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Chapter One
England, 1817
Caramel leaves tumbled to life by brisk autumnal notes that roused them from slumber, requesting a last wistful dance before a wintry embrace would claim them.
Autumn's hand was lying heavy on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odours of wood smoke seemed to flit over the moor, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn as with a graving-tool against the sky.
The lake mirrored the sky above. Sophia closed her eyes. The breeze that ran unchecked over the rippled surface blew her long bangs from her eyes and brought colour to her usually pale cheeks.
Without the distraction of the view she could detect the scent. The moist air was fragranced with the pine trees that circled the lake, growing so close that some had toppled in and others dangles cobra-thick roots into the water.
The sunset threatening to dip behind the horizon, firstly cascading a prim bombardment of colours that were flung over the sky with terrible alacrity. The receding blue and oranges battled the blackness pushing it away with arms. It shone on the lake below shining its deep depths. The radiant glow scintillated and beamed.
The view was wondrous to behold, for the lake teemed with life. To the chorus of birdsong from the surrounding green bushes, and the sound of carp sucking amongst the flowering lily-pads, mother duck, watchful for the predatory pike, scooped the surface for food, with her young trailing behind like a row of bobbing corks.
Dab chicks and coots fed in the safe haven of the reed-beds, whilst flashing green and blue dragonflies hovered above. A deep sense of serenity overcame her as she stared in rapture at the expanse of blue that lay before her.
The autumn breeze tousled Sophia's hair and pinked her cheeks. The warmth that had been in the wind just last week had either evaporated into the sky or leached into the earth. It gave life to the long grass at the side of the road, still yellowing from the high August sun.
Red, orange and yellow, in various different shades. All of them floating gracefully on the soft breeze. It was as if a friendly hand was gently lowering them to the ground.
Whispers between these leaves filled the air, whispers and mutters. The air was cool and crisp, like a refreshing drink of cool water after hours in a desert. The breeze fluttered around, gently caressing everything it touched with fingers that had been a comfort to so many over their long, lonely years.
The tree was ablaze, or at least appeared to be. Leaves of brilliant yellow, bright orange and subtle red tainted slightly by the brown crispness of late autumn.
The leaves swaying gently dancing in the breeze as they took the last steps of there lives to their bitter but inevitable death. The breeze lifting and spinning the leaves allowing them to gracefully tumble and float.
Before they finally end their dance finishing heaped upon the ground leaving the tree exposed to the cold harshness winter promises.
A single golden leaf pirouetted down an invisible spiral of breeze, spinning through the air as it let itself be carried down. It shook slightly, as if it could have been whisked away any second by the grip of an icy wind, but it kept floating down the twirling course.
It blew past her face and landed lightly on the ground, the shiny, vibrant colour standing out against the ambers and bronzes beneath it. It was so delicate, she wanted to reach down and pick it up and hold it close to her heart, smoothing out any creases, but something told her that it belonged there, this corpse of what was once summer.
As the leaf made its final journey to the earth it fell in a graceful tumbling motion, seeking the least resistance from the autumnal air. Already dead, yet its color and its dance were so alive. Its descent was utterly silent until it joined its brethren below, and even then the noise was barely audible. Then a new leaf is plucked by unseen hands from the boughs above and takes over the stage as if choreographed.
Sophia Astor was of pale complexion, long wisps of umber streaked with highlights of ginger that always seemed to gleam when they captured the light just right.
Her hair was a lovely whisky, the color of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rain of autumn. How such a tint could play with the light, like peering at the sun through a jar of pine honey.
She had the kindest pair of coffee brown eyes trimmed by long gorgeous lashes. Eyes the colour of rich soil flecked with black, eyes the colour of dark chocolate with flecks of hazel nut, sable eyes, the colour of hot chocolate, the deep brown of the winter trees at twilight, the lightened brown of parched summer soil, glossy chestnut brown, the colour of unvarnished oak with deep mahogany flecks, the colour of apple pips, mottled like varnished cork, the colour of a dessert palm tree with flecks of acorn shell. Lovely eyes, yet somehow gentle, that always held a tiny warmth within them.
Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted lips, as if crafted by angels themselves. All these features set together on a delicate almost, angelic face.
Sophia was unlike the other women. She wanted to be independent. She had thoughts and ideas of her own and she wanted to make them heard. She was going to choose her own husband one day.
Sophia began to cry. How could she possibly be happy when her love was taken from her?
She remembered that day when Henry, her fiancé, had arrived. There was a gathering at the house for a hunt and she rode out on her horse with Henry by her side. All she thought that day was how in another few weeks, they would be married. Life was perfect that morning.
Wind whipping through his hair, Sophia leaned forward, urging his horse to greater speed.
“Henry!”
