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Prologue
JANUARY 4, 1835
Thesoundofthedoorbell reverberated through the Hall as Martin teetered on the edge of consciousness. He rose from his bed and lit a tall candle, letting the amber glow light the way.
Tonight, the wind whipped pellets of sleet against brand-new windows of his greatest architectural achievement: Idylewylde Hall, a sprawling mansion that clung to the shoreline. A place so new that the smell of fresh paint still hung in the air.
Who would be calling such an hour? Everyone he knew was still cleaning up the dregs of their New Year’s Eve parties, drunkenly whistling Auld Laud Syne.
He opened the heavy door, and his face fell.
“M-M-Martin,” Beatrix whimpered.
Beatrix stood before him, the gorgeous blight upon his reputation, with her raven hair and wide brown eyes.
Her cheeks were round and lush as apples, her trim waist buried beneath the dull grey wool of her dress. She wasn’t wearing a coat, and Martin had the sudden paternal instinct to sling a blanket over her shoulders.
Martin hired Beatrix as a maid, but she transformed into a de facto cook for the men who worked in the Hall. Martin could handle that. Then, he started to notice her beauty.
He was drawn to Beatrix like a moth to a flame, Adelaide be damned. Within months, they were stealing kisses between the dusty alcoves and scaffolding of his so-called family home.
“What are you doing here? You know Adelaide’s here!” Martin thundered.
Martin Idylewylde was considered sound of body and mind by all who knew him. He was a brilliant, albeit eccentric, architect.
Most husbands would present their young bride with a necklace as a wedding gift. Martin gave Adelaide an island.
He considered himself an upstanding man. He was devoted to his young bride and his business. He wanted to make the island hospitable, not only for his new family but for future generations.
Martin was also a dreamer. He trusted his dreams and said all his greatest creations came to him under the cover of night, on the edge of sleep. So, when his eyes snapped open at three in the morning, he knew he had to trust the feeling.
Beatrix’s expression darkened.“She’s with child. I saw her at the market cradling her stomach, looking cheerful.”
Martin reached out to touch Beatrix’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” she spat.“When were you going to tell me?”
“It did not appear fitting after your recent loss,” Martin mumbled.
“My loss? Martin, it was our loss! I lost our baby, and you left me cold, bloody, and alone.” Tears streamed down Beatrix’s face now.
Martin felt a wave of guilt wash over him. It was true; there had been a child.
Beatrix was stubborn. She refused the teas and tinctures that Martin slipped her way, instead glaring defiantly at him as her stomach grew beneath her dress. When Beatrix came to Martin last week to tell him she had lost it, he felt terrible relief.
Then Adelaide wrote to him saying that she had news. Thanks to their tryst to Paris at the end of the summer, they were going to be a family.
Martin knew he had to tell Beatrix at some point, but her loss was still so fresh. Looking at Beatrix felt like looking at a bullet hole in a body cavity—shocking and raw. He felt like he had to look away.
Now, she stood before him, radiating fury as the wind whipped her dark hair back.
“I’m sorry,” he started.
Beatrix reached out and slapped him clear across the face just as a clap of thunder sounded, shaking the newly installed railing on the front porch.
The wind howled, echoing the grief that racked Beatrix’s body. Her eyes were frantic and searching.
“Don’t you dare, Martin. Mark my words: your family will only know pain. Your family will carry the yolk of your shame. You are not a god. You are a foolish, imbecile of a man. Your sons will always know the sins of their father. Goodbye.”
