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Chapter 1
Miss Lucy Wilds, aged four-and-twenty years, was sitting in the parlour of her London town home, painting a still life. The air was redolent with the rich scents of oil paint and linseed oil. In front of her was a small robin’s-egg blue bowl of bright red apples on top of a table, which was covered with a crisp, white cloth.
She dipped her brush into the red paint, mixing it with a little of the oil, then began to fill in the shapes of the apples on the canvas. They were already sketched out in the underpainting, done in shades of raw umber.
She was standing beside the window, for maximum light. The sunlight streaming through was warm on her skin. Outside, there was a brief trill of happy feminine voices. Lucy glanced out of her window to see none other than Miss Susan Hamm walking with a group of young women, all of them dressed in bright colours.
I haven’t seen her for at least five years.
Susan was dressed in a lavender silk dress, with a smart Spencer jacket in goldenrod and a matching yellow bonnet. Susan’s hair was in dark ringlets, framing her heart-shaped face. Long ago, Lucy presumed that Susan lost interest in continuing their friendship. It was a shame, really. They had been close—bosom friends of the highest order during their school days.
Lucy—dressed in her paint-smudged smock, her brown hair caught in a plain bun—drew away from the window, stepping into the shadows of the parlour so that should Susan glance up, she wouldn’t see her.
Loneliness, sharp and lingering, welled up inside of Lucy. She breathed in deeply, banishing it to the shadows, where it belonged. It had always been difficult for Lucy to make friends, even before her parents had died, leaving her to be cared for by her spinster aunt, Joan Wilds.
Lucy loved reading and having conversations about literature and politics. Additionally, she felt awkward around people, like she didn’t quite fit in. The frosty reception she experienced at parties when she offered her opinion made things even worse.
The two women rarely mixed with other people. There wasn’t the money for fancy clothes or tickets to assembly balls or the theatre, even if they had wanted to go. Lucy and Aunt Joan were allowed use of the townhouse, as well as a modest income from her father’s estate. They lived simply and quietly. They were both, for the most part, content.
Lucy glanced down. She was wearing a simple grey muslin under her smock—nothing so fancy as Susan’s elegant dress and smart jacket. She knew that, as Lucy was no longer a prosperous tradesman’s daughter, Susan’s interest in being friends had slowly waned.
While Lucy and Susan had had rousing discussions, Susan had, more and more, wanted to build friendships among society. Susan could do that—her father was still alive (as far as Lucy knew) and was looking for an equally rich man to marry his daughter.
Lucy herself didn’t have the luxury of looking for a match. She had, several years before, fancied herself in love, only to find that he, too, had grown tired of her. If it weren’t for Lucy’s father’s bequest, she and Aunt Joan would have been destitute. They made sure to make it last. During her parents’ lifetimes, the house had had several servants. However, the two women preferred to cook and keep house for themselves.
Lucy heard the sound of her Aunt Joan’s footsteps, coming down the hall. She turned toward the door, which was open, just in time to see her aunt enter the room.
“A letter has arrived by special courier,” Aunt Joan said, waving an already opened letter in the air. Her aunt was dressed in a sombre black bombazine, her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun, with several curled ringlets framing her cheeks.
Lucy set her brush and palette down on the table beside the bowl of apples as she met her aunt in the centre of the room.
“Who is it from?” she asked, holding out a hand to accept the letter. It was on thick, creamy paper. The handwriting was almost an art form, with its careful flourishes.
“The widower of my old friend, Lady Thornbridge,” Aunt Joan told her with excitement. “Lord Josiah Sweet, the Viscount of Thornbridge, has offered to host us at his county seat.”
Lucy perused the letter’s content. Aunt Joan had been friends with the viscount’s wife, who had passed five years prior. The two had rarely seen each other, but Lady Amelia Sweet, the Viscountess of Thornbridge, and Aunt Joan had had a regular correspondence and a friendship that spanned several decades. They had met during their days at a fancy manners school for young ladies. As the daughter of a wealthy tradesman, Aunt Joan had been able to attend.
“Aunt Joan,” Lucy said, looking up from the letter, “this is for a four-day long party.” Lucy’s antisocial leanings were sounding their alarm bells. Aunt Joan beamed at her.
“Yes! To celebrate Miss Dinah Sweet, Amelia’s only daughter—and, I imagine, to find her a suitable husband.”
“She came out three years ago, did she not?” Lucy recalled Aunt Joan telling her about it. After his wife’s passing, Lord Thornbridge wrote to Aunt Joan in her stead. Though infrequent, the correspondence was a comfort to Lucy’s aunt, who missed her friend terribly.
“Indeed,” Aunt Joan agreed. “Miss Sweet will turn two-and-twenty this coming September. Lord Thornbridge is trying to secure her a good marriage, and soon. At one-and-twenty, it’s getting to be critical.”
Most ladies were wed by twenty. To be unmarried at two-and-twenty was considered to be late. Lucy herself had given up hope years prior, and found herself to be content with the decision. After all, she and Aunt Joan were comfortable and fulfilled.
“Can’t I stay in London while you go?” Lucy asked, hoping to get out of it.
“Socializing will be good for you,” Aunt Joan said stoutly. “Before winter comes and we two are shut away by bad weather. We get few invitations as it is.”
“Please, Aunt Joan,” Lucy begged. “Let me stay here.” She already knew, by the set of her aunt’s shoulders—she planned for Lucy to accompany her.
“Lucy, I cannot afford to have you out in Society much,” Aunt Joan said. “You, too, will need to begin to consider making as advantageous a match as possible.”
“Aunt Joan—” Lucy murmured, scandalized, but one look from her aunt silenced her.
“I myself know how difficult it is to remain unmarried, and to rely on the goodness of others to help one support oneself.” Aunt Joan sighed, smiling at her niece warmly. “It will be a good chance to perhaps secure yourself a husband. After all, four-and-twenty is not too late.”
