CHAPTER
1
FEBRUARY1860
LONDON, ENGLAND
For Miss Clara Marie Stanton, the task of preventing her family from being committed to an asylum had become as commonplace as it was exhausting.
Ever since word of her broken engagement had gotten out three months prior, rumors had flown about town like a colony of bats, screeching allegations of hereditary insanity and a contaminated bloodline. Unfortunately, her ever-amused family found their new title of “dangerous loons” quite hilarious and saw no reason to temper their eccentric habits.
Which is why, on this late-February day, Clara found herself dashing across London to stop her dear mother from protesting outside yet another millinery shop that trimmed their wares with avian plumes.
Clara worried her hands, aggravating the frayed seams of her gray gloves as she navigated one of the West End’s popular shopping districts that teemed with parasols andpretension. Why must Mum go sneaking off like this? Why couldn’t she have ignored the advertisement for Petite Paris’ new stock of feathered fans? If she would simply bide her time, Mum could resume her unconventional cause as soon as they were out of danger. Not today, when the slightest bizarre incident might bring ruin to those she loved most.
“Is that the Stanton girl? Mr. Forrester’s fiancée?”
A mother and daughter strolled arm in arm as they blatantly gawked in her direction.
The mother smirked. “Former fiancée. Lucky bloke missed the noose on that one.”
Clara’s jaw clenched. Gossiping gnats always turned things the wrong way round, biting the wounded who dared to bleed. She averted her gaze and used the brim of her bonnet as blinders. Would she ever cease to be shocked by London’s insatiable desire for gossip? By mouths eager to spew ash and soot, like so many factory chimneys, with little regard for those who suffocated in the process? By Rupert’s lack of remorse for igniting the rumor mill’s blaze?
No, not Rupert. Mr. Forrester. The man forfeited the right to such familiarity months ago, so she’d not grant it to him now, even in thought.
A sign hanging above the crowded street caught her eye. The wood, carved to resemble a globe, was emblazoned with the initialsJ. W., backed by a crown. Ah yes, it was Mr. James Wyld’s distinguished cartography shop, favored by the queen herself. She used to love perusing that establishment with Papa. They’d go in to acquire up-to-date maps for his fleet of merchant ships, and inevitably, after much oohing and aahing from Clara, she’d walk out with a new map all her own.
She paused before the familiar storefront. A pair of globes stood in the window display. One terrestrial and one celestial, both accented with gold leaf and perched upon bases of mahogany. Betwixt them, resting open-faced upon a blanketof velvet, lay a map of Italy. Elegant in its exactness. Pristine in its design. She traced a finger across the glass separating her from the Mediterranean Sea. Beautiful waters she’d only ever read about.
The waters she’d planned to sail across on her wedding journey.
Clara’s fingers curled into a fist upon the glass. All her maps had been packed in trunks and entombed in the attic for a reason. She’d not the time to entertain foolish dreams. She had responsibilities. A family counting on her to be their level head and steady shoulders now that Granny was no longer here to do so.
Prying herself away, Clara turned onto the next street, where the fashion industry ruled, and passed fortunate mercers and milliners currently not blockaded by her mother.
Minutes later, a strident voice with the authority of a general and the sweetness of a sugarplum assured Clara her quarry was near. Standing on tiptoe to gain perspective over the throng, she spotted Mum chanting and marching in a one-woman military formation.Caught you, Mummy dearest.
She hastened toward Petite Paris Millinery, where the object of Mum’s fury was displayed with a sign reading,The finest fashions direct from France. The finest, apparently, were white satin bonnets paired with ivory-handled fans and parasols—all trimmed with fluttering plumes. Mum wouldn’t be easily averted from this affront to her principles.
Mum turned on her heel and discovered she’d been caught, which only enhanced the impish twinkle in her blue eyes. “Excellent timing, ducky. I was about to begin a dramatic reading of ‘Maker of Heaven and Earth.’ When I reach the stanza ‘Each little bird that sings,’ why don’t you pipe in with a convicting chant such as ‘They sing no more, dead in your store’? That will ruffle some feathers of conscience.”
The stares of passersby brandeddangerous loonson the back of Clara’s neck. “Mum, I can’t—”
“Of course you can. Resist the treacherous tentacles of timidity.” Mum dragged Clara into the conspicuous demonstration. “Let’s march a bit to build your confidence.”
“Mum. We’ve discussed this. We agreed to abstain from protests until—” A gasp seized Clara’s throat. “Tell me my sight is failing and you are not wearing Fred about your neck. Please. Tell me I need spectacles. Tell me I’m hallucinating.”
“Your sight is as keen as a hawk’s.”
Perfect.Fred, the very alive ermine, lounged about Mum’s neck like an expensive stole. “Mum, you promised.”
“I promised to do what was best, and taking a stand against cruelty is the best thing to be done. Those feathers belong on birds, amongst the clouds, not plucked and pinned to a matron’s coif. And don’t even get me started on the ivory.” Tears puddled in Mum’s eyes as her pinched lips fanned out in a manner tragically comical. “When I think of what is done to those precious elephants ... those majestic, God-formed pachyderms ... I-I-I—”
Oh dear.Here it comes.
Clara grasped the silver vial of smelling salts hanging from the chatelaine pinned to her skirt and shoved it under Mum’s nose before a fit of vapors could draw an audience. “Breathe. Come now, Mum. Inhale gently ... now exhale. Good. Once more, inhale.”
“Gah, I’ve snorted one!” Mum’s face contorted as she sneezed and sputtered. Sputtered and sneezed. “Owww! Mercy, but those salts burn something fierce.”
