She used to pretend to be a part of their small group; a part of their jokes and bantering; a part of something … anything. In the beginning, her only real companion was her doll, Tildey. In time, she made one other true friend: Vadette—a girl two years older than her, though similar in size.
They rarely had time to play with one another. The farmer assigned typical daily chores to the other orphans: feeding chickens, cutting hay, mucking out the stables. But Willow had other assignments. Strange assignments. The farmer’s wife drilled her on the acrobatics and contortionist acts she’d learned during her time with the circus—something the other children considered play. Due to this, most of the orphans snubbed Willow for being their keepers’ favorite. But Vadette never judged her. Instead, she would come to watch the acrobatics when her chores were finished.
In spite of their poverty, the farmer managed to refurbish an old silo with trapezes, tightropes, spinning wires, and nets to accommodate Willow’s skills. When Willow advanced enough to practice in solitude, Vadette started to visit more often. She wanted to learn for herself, and Willow readily accepted the companionship, showing her friend how to swing from the trapezes and spin wires, how to bend her body into ungodly poses, and even teaching her to speak Italian.
Willow felt safe during her training, up high where no one could touch her. But birthdays and Christmas were unsettling. She would always receive gifts from an anonymous sender—wrapped in crisp parchment with rainbow colored bows. Each time, she threw the presents away unopened, for the scent radiating from them reminded her of the man that had held her as she watched her mother fall: a foreign tobacco rife with murder. Even at her young age, she came to understand the link, that whomever had killed her parents so heartlessly had put her in the orphanage so they could watch her from a distance. This made her desperate to escape.
An opportunity allotted itself just a few weeks after Willow’s seventh birthday.
The farmer and his wife had rounded up the sixteen children and carried them into Manchester for a ‘new’ wardrobe. Camp Field Clothing Resellers had the best bargains on used garments. Clothes and hats were to be shared by all, altered to fit by belted waists and rolled-up sleeves and hems. Their keepers only invested in white shirts, straw hats, and brown or black breeches—as they could be worn by either sex and lent themselves to physical labor.
While digging through a pile of tattered clothing, Willow had spotted a gypsy caravan peddling on the other end of the cobbled street. The wagons were painted in bright colors, and the sun reflected off of them to stain the pupil. Each time she blinked, the image reappeared on the back of her lids. There were palm readers along with sellers of baskets, fruit, chairs, and fiddles. To lure spectators, a musical troupe comprised of an oboe, violin, pan flute, and tambourine stationed themselves next to the main thoroughfare.
Mouthwatering scents drifted across to Willow’s nose, murmuring of unfamiliar delicacies, sweat born of open-ended travels, and the waxy-warm incense of pagan rituals. The dramatic costumes embodied a sense of freedom and entertainment she had been missing. In her young mind, these nomads with their reclusive sophistication reminded her of circus performers. They felt like family … like home. Or the closest thing she could remember of it.
Unlike Julian, Vadette had been a loyal friend that day. She proved it, playing Willow’s doppelganger. They swapped hats and Willow broke away from the group of orphans, unnoticed, to weave through the mesmerized crowds. Staying to the shaded edges of shops, she found one brightly painted wagon far removed from the others. Opening the back door, she eased within unseen. Toward the front was a trunk three fourths full of scarves, rolls of canvas, stubby half-used candles, fur-trimmed shawls, and strings of beads. Sinking inside, she folded her body into a rectangle and drew the contents over herself as if immersing in water—a baptism of sorts. For she knew, when next she emerged, she would be reborn.
Careful to tuck a fur collar over the edge to allow for ventilation and a slit of light, Willow eased the lid down. A strange calm engulfed her and she began to make up her own words to a muffled gypsy aria playing in the streets.
“I am a wanderer; my heart is filled with sand. I travel all around the world, and conquer foreign lands.”
She fell asleep to the sound of her own voice. When she awoke, she felt her surroundings jostling. The wagon had belonged to Bitti Faa, Master Thornton’s nomadic aunt. The old woman parted off from the rest of the caravan upon their passage through Worthington and rode into the manor’s gates. Imagine Bitti’s surprise, and everyone else’s, when she opened her treasure chest to hand out gifts to the family, only to find a frightened yet eager stowaway.
The Thorntons had managed to give her heart life again—to stop the sands from running out on her emotions—for they had offered her a home filled with love, affectionate hugs and kisses, and kindness. Still, although she came to adore them as her own, she could never share the tragic scope of her childhood. How she got into the trunk was the sole part of her past she’d admit to. As to her parents’ whereabouts, or why she ended up in an orphan workhouse to begin with, no one knew. They all assumed her hummingbird tattoo signified her time in the circus. Better that way. Willow didn’t want to weigh them down with the mystery of her parents’ violent murders.
Yet there was a part of her, now that she was older and wiser, that craved answers for herself. That wanted to know why any of it had happened at all. A hunger for revenge had awakened—a sickening sweet desire that nurtured her hatred like the black rotting flowers which Master Thornton used in the gardens for mulch.
A chill skimmed Willow’s spine—the breathy purr of phantom wings inked along her lower back beneath her chemise.
It was doubtful she would ever have the chance to explore her past, to seek out who or what was behind her parents’ deaths. As of now, the sole purpose of her existence was to play the part of a debutante bride. No lofty elitist would allow his wife to go gallivanting about in search of answers to a shady past.
A pang of self-reproach shuddered through her. Here she had the opportunity for a pretentious education which would land her a wealthy husband, yet she wasn’t even grateful. Perhaps she was no better a friend than Julian. She’d left Vadette at the orphanage without a thought.
The final thing Willow had said to her was not thank you or I’ll miss you … it was a request that Vadette take care of Tildey, her inanimate toy who had been left behind at the orphanage.
What had become of poor Vadette? Was she poverty stricken? Sad and broken? Alone?
Willow’s thoughts burst into fragments as she heard Aunt Enya’s even, plodding steps ascending the stairs in the secret passage. She had hoped Emilia might’ve succeeded in their plan—to convince Enya to allow Emilia’s assistance with dressing Willow so they might have one last impromptu, and improper, chapter reading, but it appeared Aunt Enya held firm on her wishes to have Willow to herself.
Cheeks warm, Willow turned to face the door the moment it creaked open, revealing her guardian. Enya’s forty-nine years of age had refined her lovely features to a deeper reflection of stern intelligence. She had fine lines along her forehead and around her eyes, and two silver streaks forming in her red hair, one above each temple. The effect, when she wrapped her hair about her crown and tightened it to a bun, highlighted her face like a halo of moonbeams—the only part of her appearance that lent itself to softness or whimsy.
“I have some things. For your time away.” Aunt Enya pulled out a bottle of perfume from the basket dangling on her wrist. “The first one is from me.”
Willow unplugged the cork and sniffed. Crinkling her nose, she frowned. “What is it?”
“Expensive. And French. Sophisticated enough to help you fit the role so perhaps you won’t run this time.”
Sighing, Willow laid the bottle on her bedspread, biting her tongue to keep from speaking the truth: that it smelled like something a bee would vomit.
“Also, Leander wanted you to have
this. From him and Sarah.” Aunt Enya handed off an Italian carved cameo on a black velvet ribbon to be worn as a choker. Leander’s wife had a cousin who lived in Venice and she often received gifts she considered far too extravagant for a stableman’s wife. Sarah was always generous to share them with Willow, in tribute to her Italian heritage.
“And Emilia sent this up.” Aunt Enya shook her head in a scolding gesture. “She said it’s to keep you company, until you may come home and capture fireflies in a jar again.”
Willow opened the scalloped-edged handkerchief and ran the satiny rectangle across her palm. The cloth was dyed the color of midnight and embroidered with glittering silver fireflies—an obvious consolation prize from Emilia for her unhappy return to Ridley’s. “It’s beautiful.” She smiled. “However, nothing can take the place of magical summer nights in the forest.”
“Magic.” It was Aunt Enya’s turn to crinkle her freckled nose. “There’s no direction in such frivolous pursuits. I didn’t capture an upper middleclass husband with magic. It took work. Give it a chance, and Ridley’s can iron these youthful follies out of you. Help you see that with manners and grace you can experience more mature rewards.”
Willow wanted to argue that grace and manners would play no role in getting the only mature rewards she was interested in after reading Emilia’s novel—but she stopped her tongue cold. She would never betray Emilia like that, even to give her aunt a well-deserved shock.
Speaking of shocks, the last gift her guardian drew from the basket made Willow’s jaw drop: the delicate mother of pearl watch pin Uncle Owen had given her during her first term. She’d left it at Ridley’s when she’d escaped so swiftly, and was heartbroken to think she’d lost it through her carelessness. Biting the inside of her cheek, she took it gently from Aunt Enya’s hand. “Uncle Owen found it? How?”
Her guardian’s green eyes softened. “Before he handed over his donation to the school, he insisted they find it. Had them look on every floor, in every wardrobe, and beneath every bed. He refused to send any money without it.”
Willow held the chilled metal fisted tight until it warmed. It was her good luck charm, having both her father and mother’s imprint upon it. She flipped it to the back where Uncle had her full name engraved: Willomena Antoniette. With a trembling fingertip, she traced the etchings. A poignant smile tugged her lips in remembrance, a counterbalance to the pinch in her heart.
When she had first ended up here, the only things about her parents she could remember, other than their unbidden deaths, were their first names: her father’s—Antony, and her mother’s—Mariette. Her parents had been so secretive, always changing their identities, she couldn’t remember their true surname. In respect for her lack of memory, and to honor her parentage, Uncle Owen had combined their first names into one. Now, Antoniette held a sentimental value no other designation could ever match.
A few years ago, Uncle Owen and Aunt Enya had offered to adopt Willow, to give her their name, but she could never betray her parent’s memory in such a way. She adored both of her guardians for respecting her wishes.
Her eyes watered. “Thank you, Aunt Enya. For everything.” She hoped her perceptive guardian would grasp the full scope of her gratitude.
Enya squeezed her shoulder in a rare display of affection. “Be sure to stop in and say goodbye to him once more before you go. You know he’d come up here himself to give you this if he could. But the stairs …”
Willow nodded. Though age and a bad back had crippled Uncle Owen, and he spent every moment of every day in his wicker wheelchair, he stood taller to Willow than most any man. He had raised her with fatherly tenderness and compassion, treating her just as he did Leander, as if they were brother and sister in truth.
She understood his need to protect her future … to aspire to see her married to wealth and comfort. If only she could make him understand that she wanted—no, needed—so much more than that.
“Now.” Aunt Enya gathered everything into a pile. “Let’s pack these away and get you dressed. Next time, you’ll come home with Ridley’s approval and you will be a new woman. A marriable one.”
After hugging Uncle Owen and all the rest of her family goodbye, Willow had come out to sit in the carriage, wanting time alone before being carted off once again.
“Marriable. Is that even a word?” she mumbled to herself, taking comfort in a derisive snort. Her eyes felt heavy, ancient from lack of sleep. Over the last few nights, she’d stayed awake to bridge the hours, to stretch them out long enough she might find some way to avoid her pampered prison. But today had come upon her swift and unmerciful as any bird of prey, and she’d failed to come up with a plan.
She licked her lips. The sweet taste of the hot elder wine she’d sampled behind Aunt Enya’s back before stepping out into the dreary day still tingled on her tongue. She supposed a part of her was glad to be going, free from the raw emotions and wounded sensitivities weighing upon that townhouse. Every chamber had an air of gloom about it in Nick’s absence. In spite of his annoying selfish habits and insatiable appetites, she had started to miss him. Hard to believe the man who called her an urchin and merited a punch in the face turned out to be the one twin who accepted her as she was.
Perhaps it originated from her being the keeper of his confidences. She was the only one Nick had ever told about a visit he made to a brothel at age sixteen. He’d seen a young, beautiful courtesan being skewered through the chest with a knife, and he’d engaged her attacker in a fight. To this day, he didn’t know what had become of the courtesan; he assumed she had died, having himself been dragged off by some friends he was with. But it proved that there was courage and compassion deep within him. Both of which Julian seemed to be sorely lacking in.
Adjusting her lacy, flounced walking dress of chiné floral silk—revoltingly feminine with its apricot rosette and green leaf print—Willow glanced out the window past the streaks of rain. Trunks and bags were being brought out onto the porch by the footmen … her entire identity reduced to nothing more than a few parcels of luggage.
She trailed her gaze upward. Above the weeping scenery, the sky mirrored the same faded lilac hue painted along the carriage’s trim and axels. It was an odd color for a sky … almost as if blue would be too buoyant, or gray too composed, so heaven chose something in between—dreary enough to match her mood.
Master Thornton had insisted she take his canary yellow berline, as the thoroughbrace suspension made for swift travel. Not to mention the separate hooded rear seat which would keep the tiger, Abrams, reasonably dry while he sipped brandy to keep warm in the damp chill and guided the strawberry roan through muddied roadways.
At first she’d been flattered that the viscount should wish to send her off in such style. Until she found out who would be accompanying her to Liverpool en route to his sea-quest venture. To share the two-hour trip with Julian would be interminable. She had earlier confronted him for his traitorous contribution to her send off to Ridley’s, but he stammered and stumbled over any reasonable explanation. Ever since then, they’d hardly said a word to one another. Now all they had left was goodbye—finality wrapped in a grudge and beribboned with stubbornness.
Keeping her gaze on the goings-on outside the carriage window, she brought her pingat up to her chin, covering her arms, chest, and abdomen in the lacy woolen cape. The fringe of apricot-glazed beads clacked together as she tucked it behind her shoulders and resituated her hands in her lap beneath the wool.
Willow’s brain stung from thinking too much. The carriage’s interior had been scrubbed and polished for the journey. Oil of turpentine smothered the more pleasant aroma of bayberry candles lit within two glass hurricane-style candelabras and mounted on either side of the window at her right. The scent anesthetized her, made her eyes heavier.
Her attention perked as Julian stepped out of the townhouse. The lilac curtains on the carriage’s side windows and navy pin-striped paper on the interior walls reminded her of his outf
itting—polished navy tweed pants, a lilac silk puff tie, and an embroidered vest in a marriage of both hues. He lifted his face, his mouth opening to taste the rain. He’d worn his thick hair unbraided today, a cascade of golden light falling to his shoulders. The vision sent echoes of lust into her very core. Why did he have to be so bloody handsome? Her anger would be easier to maintain if he had the face of some bulging aquatic creature and a wide-gaped mouth which only emitted harmless bubbles when it opened.
Regardless, she would not forgive him. He didn’t even merit a goodbye, since he didn’t have the decency to apologize. Obviously, their friendship meant nothing to him at all.
Master Thornton stepped out and put his arm around his son’s shoulder, going over some last minute instructions. She flushed, remembering what had taken place between Master Thornton and Miss Juliet over the past few days, wishing Julian could be more like his father.
Miss Juliet had blamed Master Thornton for lack of closure, insisting that had he told her about Nick’s leaving when he first found out, she would have had the opportunity to say goodbye. Whereas most husbands of nobility would’ve bought their offended wives jewelry or a new gown to smooth their surface feathers, Master Thornton had reached into Miss Juliet’s very soul—to heal her from the inside out.
On the first day, he’d gathered a bouquet of flowers for her from the winter garden, painting each of the petals with chocolate—Miss Juliet’s favorite flavor. On day two, he gave his wife a black and white sketch he’d drawn of an open palm holding both halves of a ruptured heart, and an eye dripping tears the color of blood. At the bottom, he’d scripted the simple words: Forgive me.