Prologue
London, 1810
There was nothing Elizabeth Hawkins hated more than being called a liar. The other neighbourhood children had been doing it for months now while they relentlessly teased her about her mysterious father, not believing her vehement reassurances that he was an eminent gentleman who was forced to be mostly absent from her life because of the important obligations of his title, as he’d told her himself.
Elizabeth had no more information to offer them, but she was desperate for them to stop. If it was enough for her, why couldn’t it be enough for them?
Thomas Barlow, who lived with his family in the servants’ quarters of their house in Belgravia, was the worst among her tormentors. Elizabeth knew he’d seen her father multiple times, so she couldn’t comprehend why he wasn’t helping her defend herself. Three years older than her, Thomas already considered himself grown in many ways and had recently started ignoringhis former playmate whenever she ran to greet him after he’d spent the day driving their town coach alongside his father.
Only the thought of joining him and the other neighbourhood children got Lizzie through the tedious morning lesson attempts with her mother, who would inevitably retire to her room with a headache, thus enabling Lizzie to sneak out. Most of the other courtyard children’s parents were employed by households on their street – Elizabeth neither dressed like them nor spoke like them, and they sometimes insinuated that they knew things about her father. Which things, she had no idea, but she bristled at the offence nonetheless.
Lizzie didn’t know what was worse: the cold indifference or the hot accusations Thomas would fling at her whenever all the children were together. Underneath the indignation and impotent rage she felt whenever he mocked her, there was an undercurrent of something she didn’t have a name for yet. She felt like she wanted to shut him up once and for all, and oddly, putting her mouth on his in order to achieve that objective seemed like a really good idea.
That persistent undercurrent was the reason why, when Elizabeth had caught a glimpse of Thomas hugging and pressing himself against that loud-mouthed Sarah Baker from her window three days ago, she had screamed into her pillow for five minutes before going downstairs and interrogating her useless mother aboutPapaonce again.
Finally, she struck gold – her mother revealed that herPapadid something calledpromenadingin St. James’s Park every Sunday. Her father had repeatedly told the curious 10-year-old that it was not possible for her to accompany him wherever hewent when he was not with them in their home, without ever really explainingwhy. Elizabeth deduced that the walk was most likely part ofthe important obligations of his title, and that was why he was promenading without her.
The next day, Elizabeth almost tripped over her skirts as she ran to tell her tormentor about Sundays at the Park. He simply looked her up and down, shook his head, and with that curl of his upper lip, said, “Prove it.”
So she had to. She really did.
That was what she told herself as the motion of the carriage combined with the nerves of what she was about to do almost made her cast up her accounts. She was currently in her family’s town coach, on her way to St. James’s Park. Thomas’s father, Mister Ed, as she’d called him all of her life, was their driver, and Thomas had the brilliant idea of using the coach to get them to the Park that Sunday.
The door was suddenly flung open, in the same jerky motion that had marked the entire drive.
“We’re here,” he said in that curt way he had with her now.
She nodded and got out of the coach without his help. There was no way she would appear even younger and sillier by asking him all the questions that were on her mind, let alone reveal that she’d never been to the Park before.
Thomas boldly took her hand and led her to a beautiful tree-lined street. The feel of his hand made it impossible to appreciate the blooming flowers and other lovely things one might notice on a spring day. Thomas’ steps were steady, and he seemed to know where they were going, which intensified the warm feeling in Elizabeth’s stomach.
“I cannot wait to prove you wrong,” she told him as they sat down on a bench which gave them a good view of the passers-by. The park looked enormous. Elizabeth worried that they wouldn’t be able to spotPapain the river of people, and that Thomas would forever think her a silly little liar. She kept her eyes trained on the people, all of them dressed far more elegantly than the two of them. Elizabeth’s mother usually tried to dress her like a little lady, but nothing stayed clean or unmended for too long.
Thomas just grinned in acknowledgement of her words, keeping his eyes closed and his face lifted to the sun. His lean body was relaxed on the bench, his legs crossed and stretched in front of him. He looked like a lazy cat who was enjoying the sun.Tomcat,she thought, but didn’t say it.
“Why do you tease me?” she finally blurted out.
“You make it so fun, Lizzie. You scrunch up your nose and fist your little hands, and your voice gets very shrill.”
Thomas shrugged, as if what he said was reason enough to rob Elizabeth of sleep.
“I cannot believe you,” she retorted, careful to keep her voice even.
He shrugged again, as if he couldn’t be bothered one way or the other.
“You are too desperate to be a part of our group,” he said after a while, and he might as well have kicked her in the stomach.
She swallowed, willing her lungs to work again, while Thomas continued, never having opened his eyes to look at the devastation he was delivering.
“I heard your Ma telling you not to play with the likes of us, that it’s unbecoming. Doesn’t she know we don’t really want you? And yet you keep following us around like a lost dog, even though you don’t really fit in, can’t you see that?”
Lizzie could finally see it now. That’s what today was all about. Her eyes were stinging. She couldn’t wait to see and hug her father, to find some comfort somewhere.
Dear God, please, help me. Let Papa come, and let me prove Thomas wrong,she prayed, something she’d always, inexplicably, done, even though neither of her parents had ever devoted any attention to her religious education.
“Do you see him anywhere?” Thomas asked after a while.
“Not yet. But he’ll be here, he’s here every Sunday,” she said with all the bravado she could muster.
