"Captivating tale of young woman's struggle for autonomy"
Reviewed by Miranda Owen
Posted May 3, 2014
Romance Historical | Inspirational Historical
MARK OF DISTINCTION is Book two in Jessica Dotta's Price
of
Privilege historical trilogy. This is the first book
I've
read by Jessica Dotta. I recommend reading this series in
order so as not to be confused. The book starts with Julia
looking back and commenting on events that happened when
she was a girl of 17 and 18. Jessica Dotta does a great job
of conveying the sense of isolation and powerlessness that
young Julia feels. These are feelings that many modern
teenagers can relate to. At the beginning of the book,
Julia is isolated from both friends and anybody who cares
for her, only to be stuck with a cold father and his
cronies. She is a very sympathetic character and I felt
like giving her a hug.
MARK OF DISTINCTION is also an interesting study in the way
society has changed regarding its views on romantic
relationships. In the book, many characters comment on the
scandal involving Julia and Mr. Macy to Julia, without
realizing that she is the very young woman involved in the
scandal. Even painting Mr. Macy in the best possible light,
the fact that he is near her father's age and she is so
young, would make him be seen as a lecher in today's
society for pursuing her. He would be vilified and she
would be seen as a victim. In the time period this story
takes place, he is seen as the victim of a young woman's
scheming ways.
Isaac, Lord Dalry is an interesting
character. Through him, we see things from Lord Pierson's
POV. Through Isaac's eyes, Julia's father is not quite the
ogre he often seems. If his storyline isn't resolved in
this series, I would be interested in reading a book
focused on him.
MARK OF DISTINCTION is a compelling story of a young girl's
entrance into womanhood. In addition to Julia's struggle to
become who and what her father wants her to be, MARK OF
DISTINCTION is full of political machinations, romantic
entanglements, struggles with faith and a healthy dose of
intrigue. Julia's beloved vicar Edward makes an appearance
in this tale -- but will their happiness last and how will
it be tested? What does fate have in store for Lord Dalry -
or the very interesting, yet slightly sinister Mr. Macy? I
look forward to hopefully finding the answers to those
questions in the next installment.
SUMMARY
London is said to be the glittering jewel of society, a
world unto itself—but to Julia Elliston it is a city of
shadows. Her life is swiftly dissolving into scandal. And in
Victorian society, even a whisper of scandal—substantiated
or not—can be the death of a young woman’s reputation. Now under the watchful eye of Lord Roy Pierson, one of most
influential men in England, Julia begrudgingly accepts his
protection. But Chance Macy’s power is far-reaching as well,
and he is eager to assert his claim over her. Thrust into society as the Emerald Heiress, Julia is the
toast of London, a celebrated curiosity. But in reality
she’s trapped between the clutches of two powerful men.
Aided only by a gentleman whose intentions she prays she can
trust, Julia must finally take control of her own fate—but
outwitting one’s foe rarely goes according to plan.
ExcerptOneThe eight months following my arrival at Maplecroft have
been called one of the greatest cozenages of our age. My
father and I have endured endless speculation as to the
number of hours poured into its plan and execution. Truth comprised of bare facts is rarely more flattering than
legend. In reality, our sham was little more than a mad-dash
scramble of one improvisation after another. Events kept
unfolding, forcing us to take new action, making it
impossible to steer from collision. I am an old woman now. Ancient some days. I had no idea my
story would cause such an uproar. When I first penned it, my
only intent was to address the rumors of how the entire
affair started. I was weary of hearing how I seduced Mr.
Macy. As if I, or anyone, could. The very idea is laughable.
Long life has its ad-vantages. Your perception grows
clearer, even if your sight dims. How much better I now
understand the shock Lady Foxmore must have felt during our
presentation. Her pretension was unequalled. Yet there I
stood, a pale, scrawny girl in rags, chosen by one of the
most illustrious men in her circle to be wed to him. It is
no wonder she thought it a grand jest. How could she, or
anyone who knew Macy intimately, have guessed just how
resolute he was upon marrying me? Since my story’s publication, I have been accused of
besmirching the innocent by fabricating events to gain
public sympathy. Some have pointed out that I unfairly
suggest Mr. Macy is responsible for Churchill’s murder. They
remind me that it is a documented fact that the culprit, an
unstable man, was apprehended—and that it’s nothing more
than coincidence Churchill’s death occurred on the same day
Mr. Macy collected me. Others state that if I were truly innocent, then how is it
that my story escalated to treason and then ended so
tragically? It is this last challenge that causes me unrest. I cannot
recount the mornings I’ve stood before my window, debating
whether it is best to allow the matter to rest or to
persevere and tell the tale in its entirety. I’ve wrestled
with my conscience, wondering what good revealing all would
do. Shall I so easily expose the sins of my father? Like
Ham, shall I peel back the tent flap that covers his
nakedness to the world? Will it bring back the dead? It was only this morning, as I turned to retreat to my
favorite chair, that I was decided. I caught sight of my
paternal grandmother, Lady Josephine, watching me. She is
ageless, of course, forever capturing the bloom of our
youth. As I paused and studied her painting, my great-
grandchildren rushed past my window, tripping on their own
merry shrieks. They fell in a muddle in the middle of the
grounds and then, just for the glory of it, lay on their
backs, spread their arms, and laughed. I chuckled, imagining their incredulousness were they to
learn my frolics were once as madcap as theirs. Lady
Josephine also watched with her ever-present, coy smile. For
some reason it brought to mind how her portrait gave me
strength during those long months with my father. Something
about her smile used to assure me that her antics were
equally mischievous. I regret that I will never learn about
them. It is this thought that decides me. I will for my grandchildren and great-grandchildren to know
me. Not the version they’ll find archived in the newspapers.
Heaven forbid they search there! I care not to contemplate
the opinions they’d form. No, I will write this wrong. Let
them at least judge me by truth, though who can say whether
it makes me less of a culprit. Let the world think what it
will. I am far too old to care, anyway. I am past the point
of cowing to opinions. It all began, of course, with my father. Not my stepfather, William Elliston, who I believed, until
that devastating night I wed Mr. Macy, had begotten me. But Lord Pierson himself. The second time I laid eyes on him was on my eighteenth
birthday. Mama had always made a secret celebration of that date,
sneaking into my chamber before dawn. The scent of lilac
clung to her rustling skirts as she’d motion me to make room
for her to climb into my bed. “You were born at this very hour.” Her voice could soothe
even the darkness as she settled into the down pillows. On every birthday, even until my seventeenth, I was wont to
curl against her, resting my head against her collarbone,
where I listened to her heart. Rare were the moments we were
granted a respite. I have little doubt we both savored those
mornings. “The sun had just peeked over the hillocks outside my
window,” Mama would continue, intertwining our fingers. “I
was exhausted, and by the looks the midwife and Sarah
exchanged, I knew they believed it was hopeless.” Here,
determination coated Mama’s voice as if she were reliving
the moment. “I fastened my gaze on that tiny flush of light
and swore by the time the sun was fully risen, you’d be
born. You were the only family I had left, and I wasn’t
about to allow either one of us to die.” I always held my breath, hoping she’d elaborate. Those
birthday moments were the closest Mama ever came to speaking
about her past. “You were born just as the sun crested the horizon. Your
wail was the loudest the midwife had ever heard. She nearly
dropped you in surprise. Here, she thought you’d be
stillborn, but you came out kicking and screaming.” Next, she’d splay her hand against mine, palm against palm,
measuring my growth. It seems odd now that on my seventeenth
birthday—my last birthday with Mama—our hands were exactly
the same size. “I counted your fingers and toes, over and over. You were so
tiny and perfect.” Even as a child I noted how her chest
would rise in a silent sigh before saying, “Your father came
that night. He burst through the doors and looked wildly
about the room for you. He, also, marveled over you. And he,
too, counted your toes and fingers over and over, as if the
number would change.” Though I never had a chance to tell her, those birthday
mornings were the most treasured part of my splintered
childhood. Thus for me to rise on my eighteenth birthday in order to
watch the coming dawn was the most costly tribute I could
pay her. It fractured me. Yet failing to honor Mama would
have felt worse. Wind shook the windowpanes as I stumbled from the bed and
groped in the semidark for matches. The odor of phosphorus
filled the air as I lit candles along the mantel. During the night, the fire had burned into ashes, leaving my
room so cold it hurt my throat to breathe the wintry air. I
rubbed my hands over my arms as I went to my father’s late
wife’s wardrobe and selected a thick shawl. I glanced at the fireplace as I passed it again, wondering
why the servants had not kept the fires lit. Never having
lived in a great house, it was impossible to tell if the
fault was the staff’s or mine. It was just as likely I’d
forgotten to give the necessary instruction as it was that
some servant had neglected her duty. Regardless of the reason, the timing could not have been
worse. The freezing temperature served to sharpen the
harrowing sensation that Mama was truly gone. I turned my gaze toward the clock and estimated it to be
about a half hour before sunrise. I knew that if I returned
to the warmth of bed, I risked falling asleep and missing
daybreak. Uncertain what else to do, I retreated to the
window seat and brushed aside the heavy lace hanging before
the window. Though it was early morning, pew-ter-grey clouds layered the
sky. Only traces of the previous night’s snow remained on
the ground, tucked amongst the roots of oak trees and
glistening between the crags of rocks. A solitary snowflake
floated down from the leaden sky. Like me, it didn’t seem to
belong anywhere but drifted from one spot to another, never
quite landing. With numb fingers, I clutched my shawl closer
and rested my head against the window. “I’m here, Mama,” I whispered, hoping to feel her presence. But I felt nothing. All evidence of Mama had been
successfully scrubbed from my life. Even the nightmares of
her screaming warnings to me from across a chasm had
stopped. My fingertips curled against the empty space near
my col-larbone. I hadn’t even managed to keep her locket a
full year. Was it only last year that she’d given me the
gold necklace containing her and William’s likeness? With a
splurge of self-pity, I realized I still needed Mama. I
wanted her to stroke and kiss my brow, telling me she hadn’t
been murdered, and I hadn’t married her murderer. I wanted
to be home, which no longer existed because Mr. Macy gave it
away to prevent me from hiding from him there. I swallowed, but it was too late. I choked out a ragged gasp
before I hastily wiped my wet eyes with the hem of the
shawl. Refusing to cry further, I shifted position on the window
seat and forced myself to find new occupation. Wind
scattered the snow crusting the bare trees, creating a mist
that waned the view where the sun worked to rise. I waited
until it dissipated, then traced the grove of staggering
hemlocks that filled the ravine separating my father’s
Maplecroft estate and the adjoining property. As if drawn
against my will, I followed the course all the way to
Eastbourne. Smoke curled from the tall chimneys of Mr. Macy’s vast
estate, spreading ash over snow-strewn roofs, where
gargoyles hunched beneath snowy capes. It appeared serene,
betraying nothing of the evil that lurked there. Everything
familiar to me had been stripped away within those walls,
where I’d spent a week of my life . . . and betrayed Edward
by trusting Mr. Macy and marrying him instead. I touched the
cold pane, my stomach hollowing as I wondered if he knew yet
that I was hiding from him in plain view. As the sky grew pearlier, it became easier to see Macy’s
servants scurrying over the grounds, shoveling snow and
attending to their duties. It was impossible to imagine that
only a fortnight ago I had been amongst them, my heart
soaring with the intrigue. That period of time stood in stark contrast to the time I’d
spent in my father’s house. For eight days I’d not encountered a soul, except for the
timid maid who crept soundlessly into my chamber to kindle
my fire and dress me. Heartsick after Edward’s departure,
I’d wandered aimlessly through empty rooms and echoing
marble halls. My first morning alone, I’d searched the
estate looking for private nooks I could duck into to read
or sew if I needed solitude. I wanted time to heal and to
sort through my emotions. Yet as I took each meal alone and
passed hours in silence, straining to catch the sound of
another’s voice, I learned my search had been unwarranted.
No one would disturb me. The entire estate seemed under a
deep freeze, waiting for its thaw, and I’d been swallowed by
its vastness. As if to combat the thought, a warm, glowing orb of light
suddenly reflected in the window. I turned in time to see
Mrs. Coleman, the housekeeper of Maplecroft, entering my
chamber, carrying a whale-oil lamp. The white fabric that
crisscrossed her bodice showed traces of ash, revealing
she’d tended duties uncommon for a housekeeper. Her eyes
widened in dismay when she noted me awake. Her next thought
was apparent by the despairing look she gave my empty grate. She placed the lamp aside and straightened her shoulders. “I
beg your pardon, Miss Pierson. Seven of my girls are down
with a wicked chest cold. Not that it is a proper excuse,
mind you.” The name Miss Pierson chafed me like carpenter’s paper and
made me feel as twisted as the touchwood used to light the
fire. I hated allowing the staff to believe I was Lord
Pierson’s legitimate daughter, but until my father returned,
I wasn’t certain how to conduct myself. The housekeeper cocked her eyebrows, waiting. I frowned, feeling as though I were committing a great
social blunder. Yet for the life of me, I couldn’t think of
how the mistress of an estate would handle such a matter.
Several replies came to mind, but somehow they all felt
wrong. Apparently silence was equally ap-palling, for Mrs. Coleman
snapped her eyes shut and gave a quick shake of her head as
if to ask what they were teaching young ladies these days.
When she opened her eyes again, I had little doubt as to the
true mistress of Maplecroft. “Naturally—” she stepped smartly into the chamber, the keys
at her hip jangling sharply—“you wish to know whether I’ve
summoned the apothecary and whether any of Eaton’s staff is
down, as well. I’m assured that at least two of the girls
will be on their feet tomorrow. William, our second, has the
malady, but James is managing quite well by himself. Some of
the grooms are starting to look feverish, but that shouldn’t
inconvenience your father when he returns home tonight.” Eaton’s name I recognized as the butler’s. I had only just
worked out that William was a footman, because James was,
when my mind seized upon Mrs. Coleman’s last statement. I
rose to my feet. “Did you say that my father is expected
tonight?” “That I did. ’Tis just like him too. Changing plans and
returning home with a guest right in the middle of a grippe
outbreak.” I gathered and pulled my hair over my shoulder as dread
tingled through my body. “You don’t look well yourself.” Mrs. Coleman approached and
touched my forehead with the back of her fingers. “Well, at
least you’re cool to the touch. Nonetheless, you need to eat
better. You’re thinner than is healthy. You had naught
yesterday except that bite of porridge and biscuit.” I gawked, envisioning members of the staff spying on me
through keyholes. I had been certain I was alone when I only
managed one swallow of gruel. I’d pushed the entire tray
away, missing Edward too keenly to eat. Had they watched
while I cried too? “Here now, there’s no need to appear shocked.” Mrs. Coleman
maneuvered to the hearth. “Since you arrived, the staff has
been barmy with talk of you.” She paused to meet my eye.
“Not that I’ve allowed it, mind you.” Her nonchalance gave me pause. I now couldn’t decide whether
I had been spied upon, or if she generally meant I barely
touched the tray that was delivered to my room. “I’ve been waiting for you to find your way to my room,” she
said. “I warrant at your school they placed great emphasis
on the importance of keeping a distinction between yourself
and your staff. If you were to ask my opinion on it, I would
tell you it was stuff and nonsense. Maplecroft, ’tis a
lonely house to become acquainted with, to be sure. Your
mother wasn’t above coming to my rooms and visiting me, let
me tell you. You would find me grateful for the occasional
visit.” Her speech awoke a myriad of reactions within me, so that
each word spiralled my thoughts in a different direction. It
stunned me to learn that the staff had interpreted my
isolation as pretentiousness. Had they expected me to seek
them out, to take interest and assign them their duties? I
had no right to do so, not at least until I saw my father.
For I wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t ship me off
somewhere. I hadn’t forgotten that before the entire affair
started, he’d planned to tuck me out of sight by sending me
to Scotland as a servant. Lastly, the manner in which the
housekeeper took it upon herself to lecture reminded me
greatly of Nancy. My throat tightened, and my homesickness
crested as I wondered what happened to my outspoken lady’s
maid. Thankfully, Mrs. Coleman had her back to me and therefore
didn’t witness my struggle to hold back emotions. She knelt
over the grate, raking the ashes. “I always keep a cake in my shelf,” she continued. “If you
like, you are invited to join me for tea in the late
afternoons. You may sit in my overstuffed chair and confide
all your little secrets to me. I should rather enjoy that.” I crossed my arms, wondering what she’d do if I actually
took up her offer and confided all. I allowed myself a wry
smile as I imagined her too shocked to speak. “You’ll find that Master Isaac doesn’t consider it below his
station to come and visit me. I daresay you can trust him to
determine what is right and proper, far above any nonsense
your school taught you.” Using tongs, she lifted the half-
burnt coals from the ash and deposited them into a nearby
scuttle. I frowned, not certain who Master Isaac was, but then
recalled Lord Dalry, the gentleman who’d greeted Edward and
me the night we arrived. The dull chimes of a grandfather clock sounded, filling the
chamber and reminding me of my mission. I retreated back to
the window. The sun had nearly risen, giving the sky a rosy
tincture. With dismay, I glanced at Mrs. Coleman as she
started the fire, then cast my gaze outdoors. I desired to
be alone, yet there was no polite way to dismiss her
midtask. The sunrise was beautiful. Tones of gold highlighted the
claret color, making the sky incarnadine. I ached, uncertain
what to make of its beauty. How could the most resplendent
sunrise of my life simultaneously be the most painful? Yet as I considered the complex layers of color and light, I
better understood Mama’s determination that first morning.
She, too, had lost her entire world. She had to fight and
remain determined in order to give birth. To thrive after
tragedy, one must find and draw from a pool of strength deep
within oneself. Mama must have found hers that morning in
me. I gave a deep sigh, resting my head against the window
frame. A newborn daughter, however, was more likely to give
someone an iron will than a powerful father. Something about
that thought surfaced another part of the story, which Mama
had mentioned only once. I was perhaps seven or eight. After
she’d described my father counting my fingers and toes, she
tacked on, “I never saw a grown man weep over his child
before, but your father held you against his chest and
expressed such raw emotion that Sarah feared he’d drop you
in his remorse.” That year, I had wrinkled my nose. If William had been
weeping at the end of a long night, then he was inebriated.
Even at that tender age, I could well guess he’d hidden in a
pub during Mama’s labor. It also stood to reason that he
probably slept at the tavern, woke, and started drinking
again. Knowing William’s temperament, I was displeased that
Mama and Sarah had allowed him to handle an infant. But as I stood there, feeling the cold bleed through the
window, I suddenly guessed the truth, and tingles spread
over my body. Mama had not been speaking about William, but
Lord Pierson. I held my breath. If my father came to see me on the morning
of my birth, then I mattered to him. I raised my gaze,
savoring the feeling of hope that surged through me. Perhaps
it didn’t matter that our first meeting last month had been
horrid, or why I was at Maplecroft pleading for sanctuary.
All that counted was what happened next. “’Tis a grave view, that,” Mrs. Coleman said behind me,
nearing me. I had been so deep in thought, I’d nearly forgotten I wasn’t
alone. She joined me at the window and frowned, glancing toward
Eastbourne. “There’s something evil about this, if you ask
me. A bad omen, for certain.” I felt my mouth dry as I turned to look at her. She pulled the bundle of bedclothes in her arms tighter.
“Mark my words: ’twill be the coldest winter yet. Snow in
October! I’ve been in this shire for over twenty years, with
nary a snowflake before January, much less a storm.” I released a shaky breath. “You . . . you meant the snow?” She glanced in my direction. “Whatever else could I have
meant?” Without my permission, my eyes strayed to Eastbourne. “Humph,” she said, following my gaze, then set aside her
linens. With the air of a prim nanny, she surveyed
Eastbourne. “Mr. Chance Reginald Macy,” she finally said
with distaste. “I take it you’ve followed his dreadful
scandal in the paper, then?” She shook her head
disapprovingly, the ruffles on her cap bobbing before she
stalked to the wardrobe. “Best not let your father hear. He
would not approve of your reading such trash. If you ask me,
that girl ought to be horsewhipped within an inch of her
life. Mind you, I’d like to be the first one who gives her a
dressing-down. I can assure you, she’d know her duty when I
finished with her.” Feeling my face grow hot, I turned my back to her. Since my
arrival, I’d only glanced at the various newspapers
delivered each day, never suspecting that Macy was keeping
our scandal alive. I swallowed, realizing that he was still
searching for me—or at least pretending to. The heavy scent of perfume coated the room as she dug
through my father’s late wife’s dresses. “As for him, he
ought to feel the fool for allowing someone half his age to
seduce him. Had he enough self-pride, he would have better
sense than to keep adding to the fire, pleading for her
return. He’s the same age as your father, you know. Can you
imagine your father making such a tomfool of himself over a
girl your age? I remember a time when the two of them would
ride and hunt together. The year before Mr. Macy left for
Eton, he and your father were inseparable.” “They were?” Surprised by this in-formation, I turned and
studied her face. The crow’s-feet that lined her eyes
suggested she was only a decade older than Mrs. Windham.
She’d have been too young to be a housekeeper back then,
which meant she’d have been an upper maid. “What happened?” She paused and a thoughtful expression crossed her face, as
if she were reliving scenes from the past. Then all at once,
she tsked. “There’s no sense asking me. I was never given
knowledge of the affair. Your father spent that following
summer in Bath, and we scarcely saw him. Something happened
there that caused the pair to fall out.” Now this bit of news interested me. Mama’s past was a
mysterious maze, of which I’d only learned one or two turns.
One of those paths had come from Lady Foxmore. During our
first tea, she stated that she’d chaperoned Mama in Bath the
summer after Mama’s family perished in a fire. I bit my lip
as Mrs. Coleman rifled through dresses. Was it possible it
was the same summer that drove a wedge between my father and
Mr. Macy? “Here. This ought to fit.” Mrs. Coleman withdrew a scarlet
brocade gown. “It’s none of my business, mind you, but for
your mother’s sake, I intend to give your father a piece of
my tongue about the condition of your clothing when you
arrived. I won’t argue the good of teaching someone of your
rank humility, but to keep her dressed in rag—” She stopped
short as if recalling whom she addressed. I pretended to view the grounds again, wanting to kick
myself for showing interest in Mr. Macy. Though my common
sense had been a bit woolly from the brandy, I still
recalled Mr. Macy’s words: “More than one of your guardian’s
servants is loyal to me. I’ve been intercepting all
correspondence involving you since your mother’s death.” I crossed my arms, willing myself not to panic, either. Thus
far nothing had happened. “What time does my father arrive?” I asked. “Likely as not, sometime after gloaming, but with him,
there’s no telling,” was Mrs. Coleman’s stout reply as she
unfolded and refolded petticoats, looking for one that would
fit. “I’ll have to hire girls from the village to have
things readied on time. It’s a blessing he didn’t surprise
us, considering the state of the house.” Her statement was so curious, my mouth twisted in a queer
smile. I’d never seen as much as a speck of dust in the
entire estate. Aware my father could return any minute, I glanced at the
clock. After Mrs. Coleman left my chambers, she wasn’t
likely to have the time to assist me later. If I wanted to
present my best, I needed to hasten. While Mrs. Coleman shook out the clothing she’d selected, I
opened the small china boxes, looking for face powder to
hide the crescents beneath my eyes. Scents of oil of tartar
and almond rose from various creams, but I found no white
powder. In my fumbling, one of the bottles of fragrance
spilled, filling the air with rose water. Mrs. Coleman eyed the spill as she approached, her mouth
tightening. “Never mind it; I’ll tend to it as you put these
on.”
While Mrs. Coleman pressed a linen towel against the spill,
I shed the nightdress and donned petticoats too large for my
frame. Shivering, I stepped into the satin gown that felt
soaked in cold. When I finished, Mrs. Coleman smoothed my hair with pomade,
parted it down the middle, and completed it with a simple
braid. “With your permission, I’d like to take my leave now,” she
said, setting the brush down. “Oh yes, yes,” I said. “Feel free.” Her eyebrows rose as though she was surprised by my
unorthodox dismissal. Nonetheless, she dipped and left with
the laundry bundled against her hip. Alone, I pulled out the pins from her hairstyle, changed my
part and redistributed the pins into a more flattering
style, then studied the girl in the looking glass. I heaved
a sigh. I looked like a forlorn child in an oversized
ruffled dress, and without Nancy, my hair lacked luster. Even so, I was determined to be the first to greet my
father. Had I known who my father’s guest was, I doubt I should have
bothered.
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