman she met on the deck the day prior. He explained how the exchange meant she would have far fewer dollars, less than half the pounds she had started with, but he insisted this was standard practice. “Do you need the direction—I mean, address?”
“No, miss,” the taller one drawled, examining the coins before putting them in his pocket and patting it. “Not to worry. We’re mighty responsible. We’ll even set you up with a cab before you go, but we’ll need the fare in advance.”
She smiled, and warmth spread in her chest as she dug more coins from her reticule. How could she be more fortunate?
Within moments, she sat in a drab open air carriage and was plodding steadily towards the address her cousin Abigail had indicated in her last letter. Rose exhaled through her nose, leaning back on the squab for a moment before the foul odor and sticky surface sent her bolting upright again. Shifting forward until only the smallest quarter of her backside touched the questionable leather, she leaned towards the driver.
“This is my first visit to America,” she called over the street noise.
The driver snorted. “You don’t say.”
“I did not know New York was so large.” She gazed out at her surroundings, stunned by the expanse of city before her as they passed over a massive cabled bridge, surrounded by carts and horses, the smell of refuse pungent in her nostrils. Every square inch of the city teemed with people barely acknowledging one another’s existence. Such anonymity was freeing, but also…
Terrifying. This place was massive and bustling, unlike even the busiest days in Hyde Park. But after twenty-three years of being the center of attention, she harbored no doubt she would step into the same position in New York society. Different addresses, different names, but ultimately the same conversations and priorities. At least she assumed as much. But as she took in her unfamiliar surroundings, her throat tightened. Had coming to America been a terrible idea?
Her heart resumed its clatter in her chest; as soon as she was at her uncle’s home, she would see familiar faces again. The trappings of wealth that had disappeared after her father’s poor investments failed would surround her once more. Old habits and comfortable patterns couldn’t fail her, even if they left her cold.
Because if Rose Waverly was not the center of attention, what was she?
