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Chapter 1
Rebecca Jennings was finally goingto have her first Season in London. After dreaming of it for years, it was finally, truly happening!
She hoisted her packages more securely into her arms as she strode down the main street of Lower Alderwood. She and her sister, Susan, had been invited to spend the Season as the particular guests of a Lady Walmsley, an elderly relation of their brother’s friend Lord Halford. It was a dream come true. Only two days more and they would be on their way.
Rebecca had chosen to delay her come-out two years earlier because of the unknown circumstance of her brother Lucas, who had been fighting in Spain against the French. The family had heard news of battles and sieges, but no one had been able to account for Lucas’s whereabouts. Rebecca had felt it important to remain with her family and offer what little support she could to Mama and Papa.
They had finally received word that Lucas was alive, and he’d eventually arrived home safely—with a wife, Lavinia, who’d been an actress on Drury Lane, and a few of her fellow actors. They had been delightful additions to the family, and Rebecca had chosen to delay her come-out an additional year so she could help Lavinia after the birth of her and Lucas’s daughter. Rebecca had been more than willing to wait—family was of the highest priority in her mind—but this year she was more than ready to be presented to Society and enjoy the thrills of the London Season.
She called out a few cheery greetings to the townspeople she passed as she hurried home. Word was that the London Season would be even more exciting this year because Emperor Napoleon was being forced to abdicate, and the war that had gone on for as long as Rebecca could remember might finally be coming to an end. The newspapers claimed that dignitaries from all over the Continent were traveling to London for the celebration that was to come. It would be a historic year, and Rebecca was thrilled that she was going to experience it firsthand.
She turned off the main street and onto the road to Alderwood, her family home, stopping briefly to adjust the purchases she was carrying once more. Atop a large box holding a gown rested a hatbox containing a delightful bonnet, and situated next to that were two smaller packages, one with an exquisitely lacy handkerchief and another with a pair of stockings embroidered with rosebuds. The dress box was only a bit cumbersome, and with the hatbox and smaller packages balanced on top of it, she’d figured she would have no problem carrying them home. She hadn’t gone far, however, before realizing she should have asked for a footman to accompany her to carry the packages. Hindsight was always clearer than foresight could be.
After some effort, she finally reached the point in her travel home where she could either continue on the road that wound around her neighbor Mr. Arnold’s property on its way to Alderwood, or she could cut through Mr. Arnold’s wooded parkland that bordered her father’s property—something she had done countless times before, which lessened the distance by a significant amount.
She opted for the shortest course. Mr. Arnold had never minded that she’d crossed his land in the past. Alas, poor Mr. Arnold had succumbed to old age this past winter, and the new owner had not arrived to take ownership, so she doubted anyone would care.
Much too late, she realized—again!—that she’d made a poor decision. Navigating the uneven terrain with her hands occupied and her arms fatigued and branches snagging at her skirts and bonnet was altogether not what she'd anticipated. At least she could finally see the stile in the fence that separated Mr. Arnold’s property from Papa’s in the near distance. She was nearly home.
Just a bit farther.
She huffed out a breath, aiming it upward, hoping the air would dislodge the errant lock of hair that kept tickling her nose, then balanced her packages while she once again got a firm grasp of her skirts with the two fingers she’d assigned to the task and ventured forward.
Finally, she made it to the stile! She rested one end of the packages on the top step so she required only one hand to keep them balanced and secure, then she felt in her pocket with her free hand for her handkerchief. Her muscles ached, and perspiration dripped from her forehead.
A glass of lemonade sounds tantalizing, she thought as she tucked away her handkerchief and clutched her skirts before taking up the packages with both hands again. Lemonade and a shortbread biscuit.
She raised her foot high to begin her ascent.
“Oy!” a man yelled, startling Rebecca out of her thoughts.
She shrieked, jerking around at the sound, and her foot came down, missing the first step of the stile and hitting the ground with a sharp, searing pain that exploded in her ankle and knifed up her leg. She flailed, her arms whirling about her, packages flying as she tried desperately to right herself before collapsing in a heap. Stars flashed before her eyes, surrounded by a blackness that threatened to engulf her.
She thought she might be sick.
“Oh, blast it all!” she thought she heard someone say through the ringing in her ears.
She opened one eye, squinting, and saw a man she didn’t recognize approach her and then squat next to her.
“Are you all right?” she thought he said, the ringing in her ears only now beginning to subside a bit. “Here, let me help you.” He took her elbow to give her support, and she swallowed down bile and shifted to get her feet under her.
“Oh!” she cried, the pain in her ankle exploding again when she attempted to put weight on it. She collapsed back onto the ground, realizing as she did so that she was going to discover several bruises once she returned home, thoughhowshe was going to return home remained to be seen. “My ankle,” she moaned. “The left one.”
“Here, let me take a look,” the stranger said. “My apologies if doing so seems untoward.” He moved her skirts away from her left ankle and bent closer to examine it. He touched one spot in particular.
She yelped and hissed with pain.
He muttered something under his breath.
“What is it?” she asked, but she already knew what he was going to say, even if she refused to believe it.
“I’m afraid you’ve broken your ankle.”
“Itcan’tbe broken,” she insisted. Surely she’d only twisted it. It would be better in a day or two, a week at the most—
“There’s a slight protrusion . . .” He gently touched the same spot.
She hissed again. “No!” she sobbed.
