Chapter 1
Chapter One
Mistaken Identity
In New York City, Clara Boyd and her family lived in Upper Manhattan on a grand, secluded estate with livestock and lush, expansive fields.
Despite many homes being used for billeting soldiers, her father’s constant donations and close ties with British officers, and Mayor David Mathews, himself, spared them of this inconvenience.
Alas, their life was far from perfect.
Ever since Clara was quite young, her parents held her out at arm’s length, only truly doting upon her elder sibling, Charlotte, and paying minimal attention to the youngest, Catherine.
Their mother, in particular, ran Clara through with insults, each snagging against her heart like brambles—undignified; brazen; trollop—and with the continuous verbal assault, scar tissue was quick to form in a protective shield.
Nothing could harm her; nothing could sway her, and sometimes, the only way to feel beyond that scab was to misbehave and get cut all over again.
It felt good to be different; it was comforting being seen by her parents, if only for those brief moments of disobedience.
“Kitty?” Smoothing her hands along her skirts, Clara left the upstairs study in search of Catherine. It was early afternoon, and despite the quibble she’d endured with her mother that morning, she was in a rather pleasant mood. “Kitty, darling, where are you?”
“Down here!” a soft voice called.
Descending the staircase, Clara found Catherine sitting upon a bench in the grand estate’s foyer.
A smile blossomed upon her features, warm and genuine. Her beloved sisters always eased her heart.
“There you are!” Clara chirped. “I was beginning to think you were hiding from me,” she said in a singsong voice. “Not entirely wise, seeing how I know all your secrets.”
As she stepped closer, she appraised her sister’s downturned face and froze, her smile wiping clean. “What is it?” she demanded. Sinking onto the bench alongside Catherine, she touched the girl’s arm and pleaded, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Helpless but to obey, Catherine fell into a story of young love and heartbreak. At only seven and ten, she was prone to maudlin romanticism.
By the end of her tale, Clara was positively incensed. She wouldn’t stand for this. Harm upon her own heart, she could handle, but her sister? Absolutely not.
“What a cad,” she spat, her red curls bouncing. “Right after you throw yourself at his feet, he decides to sow his oats in that cow’s pasture? It’s unbelievable!”
Catherine blushed, anxiously wringing her hands. “I did not throw myself at him. That would be unsightly. Besides, Mr. Havenshire is a gentleman. I’d prefer not to speak ill of him just because I misinterpreted his affections.”
Clara scoffed, all too ready to leap to her sister’s defense. “Pray, allow me to speak ill of him then, because I certainly have no qualms dragging him through the mud! I’m surprised he hasn’t bored his new mistress to death with his wealthy knowledge of arithmetic.”
Catherine soured, insulted on his behalf. “I like to learn.”
Clara huffed. “That may be so,” she agreed, “but he didn’t allow you to learn the one thing you were truly interested in, if you get my meaning.”
As she’d hoped for, Catherine gasped, pink outrage flecking her cheeks. At least in this way, her sister’s focus was no longer on that good-for-nothing suitor.
“Good gracious, Clara!” Catherine exclaimed. “Do you ever tire of your perversions?”
“Of course not!” the redhead exclaimed, happy to play along. “The day I tire of men and their attributes is the day I no longer have a pulse.”
Lifting a paper fan from her lap, Catherine began to cool herself, her cheeks growing progressively hotter. “Have you learned nothing from your shame?” she snapped. “It’s bad enough that your scandal delayed proposals to our Lottie, but now you wish to delay mine, as well?”
“Oh, fie!” Clara waved a hand. “So long as Father keeps lining pockets, no one will give a single whit about my dalliances.”
“That is not true,” Catherine hissed. “Do you wish to see me an old maid? No man will desire the sister of a morally loose woman!”
Clara snorted, the corner of her mouth lifting in wry amusement.
“I’m afraid you have much to learn about men, dear sister.
” Gently, she fixed an errant lock from Catherine’s honey-blonde updo.
“If you are so concerned about courting, I’ve just the idea!
Why don’t you send a letter to Mr. Hepplewhite instead? ”
Catherine paled, anxiously shifting on the foyer bench. “I really don’t think that wise…”
“Whyever not?” Clara volleyed. “You need a worthy suitor, correct? The man is smitten, and he’s not nearly so boring. Well…I suppose all men are rather dull, when you get down to it, but he at least has excellent hands.”
Catherine’s brow creased, confusion flashing across her wide gray eyes. “What on earth do his hands have to do with anything?”
“Why, everything, of course! If a man has nice hands—agile fingers, in particular—he should be an excellent lover, indeed,” Clara replied, winking.
“Good Lord… Clara, I have told you time and time again: Please do not speak of such filth!”
She sneered, unimpressed. “How is it filth? Procreation is wholly natural! If it were not, why would we ever wish to lie with men in the first place? Why would the very Bible tell us to ‘be fruitful and multiply’ if we were not, in fact, intended to give in to such urges?”
Catherine cringed, fanning herself harder. “But what about Charlotte? She has found a man of fine breeding to court, and seems quite content, judging by her letters. She’s mentioned nothing to me about hands.”
“Ah, yes…the ever-elusive ‘Mr. Philip Ashby,’” Clara agreed, rolling her eyes. “Were she to actually return from Philadelphia and show us his face, I might be more inclined to believe in his existence.”
“But Aunt Martha’s written about the match,” Catherine reminded her. “Why would you doubt his existence when she’s always been forthright about gossip?”
Clara flicked a hand. “Fiddle-faddle! ‘Match made in heaven’ or no, it’s complete fudge that Father hasn’t even met Mr. Ashby or his family. Granted, it’s only been a few weeks of Ashby and Lottie’s acquaintance, but she has flooded us with letters. Her intentions are quite clear.”
“Yes, but you know how things are,” Catherine said. “The war has everyone so terribly nervous. Is it any wonder Lottie wishes to move things along? Father would only need to see the Ashby monetary figures to agree!”
Clara shrugged, unconvinced. “Of course, but does money outweigh character? In Father’s eyes, the answer will always be yes, but our Lottie is a sensible sort.”
Catherine nodded. “Indeed, she is. Charlotte has excellent judgment,” she affirmed, only to wince at her mistake.
Clara pursed her mouth, her green eyes flashing. “Oh, yes. How could I forget? Perfect little Lottie would absolutely never let any man enter her carvel’s ring before marriage.”
Scandalized, Catherine swatted her arm. “Do not speak like that!” she warned, blushing fiercely. “I cannot believe you even know such words!”
“Why? I have a carvel’s ring, and so do you.”
“Stop it, stop it!”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Jolting to attention, both women looked toward the door in surprise.
“Is Father expecting someone?” Clara asked. When Catherine shrugged, the redhead glanced at the far end of the foyer and nodded to the lanky, thin footman dressed in blue-and-gold liveries and a powdered wig—William, his name was—and he nodded back before opening the door.
Eager, both Boyd daughters tried to see around William’s shoulders, but couldn’t quite get a good view. They could hear a pleasant, masculine voice requesting Jedediah’s presence, and Catherine gasped in delight.
“Oh, it must be Mr. Ashby!” she crowed. “See? I knew Charlotte wasn’t lying!”
“Mr. Ashby?” Clara echoed, her interest piqued. “How ever did you come to that conclusion? Is any old fool Mr. Ashby now?”
“I heard him say he traveled from Philadelphia!” Catherine said, annoyed.
“Though I’m loath to break my vow, Lottie told me that sometime next week, she is returning with Aunt Martha and Mr. Ashby.
It’s to be a surprise!” Furrowing her brow, she added, “Though from the look of things, he’s arrived early… and without our dear family.”
“Yes, well perhaps they sent Mr. Ashby first to earn Father’s approval,” Clara said, ignoring the sting over being excluded.
As the black sheep of the family, she was rather accustomed to it.
Allowing the new snub to roll off her shoulders, she rose and folded her hands over her floral stomacher, adapting an air of superiority as she called, “Show him in, William.”
The servant hesitated, muttered a soft, “Yes, Miss Clara,” and then stepped aside to admit their new guest.
All at once, Clara’s eyes lit up, and her rosy lips twitched into a sly, lopsided smile.
If she didn’t love her sister, she supposed she might actually be a bit jealous.
This Philip Ashby was not only young, but very handsome.
His eyes were a warm, enchanting cornflower blue, his features both sharp and soft, and his dark-blond hair was braided in a queue at the nape of his neck.
The gray riding coat he wore, though perhaps a bit drab, further brought out the forget-me-not quality of his shrewd gaze, and Clara simpered, stepping forward with an extended hand.
“A pleasure, Mr. Ashby,” she purred.
The man’s eyes widened and his face grew ashen, and for a long moment, he appeared genuinely confused. “I-I am—”
“Mr. Philip Ashby,” Clara said again, nodding. “Why yes, I know. Despite her best efforts, Charlotte’s failed to keep you hidden from us. We know all about your not-so-secret intentions to marry.”
If it were possible, the man paled further. “I…am he, yes,” he allowed, taking her hand. “I’m so pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss…Clara, was it?”