Eliza Williams
Still, she would sometimes look in the mirror and wonder about the origins of her brown curls, her dark eyes.
Only that there was no one available to ask.
Not her mother, who had died before Eliza turned three, or her father, whose identity was a mystery.
There was her guardian, Colonel Brandon, of course, but he was not a blood relation.
From what Eliza had gathered, he was a friend of the family who had stepped in to take her upon her mother’s death and whom she now called her uncle.
Besides, he spent most of the year on the Continent fighting Napoleon, which was why, at first, he had sent her to live at Ms. Goddard’s School for Girls when she was just a young child.
There were no answers at the school, either. At least, not the ones she was looking for. But even with her limited familial knowledge, she recognized the rumors whispered among the other girls. Eliza the orphan. Eliza the bastard. But as far as Eliza had been concerned, she was still just Eliza.
Even now, as she stood on the creaking deck of a merchant ship bound for New York, the scent from the sea and brine filling the air, it seemed strange to think of her name.
It had been scrawled there on her ticket, but that had only made it feel more alien.
Eliza, the name of a mother she never knew, and Williams, the surname of a man who didn’t even know she existed.
Either a joke or a punishment from divine circles, she still wasn’t sure.
Of course, it hadn’t felt like that when she was young.
Not until she had stumbled upon her mother’s books.
She had found them one Christmas while visiting the Colonel.
She had wandered into his library, desperate for something to read, and had recognized the title of an Ann Radcliffe novel stashed on the top shelf.
At the time she had almost laughed at the idea of her stoic guardian reading such a sweeping romance, but then she had opened it and found a name carefully scrawled on the first page: Eliza Fowler.
She found the same name in a half dozen others and promptly scooped them up, stowing them in her trunk to bring back to school.
For the next few years, the books lived under Eliza’s bed.
Each night she would pore over them—The Romance of the Forest and Evelina, The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Decameron.
At first, she had hoped to imbibe something of her mother, as if the stories hid some of the truth Eliza had been starving for, but then the stories themselves became too good.
Romance and violence, death and mourning, but always wrapped up in a happy ending.
Despite the trials and tribulations, love always won.
How odd. Just a few years ago, she couldn’t imagine anything more romantic than those happy endings.
Then, after last year, she had almost resented them, as if they had sold her a false bill of goods.
But in that moment, as she held her newborn daughter to her chest and stared out across the Atlantic, the ship swaying beneath her feet, she was struck with the memory of those books and how she had loved them once.
After all, they were the reason she made her first friend.
When she was fourteen, the Colonel had pulled her from boarding school.
He had inherited the estate after the death of his brother, William—a man Eliza never met but who, by all accounts, would not be missed, particularly since he left behind no wife or children—and with their new status came new expectations.
Therefore, the Colonel was sending her to live at the prestigious home of Mr. and Mrs. Carrington, a family whose estate took up a good amount of Dorsetshire.
There, in their residence and under the tutelage of Mrs. Carrington, Eliza would receive a more thorough education on what was expected from a young lady of landed gentry.
The rationale had been sound, even if Eliza hadn’t entirely agreed.
Her books had told her about the tumultuous world beyond the small patch of countryside she knew, had promised adventure and love beyond anything she had yet experienced.
But she also knew that in order to live a life that was in any way acceptable, she had to conform to societal norms. Her sex dictated a prodigious amount of her future, if not all of it, and whatever she wanted was less important than what was expected.
So she arrived at Mrs. Carrington’s with her trunk as directed—her mother’s precious books safe from prying eyes—and she hid away in her room as she always had done at school before.
Perhaps that was why, a few days later, when Eliza returned to her room after a morning spent on the piano and found a girl about her own age lounging on her bed, she was so startled.
“Is this yours?” the girl asked. It was only then that Eliza saw that she was leafing through her mother’s copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho.
“Yes,” Eliza replied nervously.
“I’ve been dying to read it,” the girl replied. “I only have The Romance of the Forest, and I’ve read it so much I think I’ve broken the spine.”
Eliza straightened. “You have The Romance of the Forest?”
“Yes.” The girl sat up. “Do you have that, too?”
“No, I haven’t been able to secure a copy.”
“Then I will lend it to you, and you will let me read this, and then we will have something to talk about.”
Eliza smiled brightly. “All right.”
That was the first time she met Mrs. Carrington’s daughter, Charlotte. For the next two years, they shared books about lost loves and stories of haunted castles, dissected the fictional affairs, and swooned over the heroes. She was Eliza’s first true friend.
But that was two years ago. Two years that felt like a lifetime.
Where was Charlotte now? Eliza had been staring at the ocean for so long, she was almost grateful for the new thought.
A break in the anxiety and tension. But with memories of Charlotte’s friendship came another wave of sadness.
It was yet another thing she had lost along the way.
And it all began with that invitation to Bath. Eliza remembered the day well—she had been reading The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne for the third time, trying to keep her mind occupied, when Charlotte poked her head into her room.
“Any news?” she had asked.
Eliza had been staying at the Carrington home for two years by that point.
It had been lovely, truly, but now, at sixteen, she was beginning to wonder at the world beyond the walled garden, at what life looked like in places where new people existed every day.
That’s when the often-absent Mr. Carrington appeared from his sickbed and announced he was going away to treat his episodic dyspnea.
It wasn’t that Eliza was glad for Mr. Carrington’s breathing difficulties.
Only that the ailment presented a unique opportunity.
The gentleman was going to Bath in the hopes that taking the waters would relieve his suffering, and his eldest daughter had been invited to accompany him, along with a friend.
“Nothing yet,” Eliza replied and fell back dramatically on the bed. “Sneak me in your trunk. I beg you. I’m small.”
“I’m sure your uncle will send word soon,” Charlotte said, even as she sent a nervous look to the window.
“But what could be taking him so long to reply? He’s not on the Continent anymore. He’s in Surrey!”
“Maybe there were… bandits,” Charlotte said, turning to give her friend a conspiratorial look.
Eliza recognized the reference to the latest novel they had read, The Orphan of the Rhine, and bit back a smile as she feigned concern. “Or a nefarious monk.”
“And the messenger was kidnapped…” Charlotte whispered.
“Hidden away in a mysterious castle…”
“With a surprisingly attractive Italian nobleman.”
That was as much as they could take before they both dissolved into laughter. It was short-lived, though, as the sound of hooves rose up from the lane. Eliza scrambled to the window, with Charlotte close behind, just as a rider emerged over the hill, galloping toward the house.
Charlotte was clutching onto Eliza’s shoulders with such strength, her friend’s nails digging into her yellow school dress, Eliza thought she’d soon draw blood.
“That has to be it,” Charlotte said, as if trying to convince the both of them. “Don’t you think?”
Eliza didn’t know. But she watched closely as the rider came to a stop at the door below. Then the girls waited, barely breathing. A few minutes later, a knock on the door.
“Miss Williams?” the housemaid asked. “The lady wishes for you to get your things together for the journey.”
Eliza turned back to her friend, smiling even more broadly. “We’re going to Bath!”
Despite the excitement of packing and planning for a summer away, the following two weeks had also been filled with letters from her uncle, outlining expectations and rules, as if Eliza could forget that her freedom had limitations.
She was born a girl, after all, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she was also an orphan, two unfortunate strikes against her.
Luckily, she was also the beneficiary of her wealthy caring uncle.
Without him, she would be out on the streets, like a character from one of her novels.
But that danger immediately vanished from her mind the moment their carriage arrived in Bath.