Prologue

”Son,” called Edmund’s father to him, his voice raw-sounding, faint with fatigued ill. “I shall be going away soon.”

Edmund clenched his fists on hearing his father’s words and fought back the tears that had gathered in his throat’s crook.

Edmund Caldwell had seen a lot of things that had threatened to rip his heart apart from his chest. He had seen his childhood best friend die, after he had been plowed and dragged through the streets by a wild horse ridden by a highborn. He had seen his mother twist and turn on the same bed his father now lay, ridden with an illness they did not think she was going to survive. She had tasted death itself, but somehow, she had managed to hang on to life.

But none of those things had hurt him as much as seeing his father lying on the bed beside him, coughing spasmodically. Coughs that more often than not produced bits of tissue and blood.

His mother was seated on the bed, her hand clasped in his father’s fragile one. She was trying her best not to cry, but Edmund could see the grief had torn through her. She had lost a lot of weight since her husband got ill, and she barely left his side.

Edmund looked back at his father. Michael Caldwell was staring straight at him, smiling even as the coughs ravaged through him. Edmund looked away. He could not bear to see his father smile, especially when he knew that in only a little time, he would never see that smile again.

Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, and Edmund wiped them away before they began to fall. His father was dying, and he had to take on his position as the man of the house. He had to know how to bear losses without succumbing to tears.

But, Edmund did not think he could become the man of the house just yet.

He was still sixteen years old. All he could think about, right now, was why this had to happen to him, why he had to deal with so much loss.

And, just as the thought crept up his mind, the answer swept past in a flurry, an answer Edmund did not need to examine closely because he knew it with all his heart.

“Kat,” his father whispered bare moments ago, and his mother had jerked aright.

“What is it? Do you need anything?” she asked, her words tumbling over each other in their desperation to get out.

Edmund’s father had a smile on his face when he said, “Nothing at all. I want to speak with Eddie, that’s all.”

His mother glanced at him, her eyes full of sorrow and sadness and a lot of things Edmund didn’t know, before she stood up and walked away, still throwing glances at her husband.

Edmund had watched her leave. It was a short trip out of the townhouse in which they lived. Even though his father had been one of the sons of the Earl of Clovelly, he had stood to inherit nothing but the small townhouse in which Edmund had lived all of his life. This was because he was not the first son, but a mere second son.

Edmund felt his fists ball up before the thought even began forming. He shook his head. It would not do to think of him. There was absolutely no reason to.

“Eddie,” his father said now, his voice rather faint. “I’ll need you to be strong.”

If Edmund were eight years younger, he would have shaken his head and denied his father’s statement with everything within him. But now, he merely nodded, pushing away the grief threatening to overpower him.

“I need you to step up and be the man of the house for your mother,” Michael said with a slight cough. “I also want you to know how very proud of you I am. The happiest day of our lives was when you came into it. I know you’re going to go on and become a great man, as great as anyone I ever knew.”

Tears were trickling down his father’s face now, and Edmund knew he looked exactly the same. His father had struggled to show him how much he cared about him over the years, he had never quite been able to put it into words. He was doing this now because he knew the end was near.

Edmund felt his grief getting replaced by a wave of towering anger. This did not have to happen. In fact, it could have been very much prevented. Under other circumstances, Michael would not be lying on this bed, coughing up bits of his own flesh. He would be teaching Edmund the science of herbs in the open fields where he liked to retire after returning from a long day’s job as a physician. He would hum in his deep bass and ask Edmund what he thought his mother would prepare for supper.

But instead, this was happening, and that was all because his uncle was a sadistic, hell-bound, hateful fellow.

Edmund tried to push away the thoughts then, but they were overpowering him, blinding him with startingly clear memories. He still remembered the day, two months ago, when he and his mother had tried to seek help from his uncle, the Earl of Clovelly. They had never been to his estate before, of course, because there was absolutely no need to see a wealthy family relative who let his only brother live in an old townhouse a little out of London.

Still, they had needed to see him that day. Edmund’s father’s illness was growing worse by the day, and they had needed him to see a physician. Even if his uncle had not written to Edmund’s father since the day he left for the cottage, Edmund was hopeful his uncle would help.

But he had been entirely wrong.

The earl had refused to see them, and when they had told the servant who reported this to them that his brother was dying, he had not even deemed it fit to respond. The gates were slammed shut in their faces. A result of bad blood, a deep-seated sibling rivalry between two brothers who had only aged with them, and which now would cost Edmund’s father his life.

That day, Edmund felt more stunned than angry, but as his father’s illness progressed and he was faced with his incapacitation, he had finally started to feel the anger. Now, Edmund’s fury had consumed him, and every time he saw his father on the bed, he felt the urge to punch something.

“Eddie,” his father suddenly called, and Edmund looked into his old, wrinkled face.

“This was meant to be,” his father said, as though reading his thoughts. “Don’t blame anyone.”

Edmund gave a tight nod, but he knew he was going to hold on to this belief for as long as he lived. This was not meant to be.

His father drew a rasping breath. “I need to rest.” He coughed into his fist. “Go now,” he said. “Look after your mother. For both of us.”

Michael closed his eyes, and Edmund felt a thrill of foreboding as he looked down on his father’s face. He did not know why, but he had a distinct feeling his father would never open his eyes again.

He turned away from the bed, trying to push the feeling away. Hours later, when his father gave up the ghost, Edmund would think of that feeling, would wonder how he knew.

But right now, he thought only of his uncle.

There and then, Edmund made two decisions.

One, he would go on and become an even greater man than his father wanted. He was going to make his own wealth, so much that he would not need anyone else when someone precious to him was dying.

And second, that he would never forgive his uncle. Never.

Chapter One

Rifling through the morning paper, Edmund tried to catch snippets of what his mother said to the housekeeper. Whenever Edmund heard his mother’s voice, he would strain his ear, try to catch every word that rolled from her lips, as if that would clue him into her innermost thoughts, because she spoke so rarely now. He wondered if she still dreamed and ached for his father, if she sometimes woke in the middle of the night, reaching across only to find the cold pillow, an unruffled and empty other side.

In short, he worried about her. Worried about her as if she were the child and he the parent. Ever since his father’s passing, all those years ago in this very same cottage, he had taken on the extra burden of the house and provider, a role that challenged him as much as it propelled him to new heights. It felt like a lifetime ago, and it felt like yesterday.

Edmund examined the morning paper; the gossip of the moment, the wellbeing of the prince regent, the court proceedings of the day. When he tired of straining his ear, trying to catch wind of Mother’s small, near inaudible voice speaking in casual tones to Florentia, he stopped listening and put the morning paper away.

Edmund took two strong gulps from his tea and fastened his eyes onto the ledger in which he took stock of his business transactions.  Quick action. Foremost decisions. That what had been demanded of him, that was how he had made of himself a successful tea trader who relied on his wit and his gut to get the job done. He had picked up the trade a year after his father passed, still raw with grief, still red with the rage of his uncle and the earl’s hand in Papa’s death. How Uncle Elijah could have saved his father if he had wanted to.

Edmund realized he was clenching the ledger too tight. He released his grip; his knuckles had whitened. He felt like something small, and round had caught in his throat. Ten years. It had been ten years, and yet Edmund looked for his father in the boots into which he slipped his feet, in the business deals he accepted or rejected, in the literary texts and daily papers he devoured. Ten years, and he was still looking to match the same integrity and dignity of his father, in the most difficult places, even the places he knew were cobwebbed with falsehood. Ten years striving to live up to his father’s legacy, uphold the promises he made to him on his death bed, be strong and responsible and good, a man who saw the good in everybody and excused the bad in anybody. Just like his father.

“Shall you like to join Mrs. Caldwell in the drawing room, sire?” asked Davidson, Edmund’s butler whose eyebrows had shot to the sky.

Edmund adjusted himself, realizing he had unconsciously leaned in towards the veranda from which his mother’s low tones could be heard. He was always leaning in toward his mother, always listening for her. His mother had retreated so far into herself, bent over backward with the weight of grief, and every year she spoke less, took up less space, lived less. She became less. And Edmund’s gradual thrust into a life of comfort, dare one say even wealth, had not changed her newfound inclination towards contemplative moods and quiet spaces.

Edmund had made such a name for himself that he could have afforded much finer accommodations for them, a fine home like that of nobility, as many amenities and servants as they required and in the most fashionable parts of London – if his mother had wanted it. Yet, every time he brought it up, Mother merely smiled. She shook her head, and her eyes watered as she said, “It’s just. . .”

Despite himself, Edmund would reach for her hand and squeeze. “I know,” he would say.
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done, son,” she would say, gesturing to anything, to everything.

“I know, Mother.”

“But this. . .”

Edmund would nod because he understood. This cottage which his father had loved and nurtured, was all they had left of him. All his mother had left of the great love of her life.

Edmund would hold her hand, nod wordlessly, and return with stiff limbs, to his evening paper, his ledger, his study, having been laddered with fresh new towels of grief, his wound poked apart by seeing his mother’s expression exactly as it had been all those years ago, when she had sat by his father’s bed, touching his forehead and holding his hand.

Edmund cleared his throat and turned back to Davidson to respond to him, “No, Davidson, I will leave my mother to her leisure, and I shall continue with my work.”

Davidson barely smiled. He kept quite diligently to his business of a perpetually impassive facial expression, but Edmund knew that behind that wall of rigid stoicism, Davidson’s heart pumped blood like anyone else’s.

Edmund reached for his tea. It had gone cold. He motioned for Davidson to ask that a servant reheat it, and Davidson nodded curtly and departed from Edmund’s presence with the tray, only to return shortly afterward with no tray, re-announcing his presence to his master with his hands clasped together behind his back.

Edmund stared at him. Had something tragic happened to his tea? “Well?”

“A letter, sire,” said Davidson.

Edmund perked up. A letter? Now that was interesting. Letters usually arrived in the morning, and he had flicked and skimmed through those already. A letter by late afternoon? Whatever it was, it must be important.

“Well? Let me have it?” he demanded rather impatiently, but one couldn’t blame him. Edmund hated to guess.

Davidson crossed Edmund’s study and handed over the stamped and sealed letter.

Edmund almost did not notice the harried curve of the letters, wild Ts and disorderly Is, the way the words almost tumbled over one another as if the author had written them in a feverish chase, in a frantic trance.

His mother chose that moment to come shuffling into the room on the arm of her maid. She eased herself into the seat opposite him and gave him a weak smile. She noticed the letter in his hand and asked whom the letter had come. Edmund waved the letter in his mother’s direction, his eyebrow arched questioningly, as if to say, we’re about to find out. He dismissed Davidson and settled himself to read it.

Dear Sir,

‘It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the tragic passing of your uncle, Lord Clovelly, and his son, whose carriage was involved in an accident on a returning journey from a hunting trip in the town of Islingdore. ’Tis of paramount importance that you find the time to call on me, sire, as I, Clovelly estate solicitor, and you, the last living male Caldwell and heir, have now many pressing matters to discuss, not the least of which being your transition into the role of an earl.

  Please, kind sir, accept my fullest condolences and solemn congratulations.

  Yours Truly,

  Mr. Philip Ramsey

When they reached the end of the letter,  his mother opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words seemed to be stuck in her throat. She slumped into a chair, her expression unspeakably dazed.

Edmund flipped the letter upside and back again. He read it over and over again, entirely un able to process the contents of it. He steadied himself against the edge of the desk. He poured himself a glass of Scotch though it was only four in the afternoon, downed it in a gulp, and reread the letter yet again.

He felt dazed, his nerves tingled, overwhelmed with disbelief and uncertainty and even a small pocket of triumph. Still, he read the letter over again. Perhaps he misunderstood the solicitor, perhaps the very forces of nature were playing a sour joke on him.

He crossed and uncrossed his legs, folded and unfolded his arms. He parted his lips as if to speak himself, but the words became small and slippery, like fish in water. The words eluded him.

Edmund wasn’t sure how long he sat in there next to his once again silent mother, thinking nothing and thinking everything, staring into nothing and staring into everything. Edmund’s whole life had taken an ultimate turn. In the space of a moment, everything had changed.

Edmund folded the letter and tucked it into his bottom drawer.

No. No, everything had not changed. Nothing would change. He would not accept the title, the money, the estate of a man who had stood by and done nothing, coldly aiding in the death of his own brother, of Edmund’s father.

Edmund would do no such thing.

Moments passed before he said to his mother, “There was no mention of the funeral, perhaps that invitation never reached us either.” His tone was bitter.

She gave him a pained look in return and then managed to croak out, “When, when shall you call upon this Mr. Ramsey?”

“I shan’t,” responded Edmund as he crossed his legs and reached for his ledger. There was proper business to execute, a real issue that needed his true attention. He refused to dwell on the passing of a cruel old man.

“Edmund,” his mother sighed as if she already knew the defiance taking a hold of his heart as if she already knew what was coming. Perhaps she did. She was his mother, after all. But she wouldn’t change his mind. Nothing would change his mind. For what did he need Uncle Elijah’s title? He had gone twenty-six years without it. He had paved a road for himself come rain or sunshine, he had wanted nothing of Uncle Elijah in life, and he wanted nothing of him in death.

“Edmund,” began his mother, but Edmund would not even let her finish.

“No, Mother. No.” He got to his feet, his tailcoat flapping behind him, and faced the window as if that would clear his head. “He took everything from us, Mother. Everything.”

“Yes,” his mother affirmed, her voice breaking. “Yes, he did. And now, you get to have everything. Now, you get to do better, Edmund.” She placed her hand to her chest, her breath audibly catching in her throat, and despite himself, Edmund felt his resolve thawing.

“What would your father have done do you think?” his mother asked.

Edmund said nothing.

“What would your father have you do, Edmund?”

“I don’t know,” said Edmund. But of course, he did. He knew his father, a man of light and goodness, of fair hopes and fair dreams. Of course, his father would want him to accept the earldom. To do right by the Caldwell name, do things differently. Do better.

Edmund sighed.

He stared at his other side, and his mother held his gaze. Her expression was steady and kind and proud, urging him to do the right thing, perhaps trying to convey to him all the words she hadn’t much spoken to him since she folded into a shadow of herself, since his father left them.

And then a small smile crept across her features because she knew. A mother always knew.

She knew he would do the right thing, even before he reached back into the bottom of his desk drawer.

Edmund unfolded Mr. Ramsey’s letter again. He read it one final time. Then, he reached for his bottle of ink.

Chapter Two

Margaret flipped another page of her novel. She tried not to dwell on her aunt, Dorothy Pembrook fast disappearing down the great hall and into her Papa’s study with that graceful efficiency Margaret had come to expect and even admiring of her.

Aunt Dorothy had arrived bare minutes ago in a flurry of sweeping silk of the latest fashion and had had many a displeasure to point out; the floors were not polished enough; and that book, put it away, Margaret, you have no business with such hobbies; and Margaret wasn’t sitting properly enough — shoulders lifted, spine upright, proper like a lady!

Margaret smiled to herself. The Dowager always had one thing or another to complain about whenever she visited. Aunt Dorothy was her only aunt, Mama’s elder sister, and only sibling. A woman without children, she had spent many a while with Margaret since she was a baby on all fours, teaching her to eat properly, sit properly, walk properly and speak correctly. But Margaret had yet to master Aunt Dorothy’s instructions.

Aunt Dorothy reached her Her Papa’s study and knocked loudly on the door. The sound echoed through the great hall, reverberating against the not so polished floors, and Aunt Dorothy’s voice soon followed it as she called back to Margaret, “I’m fully aware you picked off right where you left off from that ghastly book the moment I turned my back, young lady. You fool me not.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Margaret said to herself, but not so loud enough that Aunt Dorothy would hear her. Still smiling to herself, she turned to her equally smiling lady’s maid, Alice, and asked her to pour her some more tea.

Margaret was fond of Aunt Dorothy, as much as she reprimanded her, she understood her Aunt cared for her. Aunt Dorothy had been. . . well, she had been everything a mother would be to her daughter, and even more: she had been there for every significant moment of Margaret’s life so far, even helping her through her debut and her first ball. Arranging for her the best gowns, by the best tailors, letting her have her fill with the ball’s culinary delicacies but nothing overly indulgent.

Margaret sipped from her tea and just for a moment, that heavy mass of grief sunk into and settled in Margaret’s chest, with the memory of what had been lost to her since her Mama had passed away, it should have been her Mama that had held her hand through all of these moments.

Margaret had wondered if Aunt Dorothy had any idea what she had come to mean to her over the last decade. She wondered, too, if her Mama was watching over her in heaven, whispering sage words of affirmation, of warning in her ears, in her dreams, in her waking life, and if so if her Mama was watching over her, why she had failed at securing a match at last Season.

Margaret put her cup away. She flipped another page, then returned to the previous one. The words failed to settle in; she was now consumed by intrusive thoughts about her first Season’s failure. She shook her head as if that would drive away from the feeling of disappointment that she had let her Papa and Aunt Dorothy and even her Mama down. She shook her head, trying to put away the images of the ton that had imprinted themselves in her mind, the sprawling luxury, the biting gossip, the dance, the chatter, and the ineffable thrill of it all.

She had been petrified of her first ball. Nervous and unsure of herself. Introductions had been made, and she had danced all the required steps, there had been some faux pas’, some boring conversations. Her greatest fear had been realised; she hadn’t found any of her suitors interesting.

They all had droned on about hunting and horses.

The greatest compliment she could give them is that they had all had fine airs and graces, fine voices. Unfortunately, a fine voice would not sustain a marriage, especially a marriage of love and happiness.

And that was what Margaret wanted.

Aunt Dorothy had called her picky. She had pointed out how lucky she was to have five suitors in her debut Season; girls could be rushed to the altar on the heel of just one or two suitors. But Margaret refused the advances of her suitors, claiming they did not arouse her interest, claiming she did not love them or much think that she would in time. Aunt Dorothy had huffed, laughed even, at the mention of love, as if that were such a sour, trifle thing, as if it were an unreasonable goal, like attempting to climb to the moon or fly on the wings of a bird. Margaret did not doubt herself. However, she knew what she wanted. She had only smiled at her aunt’s quintessential no-nonsense approach to everything. She had not been deterred.  She was not deterred now, only surprised, as the sound of raised, impassioned voices came from the great hall. As the voices continued, Margaret gathered the hem of her dress and stood abruptly. She exchanged a look with her maid Alice. Alice’s expression mirrored hers; her eyebrows were lowered, a puzzled look clouding her face.

The raised voices ceased as Margaret made it to her Her Papa’s study. Her PapaShe paused a moment, wondering now whether it would be a good idea to enter or not when she heard her Aunt Dorothy’s raspy, imperious voice. “I don’t understand what you speak of, Franklin.”

Franklin, her Her Papa’s first name.

Aunt Dorothy was one of two people who called her Her Papa by his name. The only other person had been her Mama.

Margaret tiptoed closer to the door, holding her breath and listening in silence to the taut with words from the other side.

Her Papa”You know what I speak of Dorothy. You do.”

Was that dejection laced around his words? Margaret imagined her Her Papa hunched over his desk, fingers stained with ink, head bowed in defeat. “I have nothing left,” he said.

“Franklin. . .” Aunt Dorothy’s voice was slow, tentative, gauging the tension in the room

“What do you expect of me?” Her Papa asked, “My tenants are all departed, I’m knee-deep in loans, and my repayment dates refuse to be stretched.” A pause. “Our Margaret is our only hope.”

Our Margaret. It was how her Her Papa fondly referred to her since she was a child bundled in his arms, and despite the dreariness of the situation, Margaret’s heart caught alight on hearing her Her Papa still speak so fondly of her, dejected and all.

“And that hope will sink to the bottom of the waters faster than you can close your eyes and open them if you don’t prop up that dowry. Franklin! It is Margaret’s future we speak of. Daughter of an Earl or not, no one will marry her for such miserly sum. And it speaks somewhat of the lens with which you regard your daughter’s worth!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Her Papa bellowed. Almost immediately, his voice died down to a flat whisper, one imbued with a sorrowful tone, unlike anything Margaret had ever heard. “You think I don’t know that, Dorothy?”

And so a silence settled, one so loud Margaret could feel her ears sting. Finally, Aunt Dorothy said, “Word of your. . . habits don’t help matters either.” Margaret felt rather than heard her aunt sniff. Clear as glass, she imagined the downturn of Aunt Dorothy’s lips as she stared her Her Papa down, clear as if the door were open and she was watching them.

Habits. What a generous way to speak of her Her Papa’s gambling and drinking, which had only taken a turn for the worse after her Mama was laid to rest.

There was a rustling and creaking sound, a chair being pushed back, a doorknob turning, and, attempting to hide away, Margaret jumped out from the door and smacked her elbow against the wall in the process.

“Heavens!” she cried, clasping one hand over her mouth and petting where the pain bit into her flesh with the other. Her Papa

She did not want to make them more upset than they already were by finding her lurking outside. However, when no one emerged from the room, Margaret tiptoed her way back and returned her ear to the door.

Just another moment, she told herself. I shall leave in a short moment. And I have every right to eavesdrop if it concerns me, she tried to convince herself.

“I shall squeeze what I can from whatever pockets I have left,” Her Papa eventually conceded, after a fraught stretch of silence, an eternity of silence.

“Thank you, Franklin,” came Aunt Dorothy’s voice. But before she got a chance to, Her Papa beat her to it.

“And Dorothy, please,” said he. “She must be settled this Season.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t understand,” said Her Papa. “She must find someone. Accept anyone we can find.” And in a voice so stooped it would fail to qualify as a whisper, “There is nothing left, Dorothy.” He heaved a heavy sigh, and the sound of it felt to Margaret like a shard of glass needling its way into her chest. Margaret imagined those strong but laden shoulders of Her Papa heaving heavily as well. “After this Season, there will be nothing left.”

“She’s a silly girl, that one,” said Aunt Dorothy, and Margaret imagined her flicking her gloved hand in that elegantly dismissive way of hers. “Fancies herself the heroine of a love story. It will not be easy to convince her to compromise on this.”

Aunt Dorothy’s voice was smiling. The woman! She was making fun of her! Having a laugh at her naivetes! As if a desire for love, the precious kind, that her Mama and Her Papa had shared, the kind that even eleven years after her passing, still sent her Her Papa occasionally staring into space, muddling his words, mournfully blinking himself back to reality, was such a foolish thing. Often, Margaret wondered who hurt more from her Mama’s loss, she or her Her Papa. She wondered if she would ever have what he had shared with her Mama for herself. She wondered how much longer Her Papa could go, bent under the weight of so much reticent grief, and now, this looming debt too.

Margaret wondered a hundred things; she wondered if her Papa secretly thought her a disappointment. At that moment, she thought of herself as a disappointment. Margaret wondered, not for the first time if she was being difficult and foolish indeed. Suppose she was gambling away her Papa’s financial and even physical wellbeing on only the dream of love.

She straightened herself and returned to the drawing room, which now was devoid of her maid Alice. Good. She needed some time to herself. Some time alone to think. Her Papa was penniless, she was penniless. She had failed to clinch a suitor during her first Season. And now she couldn’t afford to fail to find herself a husband this Season. Her Papa

She couldn’t afford to fail twice.

Margaret reached for her cold tea and looked back at her abandoned novel. She knew what to do.

She would give this Season all she had got. She would listen to Lord Friedrick talk and talk. She would laugh at Sir. Penbrooke’s jokes, she would swoon over tales of his wonderful grandchildren. This Season, she would find a wealthy husband, whatever it took. And perhaps, just perhaps, one that she loved, or in time could come to love.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and…

Follow me on BookBub

Best selling books of Roselyn

★★★★★ 89 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 60 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 32 ratings

Read the book