And when he’d looked at the broken, lifeless forms of his wife and infant son, all Rory could think waspilfer, purloin, and pinch what it is they love best.
But he hadn’t loved them best, had he? He’d tried to love Harriet. He’d wanted to meet his son. If he’d been with them, if they’d been living at Lilacfall Abbey, as they should have been, not traveling from London, they would still be alive. If he hadn’t asked Harriet to come, to try just one more time to repair their marriage, she might still be alive.
Curse or no curse, her death, and that of his son, was on Rory’s conscience. He was to blame.
*
Frances was leaving.She hated this place, and she hated the man everyone said was her father. He couldn’t be her father. Herfather was a king in a faraway kingdom. She was a lost princess, and the king and queen were searching for her. They wanted her to come home.
Even as Frances tiptoed about the room so as not to wake the sleeping maid, she could picture her mother—the queen—in her mind. Her mother had beautiful golden hair. Sometimes she would allow Frances to brush it or play with it. Her golden hair fell to her waist and shone in the firelight. Her mother had blue eyes, so clear and light. She had a small nose that wrinkled when she laughed. She didn’t laugh often enough, but when she did, the whole room seemed to brighten as though the sun had come out on a cloudy day.
Frances had a little brother too, a baby prince, who was so perfect. He had tiny fingers and toes and big eyes that stared at her so intently. She had loved her Mama and her baby brother.
But then Frances had been taken away. There had been the accident—no, she wouldn’t think of that. She was a princess who had been stolen away from her kingdom. She’d begged her grandmother and grandfather to send her back, but they had only told her to hush over and over again.
Finally, they too had sent her away. To her father—that was what they said. But the harsh, cruel man here at Lilacfall Abbey was not her father. He was not the king. He was a cruel prince, and she must escape him. She must find a way to go home, back to her rightful kingdom. Her mother would be waiting for her there. Her mother and her baby brother.
She lifted her boots and the pillowcase where she had stowed everything in the world she needed or cared about and tiptoed out of the room. The maid snorted quietly, and Frances paused. Then her soft snoring continued.
Frances closed the door with a soft snick and stopped to slide her feet into her boots. She looked left then right, trying to remember how to escape the dungeon where the cruel princehad imprisoned her. When he carried her to the tower where she’d lived a thousand years, he’d walked up a winding staircase. She moved along the corridor until she found it, then made her way silently down.
She passed a room where the door was open a sliver and light poured out. The red-haired man who had been at the table at dinner—one of the cruel prince’s knights—sat in a chair in the room staring at an empty glass. She tiptoed away, unnoticed. At the door to the castle, she had a bit of trouble with the latch, but she finally managed it and slid outside into the cool evening. The night air was mild, not too cold, but the hour was late and the sky very, very dark.
Frances was afraid of the dark. In the dark, her chest felt tight, and her heart raced. She had been thrust into the dark the night her mother had been stolen away from her, and Frances had not been able to escape, no matter how she screamed and pounded. Standing outside the cruel prince’s castle, she stared into the dark and wondered what sort of monsters might be out there. Would the prince have a dragon guarding the gate to the castle? What about giants or pixies?
Once morning dawned, monsters were chased away by the sunlight. She would have to wait until the sun came out, and then she could set out in search of her rightful kingdom. In the meantime, she could hide in the gazebo on the front lawn. She’d hidden there earlier today after she’d run from the cruel prince. She could rest on the benches and hide if a giant stomped nearby.
Frances ran to the gazebo and sidled inside, creeping under a bench and pulling her knees to her chest, using the hem of her nightgown to dry her tears.
Chapter Three
Genevieve Brooking hadalways wanted a peek inside Lilacfall Abbey. She’d passed it many times as a girl and marveled at how beautiful it was. Though she had visited estates designed by the renowned Capability Brown, whose work everyone in Polite Society raved about, privately Genevieve didn’t care for them. Brown’s work was too ordered, too straight. She liked a bit of chaos and wildness. Lilacfall Abbey had both in spades.
As she approached, she noticed the lush lilac bushes still in full bloom, their flowers spilling over one another and perfuming the air with the light scent of creamy pastels. To Genevieve, a flower like a rose smelled bold and bright, while lilies and lilacs were the scent of pale watercolors.
Genevieve liked to think of herself more like a rose than a lilac. It was true she was pale. She was a ginger with the coloring that accompanied it, and she had to stay out of the sun or else she’d freckle more, and her nose would turn bright red. But beneath the paleness of her skin, she was everything bright and vibrant, starting with her flaming red hair. She’d wrangled the curls into order this morning in a clean updo under a smart hat that matched her dress. This morning, she wore a Pomona-green day dress with a matching parasol. She’d often been told green was her color, as it matched her eyes.
In her satchel, Genevieve carried three letters of reference written by previous employers who could vouch for her abilitiesas a governess. She wasn’t sure if a governess was what the master of Lilacfall Abbey needed. The advertisement in the local paper seemed to have been written hastily. The text mentioned a caregiver for a child but had not specified the child’s age. If the child was very young and in need of a nanny or a nurse, Genevieve worried she would not be considered for the position. She had never cared for any child under the age of five and had no experience with babies. But perhaps she could convince the housekeeper to overlook that shortfall and give her a chance. She needed this position. Badly.
As she neared the house, she felt more intimidated than she’d expected. After all, she’d served at grand estates that were three times as large as this house. But she’d never worked anywhere as charming. She paused at a white gazebo and stared up at the house. The house had been made of stone, which had weathered and aged gracefully, as stone was wont to do. The shape was more or less rectangular, though quite irregular in form, as it had been obviously added to over the decades. Boxy chimneys rose from the roof erratically, and the exterior jutted out in fits and starts. The house must be three floors at its peak, though some sections were only one or two floors.
What she liked best—well, second best—were all the windows. She’d rarely seen a house with so many windows, and all of them seemed to reach from floor to ceiling. The master of the house must pay a fortune in taxes, as the window tax was excessive enough that her mother had boarded over some of the windows in their cottage to save money. But the taxes spent at Lilacfall Abbey were well worth it, because the house’s best feature was the grounds. Lilacfall Abbey had been named appropriately. Despite how late it was in the season, lilac bushes lined the walks and had grown over the front of the house, dripping down over the windows. Large, flowering trees castshade near the front drive, the buds of the flowers creating a carpet of pink and white.
Everything was green and lush and just a little wild, though surprisingly well maintained for a house that her mother said had been empty the past half-year or more after a tragedy in the family. The groundskeepers and servants must have taken pride in the upkeep of the house, even as she suspected they were well paid. The salary for the caregiver had not been given in the advertisement, but the text suggested it would be generous.
Genevieve started forward again. Time to knock on the door and inquire after a Mrs. Mann. But just as she moved away from the gazebo, she spotted a boot poking out from under a bench. Genevieve moved closer then crouched down and peered under the bench. The boot was attached to a leg, which was attached to a child. That child was sleeping under the bench. He or she had left a lumpy pillowcase on top of the bench. The pillowcase had fallen over slightly, and Genevieve spotted a frame sticking out, placed on top of what appeared to be clothing.
Having spent the last fourteen of her thirty years caring for children, Genevieve quickly ascertained the nature of the situation. She closed her parasol, leaned it against the side of the gazebo, then sat in the doorway. Once she was comfortable, she reached forward and touched the child’s boot. That had no effect, so she touched it again and said, in a warm voice, “Good morning.”
The child moved and stretched. Genevieve was relatively certain the child was female. She had long brown hair and seemed to be clutching a doll. The doll was made of wood, her face smooth and painted with red circles for cheeks. She had blonde hair, quite matted, with a hat sewn on. The hat was green, like the doll’s dress. The green was almost the same as that of Genevieve’s gown.
“I like your doll,” Genevieve said. “What’s her name?”
The child made a sudden start, obviously coming awake and realizing where she was—or perhaps where she wasnot—and rolling out from under the bench to blink at Genevieve. “I won’t go back!” she said, her voice raspy from sleep.
“Very well,” Genevieve said with a shrug. “Are you running away?”
“Yes!” The child sat up, cradling her doll. “You can’t stop me.”
