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“Jane Shoup has really mastered the art of making the
reader truly care about the characters.”
—Ecatagromance Reviews
“There are authors who touch the heart, but this one
grabs hold of your soul.”
—E. Gayle, Romance at Heart Reviews
“Brilliant, thought-provoking and addictive reading.”
—Affaire de Coeur Magazine
Chapter 1
July 2, 1881
Richmond, Virginia
The petite maid brushed aside a rogue wisp of hair from the back of Emeline Wright’s slender neck and clasped the necklace. Miss Wright’s chestnut brown hair wasn’t exactly unruly, but there was a lot of it and it had a soft, natural curl, so there was always this tendril or that escaping the pins. Plus it blew ever so slightly from the air flow caused by the two-blade ceiling fan. Each of the suites on the floor had a ceiling fan, powered by a stream of water, a turbine and a belt—or so she’d been told. She stepped back with a, “If that’s all, Miss?” since it was one of the few lines she was allowed to speak to the prisoner.
“Yes,” Miss Wright replied, since it was one of the few words she was allowed to speak. “Thank you, Jenny,” must have been added out of sheer defiance.
Jenny contained the smile that wanted to break through, curtsied and then left the suite, quietly shutting the door behind her before turning the key in the lock. She always felt a qualm about it, more than a qualm, really, but she unfailingly locked it because she was required to. An employee did not cross Mr. Peterson and keep one’s job. It was rumored that one did not cross Mr. Peterson and keep one’s life, although that may have been exaggeration.
As she started back to the east wing to see to her other duties, it occurred to her what an irony it was that someone as powerful and ruthless as Wilson Peterson was called Sonny. Sonny sounded sweet and harmless while he was anything but. He didn’t just own this place, The Virginia Palace, the largest, grandest hotel in Richmond; he had power. City officials existed quite cozily in his pockets and eagerly carried out his bidding.
Poor Emeline Wright. Even in the unlikely event she managed to get free of the hotel, it wouldn’t matter. She could strip naked, run into a street full of people and scream at the top of her lungs all the things Sonny had done to her—and no one would say one single word against him, even after she was dragged back inside and probably beaten half to death.
The Palace was not just a hotel. The elegant, four-story stucco structure, fittingly built in the palazzo style, took up half a block. It housed a refined restaurant on one end and a lavish saloon, brothel and gaming facility on the other, where big money was made. Without question, Sonny had charm, and yet everyone knew he was little more than a thug at heart who had acquired every red cent of his fortune through canny foresight and utter heartlessness. Take away his stature and confidence, and he was a plain looking man, six feet tall, with wheat-colored hair. Not thin, but nor was he muscular. He hired muscle; he rarely had to use his own anymore.
Everyone, at least everyone within the confines of The Palace, knew about Miss Wright, as well. Like most every other possession Sonny had ever set his sights on, she had been wooed, lured and then trapped. Tenderly wooed, cleverly lured and then fatally trapped. Jenny had seen her arrive the first day of what she thought was to be a brief visit, all bright eyed, kind and polite. How quickly things had changed, including Sonny’s loving demeanor.
Once the trap was sprung, Miss Wright was informed they’d be married just as soon as she learned to behave as the perfect wife. It was simple, Sonny stated. If she chose, theirs would be an exceedingly pleasant life. If she resisted, as he suspected she initially might, she could expect her “training” to be harsh. No matter what, she would be his and she would make him proud or she would pay the price.
Oh, and had he ever been right about her resisting. She had entirely too much spirit, but Jenny suspected that was one of the reasons he’d chosen her in the first place. After all, he could have had his pick of any number of impressive young ladies from Richmond. Docile, obedient creatures who’d been raised to be perfect wives. Instead, he’d chosen Emeline—an independent young woman attending college. A young woman without anyone in the world to come looking for her once she abruptly and unexpectedly withdrew
from school and the society she’d chosen.
Naturally, Jenny and the other maids saw more than most. While Em was paraded around almost every day on Sonny’s arm, presented as his lovely, fortunate fiancée, dressed in the finest fashions and glittering jewels, the casual observer didn’t see the evidence of Sonny’s “training.” They saw. Some even believed that Emeline had finally learned a certain level of submissiveness, and that there would be a wedding announcement before long. In Jenny’s opinion, what Miss Wright had “learned” was to become a master at subduing and concealing her emotions. She couldn’t possibly be naïve enough to believe that Sonny bought the act entirely, but she’d performed flawlessly of late. There had been far fewer marks and bruises.
As a door opened just up the hallway, the door to Veronica Peterson’s room, Jenny dropped her gaze and picked up her pace, hoping to pass without having to acknowledge the woman. Veronica was Sonny’s aunt and one of the most formidable, joyless people she had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Luck was with her, since Veronica’s back was to her as she passed.
Indeed, Em wasn’t naïve. She’d withdrawn so far within herself, she often felt nothing at all, but she wasn’t naïve. After Jenny left the room, she rose from her vanity table and walked over to the full-length mirror. The pale blue gown she wore was form-hugging and beautifully made, the design straight from Paris. The bustle had all but disappeared from fashion these days and a short train had been added. It was highly flattering and yet there was nothing she would have liked better than to rip it off. To rip it to shreds.
Perhaps it was her lack of expression or the rigidity of her body, but she was suddenly struck by the memory of the porcelain doll she’d had as a girl, because she resembled that doll. The thought was bizarre enough that she shivered. She blinked and the impression intensified. She was nothing but a doll—whose arms and legs could move, sometimes at her bidding, sometimes at his, but a lifeless, dressed-up doll just the same. That was what she had become.
“Barbara Jean,” Em whispered as she recalled the name of the doll. How funny; she hadn’t thought of the doll in years. She moved closer to the mirror, gazing fixedly into the eyes of her reflection. No, she was not quite a soulless doll yet, but she had to master her fear, find the right opportunity and get away from this place. There had to be a way to make it happen, especially since she’d managed to stash traveling essentials in a soft sided bag in the basement. In it was clothing, a train ticket and money—the exact same amount she’d possessed when she’d come to Richmond. She didn’t want anything that belonged or had ever belonged to Sonny.
Everything she’d accomplished so far had been difficult and dangerous. In fact, purchasing the ticket to Buena Vista had been a risk she’d barely gotten away with. She’d been on a shopping excursion with Veronica, an infrequent and only recently granted privilege, when, in a milliner’s shop, Veronica became involved enough in conversation with an acquaintance that Em was able to duck out of sight. Rushing to the railway station to purchase a ticket had been so nerve wracking that the station attendant had inquired whether she was ill.
She’d stammered she was perfectly well, and, with badly shaking hands, she’d stuffed the ticket into her reticule and hurried back toward the milliner’s shop, arriving just as Veronica emerged. Red-faced with fury, the older woman latched onto Em’s arm with a brutal grip. “Where were you?”
“I just stepped out for . . . for air,” Em replied shakily and much too quickly. She needed to calm herself. “I was feeling faint,” she added. She was suddenly gripped with fear that Veronica would search her reticule. She should have hidden the ticket in her bodice or up her sleeve.
“I will never take you out again,” Veronica swore as she led the way back to the carriage. “You can rot in that room for all I care.”
