warm kitchen grew cool, Celia abandoned her untouched soup. It had grown even colder outside; as she crossed the breezeway to the main house, the wind tugged at her blue dress and loosened pale coils of her hair from beneath the white cap she wore. The smell of winter was in the air.
Shivering, she eased into the house and paused, uncertain. It was ominously quiet. The tall case clock that Maman had said now belonged to a new owner ticked softly in the hallway. A lamp had been lit, a thin thread of light from beneath a door guiding her down the hallway.
A feeling of dread enveloped her as she reached the parlor door; it was partially open. She began to shake. It was so quiet, deathly quiet…
“Maman?” Her hand spread on the door and pushed; it didn’t move. No sound greeted her as she wedged her body into the parlor. A low lamp burned in a wall sconce, casting the settee into a stark silhouette that seemed suddenly ominous. Her heart thudded painfully as she took a step into the room, glancing down at the obstruction holding the door. A scream locked in her throat.
Old Peter lay there motionless. His mouth was agape, his eyes closed. She knelt beside him, but he made no sound when she whispered his name. His dark face was so still.
Panic nearly paralyzed her, but she rose again and turned, walking toward the settee. Boards creaked beneath her feet, familiar but now much too loud in the soft gloom.
“Maman?”
It was a faint whisper, tentative and afraid. Her hand curled over the back of the settee, the horsehair-stuffed upholstery unyielding beneath the pressure of her clutching fingers. A bundle of rags lay upon the seat, shapeless and bulky.
But when she slipped around the end of the settee to inspect further, the bundle moaned softly.
“Maman! Oh, Maman!”
A feeble hand reached out for her, and then Celia saw that her mother’s skirts were up around her waist, her lower body naked. Immediately she pulled the skirts over Maman’s legs, then knelt beside her.
“Maman—you’re hurt! And Old Peter won’t wake. I must fetch the physician.”
“No…” The moan formed a refusal.
“But you’ll die, and Old Peter is so still…I’m afraid for you and I don’t know what to do!” Sobs thickened her words and she felt her mother’s hand graze her cheek in a comforting gesture.
“Help…Peter. I’m…fine. Truly. Go to Peter.”
But Old Peter was past help, dead from a grievous blow to the side of his head.
Celia spent the next few weeks in a daze. Maman had never been very strong, and now her meager reserves of strength were depleted by Lord Northington’s brutal rape. He had hurt much more than just her body; the light had gone from Léonie’s eyes, leaving behind an empty shell.
Anger sparked, the helpless rage of a child who has lost all comfort and security.
Léonie tried to recover; she dragged herself from the bed to do the sewing that helped to support them, but her heart was no longer in it. Northington had destroyed something inside her that Celia couldn’t understand.
“It is no use, petite,” Maman said sadly when Celia insisted she go to the authorities again. “They do not see me, do not care to see me. And it no longer matters. He’s gone now, back to England.”
“But we have papers. I read them, Maman! Charges were brought—”
“Against a man who is inviolate, a peer of the realm with access to money for bribes. Not even Peter’s murder will be avenged, so my charge is even less likely to be acknowledged. I am familiar with the advantages of power, my petite. Once, I lived with it. I know what it can do, what it can accomplish. It is no use to fight it.”
“No!” Celia raged, her voice almost a howl that alarmed her mother. “He has to pay for what he’s done, Maman. He has to be punished! Where is the justice? Why can he escape—”
Léonie grabbed her close, held her as tears wet their cheeks. “Justice is not always in this life,” she said at last, stroking Celia’s hair with a trembling hand. “I have seen too much to expect evil deeds to always be punished.”
Anger and resentment burned inside Celia’s breast, but she held her tongue. It only made things worse to remind Maman of what had happened. But one day—one day she would find a way to make Lord Northington pay for what he had done!
PART II
“And whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for any fate.”
—Lord Byron
LONDON, ENGLAND
September, 1819
1
Traveling under the name St. Clair, Celia stared over the rail of the ship nosing a watery trough up the Thames. It had been a tedious voyage save for a storm that she’d been convinced would destroy them all. But now she was here at last. At last! She knotted her hands in the folds of the reticule she carried; a letter crackled softly in the velvet bag. It was her future, the letter to Maman’s cousin, Jacqueline Fournier Leverton. Jacqueline and Léonie St. Remy had fled Paris during that bloody Revolution that had cost so many lives. Jacqueline had married an English baron, while Léonie wed the dashing American captain Samuel Sinclair and left England behind forever.
Perhaps Léonie had worried what might happen one day, for, when Celia was still an infant, she’d written a letter to her cousin about her daughter. She’d kept Jacqueline’s reply, her promise to stand as godmother to the child she hoped to one day meet. That letter was old, the pages yellowed and the ink faint, but it would serve as a letter of introduction to this godmother Celia had never met.
And now the time had come. So many fears, so much pain and heartache behind her…but she would let nothing stand in her way. Not now. Not after so many years.
Coming to England was not just the start of a new life, it was an act of vengeance. For nearly ten years, she had hated Lord Northington. At times, it had been all that let her feel alive.
Celia’s hands tightened on the ship rail as the London docks grew sharper in the gray mist that cloaked the river and hazed the forest of tall, swaying masts that looked like so many reeds choking the waterway. Shrouds seemed to part sullenly as the prow eased through debris and water, a lingering fog that diffused the sharper outlines of the city’s gray spires and forbidding towers.
So close, so close. It was nearly time now…all the planning, and now she was here at last. Maman would have wanted her to come to England.
Maman.…
It was nine years since her death, nine years since Celia had watched helplessly as Léonie bled to death in the childbed. Her infant son had lived only a few minutes more than his mother, Northington’s babe drawing only a few gasps of air. They were buried together, a simple grave in a corner of the cemetery where paupers were granted space for their eternity.
At thirteen, Celia had
