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“She’s gone, run away. I don’t understand it… I… well, who knows… but she’s not here,” he said.
Eloise did not understand. Why was her father drinking coffee and reading a periodical when his daughter was missing? It seemed… unbelievable. Tears welled up in Eloise’s eyes, and she shook her head, hardly able to take in her father’s words.
“I… what do you mean? She can’t have done… where is she? I saw her last night. She was here, and now… no, she can’t have. She’d have told me,” she cried, and she sank to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
Her father tutted and stooped down. He picked her up off the floor and called for Martha to assist him
“I don’t want any of this nonsense. Pull yourself together, Eloise. You won’t bring her back by crying!” he exclaimed, as Eloise looked up at him in disbelief.
“I wanted to go riding with her,” Eloise wailed.
“There, there, Eloise, let’s take you back to the nursery,” Martha said, taking Eloise by the hand.
“But where is she?” Eloise cried, refusing the believe her sister would have just run away without a word.
“She’s gone, Eloise, and that’s that!” her father shouted, and he banged his fist on the dining table as Martha hurried Eloise out of the room.
“She can’t have…” Eloise whimpered, shaking her head and clinging to Martha, who stooped down and put her arms around her.
“Oh, My Lady, you poor thing… we’ll find her, I promise,” she soothed.
CHAPTER1
LONDON, ENGLAND, 1812
Alice was never found. That day, she disappeared, never to be heard from again. Eloise tried everything she could to find her sister, but as the years passed and the anniversary of her disappearance came and went, Eloise found it harder and harder to believe she would ever see her darling sister again. She was twenty years old now, and Alice had been missing for ten long years. Eloise had grown into a young woman, coming out into society at the age of eighteen, with all the hopes and prospects of life lying before her. But in everything she did, there was something missing. An emptiness hung over her, and try as she might, Eloise was never truly happy.
She missed her sister dreadfully and thought about her every day. She wrote her letters, sent them to nowhere, and bought her presents for her birthday and Christmas. Alice was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. Every morning, she waited for the post, hopeful that it would be the day her sister finally got in touch. But every morning was a disappointment, and the more she longed for Alice’s return, the more her heart ached with disappointment for it not happening. It was her only prayer, her only wish, her only longing…
“Anything this morning, Anderton?” Eloise asked as the butler entered the dining room bearing a silver tray on which laid the day’s correspondence.
“Only this, My Lady,” the butler said, lowering the tray.
Eloise glanced at the letter and sighed. She recognized the handwriting, and it was not that of her sister. The letter came from Lady Cybil Sykes, a distant cousin, and Eloise knew what it would contain without opening it.
“The Mayfair Ball,” she sniffed, taking the letter and tossing it down on the table.
Her father folded his periodical and looked up, narrowing his eyes.
“And why the long face? What of the Mayfair Ball? It’s a highlight of the social calendar,” he said, as the butler lowered the tray for the Viscount to retrieve his own correspondence, which he now began to examine.
“Another dull ball,” Eloise replied.
She did not enjoy such occasions, or rather, she did not enjoy such occasions on her own. She had spent her early years imagining such events alongside her sister. They would dress in beautiful ball gowns and dance with handsome men, and afterwards, they would share the secrets of snatched kisses and the amusing words of men who would tell them they were in love after just one dance. Eloise had never enjoyed balls, soirees, dinners, picnics, or whatever other occasions the expectations of her rank forced her to attend on her own.
“Dull balls are the means of finding a husband, Eloise. You know what I told you. One more season,” her father said as he used a paper knife to open the first of his letters.
Eloise looked up at him and scowled. At the beginning of the Season, her father issued an ultimatum. She had this final opportunity to find a husband, or he would do it for her. The prospect of a forced match was too awful to comprehend, and Eloise could only imagine the sort of man her father would choose. She had had suitors over the years, and she was never short of a man to dance with. But as for falling in love…
“You can’t force these matters, Father. I’ve not met anyone whom I felt was right for me…” she argued.
But it was not only a suitable match Eloise was lacking but a suitable will. Since her sister’s disappearance, Eloise had felt as though a part of her had disappeared. She had grown up without a confidant, and with no one whom she could entirely trust with her secrets. She had friends, but it was not the same as a sister, and her heart ached for want of that companionship she had once taken for granted.
“And do you even try? No, Eloise, you don’t,” her father snapped.
“Then you’d have me married off to whomsoever you choose? And what kind of man would that be?” Eloise demanded.
“Any man. You’ve shown no attempt at trying yourself. The end of the Season, Eloise. No more. And enough of this obsession with finding your sister,” he said, rising to his feet.
