Prologue
Gloucestershire, England, 1760
Deborah woke from a deep sleep to the sounds of a hasty
late night arrival in the cobbled courtyard below her
bedchamber window. Commands were barked out at drowsy-eyed
stable boys and carriage wheels spun and slid to an abrupt
halt. At first the girl thought it all part of her dream
but the clip clop of horses hooves on uneven stone did not
seem possible in the cool of a forest clearing. Otto was
making beautiful music with his viola while she swung
higher and higher on the rope swing, her silk petticoats
billowing out between her long stockinged legs. She was
sure if she swung higher her toes would touch the clouds.
They both laughed and sang and it was such a lovely sunny
day. Then the sun went behind a cloud and Otto disappeared
and she fell off the swing at its highest point. Someone
was shaking her awake. Fervent whispering opened her eyes
and she blinked into the light of one taper held up by her
nurse.
Before she had time to fully wake, nurse pulled back the
warm coverlet and threw a dressing gown over Deborah’s
thin shoulders. Then with shaking hands the woman pushed a
tumbler into her hand and guided the cup to her lips,
telling her to drink up. Deb did as she was told. She
grimaced. The medicine was the same foul-tasting brew she
had been given just before bedtime. It had put her into a
deep, deep sleep. So why was she being got out of bed if
she was meant to fall asleep again?
Nurse evaded the question. She straightened the girl’s
lace edged night cap, brought forward over one shoulder
the single long thick plait of dark red hair, needlessly
straightening the white bow; all the while muttering for
Miss Deb to be a good girl and do as she was told and her
prayers would be answered.
Drowsy and barefoot, Deborah was abandoned by her nurse at
the door to Sir Gerald’s book room. The passageway was
dark and cold and the book room was no better. At the
furthest end of this masculine sanctuary blazed a fire in
the grate but it did not beckon her with the prospect of
warmth and comfort. She went forward when ordered by her
brother Sir Gerald, a glance at the two strangers taking
refreshment after a hard ride. They had divested
themselves of their great coats but the tall gentleman
with the white hair and strong aquiline nose still wore
his sword, the ornate hilt visible under the skirts of his
rich black velvet frockcoat with silver lacings.
Deborah could not help staring at this imperious ancient
stranger, whose close-shaven cheeks were etched with the
lines of time; his hair and eyebrows as white as the soft
lace ruffles which fell over his thin white hands. She had
never seen an emerald as large as the one in the gold ring
he wore on his left hand. She imagined he must be a
hundred years old.
When he turned bright dark eyes upon her and beckoned her
closer with the crook of one long finger she hesitated,
swaying slightly. A sharp word from her brother moved her
feet and through a mental fog that threatened to overwhelm
her she remembered her manners at last and lowered her
gaze to the floor. When she came to stand before this
imperious ancient stranger she shivered, not from fear
because she did not know what or whom to fear, but from
the cold night breeze coming in through the open window.
She made a wobbly curtsy and placidly waited to be spoken
to first, gaze obediently remaining on the Turkey rug.
The stranger’s voice was surprisingly deep and strong for
one so old.
“What is your age, child?”
“I had my twelfth birthday six days ago, sir.”
He frowned and over his shoulder said something in French
to the little gray-haired man who stood at his elbow. He
was answered in kind and the ancient stranger nodded and
addressed Sir Gerald in his own tongue.
“She is far too young.”
“But—your Grace, she is of age!” Sir Gerald assured him
with an eager nervous smile. “The bishop raised no
objection. Twelve is the age of consent for a female.”
“That is true, Monseigneur,” agreed the little man. “But
it is for your Grace to decide… I do not know of an
alternative.”
“Surely your Grace has not changed his mind?” whined Sir
Gerald. “Bishop Ramsay was not pleased to be summonsed
here, your Grace, and if the ceremony is not to go ahead…”
“Your sister is not fifteen as you led me to believe,
Cavendish,” enunciated the ancient stranger in an arctic
voice.
Sir Gerald gave a snort that ended in a nervous
laugh. “Your Grace! Twelve or fifteen: three years hardly
matters.”
Deborah glanced up in time to witness the look of disgust
that crossed the lined face of the ancient gentleman and
she wondered what he found to fault in her. She knew she
was only passably pretty. Sir Gerald despaired of her
plain, brown looks, but she was not disfigured and her
features were unremarkable. She was considered tall for
her age but she was not so awkwardly big boned that this
stranger had the right to pull a face at her in her own
home. And why did her brother wear such a silly smile on
his round fleshy face and stare expectantly at the
arrogant ancient man as if his whole dependence rested on
his will? He was acting as one of his own lackeys did
before him. She had never seen her brother bow and scrape
to anyone. It was strange indeed.
Deborah felt the black eyes regarding her from under heavy
lids and she forced herself to look the ancient gentleman
in the face without blinking. But she could not stop
herself blushing when his gaze dropped to her bare feet
and travelled slowly up the length of her nightgown to the
brush tip of her single thick plait of dark red hair which
touched her thigh, then on up over the swell of her
budding breasts to rest on the lopsided bow tied under her
chin that kept her nightcap in place. He then looked into
her brown eyes again and she met his gaze openly through
eyes that felt filled with oil and thus did not see
clearly because the medicine she had drunk was beginning
to take effect. A small crooked smile played on the
ancient gentleman’s thin lips and Deborah wished she had
the courage to tell him his manners were lacking in one so
old. His question to her brother bleached her cheeks.
“Has she commenced menstruating?”
Sir Gerald was dumbstruck. “Your—your Grace?”
“You heard the question well enough, Cavendish,” prompted
the grey haired companion of the ancient one.
But even though Sir Gerald’s mouth worked he could not
speak.
Deborah, feeling as if her head was full of cotton wool,
sluggishly answered for him. “Two—two months ago.”
All three men turned and looked down at her then, as if
finally acknowledging her mental as well as physical
existence. Sir Gerald frowned but the ancient stranger and
his friend smiled, the ancient one politely inclining his
white head to her in thanks for her response. He seemed
about to address her directly when a commotion in the
passageway distracted them all. The gray-haired companion
disappeared into the shadows and out of the room. He was
gone for several minutes and in the interval no one spoke.
Sir Gerald brooded; once or twice looking at his sister
with mute disapproval while the ancient stranger calmly
waited by the open window and fastidiously took snuff from
a gold and enamel snuffbox.
Into the book room came a gentleman dressed in a cleric’s
robes, but these were no ordinary robes; they were edged
in ermine and were of velvet and gold thread. He carried
an ornately decorated Bible and wore a magnificent, old-
fashioned, powdered wig with three curls above each fleshy
ear. Deborah knew this to be Bishop Ramsay. He had arrived
at the house earlier that day and set the servants on
their ears with his imperious demands. Nurse said Cook was
at her wit’s end. The bishop took one look at Deborah in
her nightclothes and put up his bushy brows. He ignored
his host in favor of the ancient stranger over whose
outstretched hand he bowed deeply. Deborah thought it odd
that a bishop should bend to this old gentleman; he must
be someone very illustrious indeed. Just then the little
gray-haired man came out of the shadows looking worried.
“They’ve dragged him out of the carriage, your Grace,” he
announced then hesitated.
“And… Martin?” asked the ancient gentleman with uncanny
perceptibility.
“He’s downed another bottle, your Grace,” Martin
apologized.
“Then he will endure the ceremony better than the rest of
us,” came the flat reply.
“The marriage is to go ahead as planned?” Sir Gerald asked
eagerly.
The ancient stranger did not look at him. “I have no
choice.”
He said this in such a weary tone that even Deborah, for
all her youth and inexperience, heard the deep note of
sadness in the mellow voice. She wondered what troubled
him. The fact that these men were talking about a marriage
ceremony barely registered with her. After all, no one had
spoken to her of marriage. And everyone knew that when a
girl was of marriageable age she had to leave the
schoolroom and be launched in society during the Season
and attend plenty of balls and routs and meet many
eligible gentlemen, one of whom she would fall in love
with and hopefully he would be the one who asked her
brother for her hand in the usual manner. Marriages did
not happen in the dead of night, between strangers. And
they certainly did not happen in nightgowns after taking a
measured dose of laudanum. There were formalities and
mysterious things called settlements and a proper order to
such a momentous step in a girl’s life.
But Deborah was wrong and knew she was terribly wrong when
her brother led her to the bishop, who called her a little
sparrow of a bride and pinched her chin in a fatherly way,
saying what a great honor had been bestowed upon her and
her family for she had been chosen to be the wife of the
Duke of Roxton’s heir.
Her first thought was that she was asleep. It was the
medicine Nurse had woken her to take had changed her
beautiful dream with Otto in the forest to this nightmare
in which she appeared to be the central character of a
Shakespearean tragedy. Perhaps if she tried hard enough to
think about waking it would happen and Nurse would be
there with a glass of milk and soothing words. She closed
her eyes, swaying and dry in the mouth. But she did not
wake up from the nightmare. She was so bewildered she
could not speak nor could she move. Panic welled up within
her. She wished with all her heart that Otto would come
home and save her. She wanted to cry. There were hot tears
behind her eyelids but for some reason she was incapable
of crying. So why was she sobbing? She soon realized it
was not her. The quiet sobbing came from the doorway and
distracted her enough that she momentarily forgot that she
was in a nightmare.
A tall, well-built youth with a mop of tight black curls
was being supported at each elbow by two burly servants in
livery. He was not so drunk that he could not walk and so
he told his captors in a growl of angry words. But the
more he struggled to be free of them, kicking out his
stockinged legs and balling his fists, the harder the grip
on his elbows and he soon gave up the fight and returned
to weeping into his velvet frockcoat.
An awkward silence followed as the boy was brought to
stand beside Deborah. A languid movement of dismissal from
the ancient gentleman and the burly servants retreated
into the shadows.
Deborah stole a blinking glance at the weeping boy but he
had turned away from her to face the ancient gentleman and
addressed him in French, his voice breaking into sobs
between sentences. He spoke faster than she could ever
hope to understand but he used the words mon père: Father,
over and over. Deb could not believe that this white
haired old man could possibly be this boy’s father. Surely
he meant grand-père? And as she continued to stare at
father and son, the boy suddenly broke into English. His
words were so full of hatred that Deborah’s face was not
the only one to brighten with intense embarrassment.
“It’s all your fault! Your fault,” the boy screamed at the
ancient gentleman, his fists clenching and unclenching
with rage. “Why should I be banished for your sins? Does
my presence make you uncomfortable, Monseigneur, now that
I know the sordid truth? You can’t bear the truth about
yourself, there’s the irony!” he added bitterly. “Poor
Maman. To think she’s had to live with your-your
disgusting secrets all these years—”
“Alston, that will do,” cut in the gray-haired
companion. “You’re drunk. In the morning you will regret—”
The boy tore his tearful gaze from his father to stare at
the man at his side. “Regret? Regret knowing the truth
about him? Never!” he spat out, lip trembling
uncontrollably. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you,
Martin? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m his heir. I have a
right to know. A-a right.” He began to sob again and
dashed a silken sleeve across his wet face. “Mon Dieu, I’m
cursed. Cursed.”
“It’s all in your head, my son,” the ancient gentleman
said quietly.
This made the youth give a bark of hysterical laughter
that broke in the middle. “In my head? Then it’s a lie? A
lie that His Grace the most noble Duke of Roxton, my
father, has littered the land with ill-gotten bastards—”
The slap across his face knocked the boy off his feet and
left the Duke nursing a smarting hand. Deborah watched him
turn his back and walk into the shadows while at her feet
the boy picked himself up to his silken knees, a hand to
his stinging cheek. The gray-haired gentleman known as
Martin put an arm about the boy’s shaking shoulders and
with a glance at Deborah said in a soothing voice,
“If you ever want to see your mother again, marry this
girl. Then you and I can be on our way to France.”
The youth gripped Martin’s arm convulsively, his tear-
stained face close to his. “If I do as he wants may I see
Maman before we sail? May I, Martin? Please. I must see
her before we go. I must.”
Martin shook his head sadly. “The early birth of your baby
brother has left her very weak, my boy. She needs time to
recover; the rest is up to God.”
The youth broke into fresh sobs. “He’ll never let me see
her again! I know it, Martin. Never.”
Deborah’s brown eyes widened and she held her breath,
awaiting the gray-haired gentleman’s response. When he
looked over the youth’s bowed head of black curls and
smiled at her kindly she felt a great relief. Though why
she should feel anything but panic and dread at the
prospect that lay before her she could not explain.
Perhaps it was because she did not believe any of this was
real. It was a laudanum-induced dream and soon she would
wake up. If only she could shake her head free of cotton
wool.
“After the ceremony, I am taking my godson to France and
then on to Rome and Greece,” Martin told her in a
confiding tone, adding for good measure, as if living up
to the promise of his smile, “We will be away for many
years. Do you understand, ma cherie?”
Deborah nodded. There was something oddly reassuring in
Martin’s smile, as if he would protect her from this
strange sad boy and the consequences of this hasty
midnight marriage. France was over the water. And Greece
and Rome were so far away that it took months and months
of travelling to reach such exotic countries; Otto had
told her so. Suddenly she felt safe. Soon she knew she
would wake up. All she had to do was lie still and wait
for Nurse to wake her with the breakfast tray. This boy
was going away for many years. She would never see him
again after tonight. The sooner the bishop performed the
ceremony the sooner she would wake up and forget this bad
dream ever happened.
Martin’s words of reassurance had an effect on the boy too
for he pulled out of the man’s embrace and dashed the
curls from his eyes. The bishop quickly came to stand
before these two children with his bible open and
proceedings began in a rush; as if there was no assurance
the boy’s capitulation would last long enough for the
exchange of vows, or that the girl who swayed on her feet
and had a gaze that seemed incapable of blinking would be
able to stand upright for very much longer. The bishop’s
fears seemed justified when all of a sudden the boy began
to chuckle under his breath, disconcerting the bishop
enough for him to pause on two occasions, and Deborah to
blink uncomprehendingly up at the boy to see what he found
so amusing. Finally the boy had to share his amusement
with his ancient parent who stood behind him like a sentry
made of marble.
“Monseigneur. Is this plain, awkward bird witted creature
the best you could find to marry your heir?” he threw over
his shoulder in arrogant bitterness. “Surely my lineage
begs better?”
“Her pedigree is as good as yours, my son.”
The youth sniggered. “What an illustrious union to be
sure! Something of which you all must be very proud.
Pshaw,” and snatched up Deborah’s hand when requested by
the bishop. Obediently he repeated the words that would
make them husband and wife. Deborah too had repeated the
words after the bishop but she had said them without
comprehending and had no idea what this boy’s Christian
names were, despite there being a string of them, because
she could not take her eyes off his face. Her nightmare
had unexpectedly turned into a wondrous dream. Her
youthful husband was the handsomest boy she had ever seen
in paints or real life; but it was his eyes that held her
mesmerized. They were green, but not just any green, a
deep emerald green. The same color as the large square cut
emerald on the thin white hand of the ancient stranger
Deborah was convinced had to be a hundred years old.