Chapter One
“Another letter for you, Miss Ailsworth.”
Betsy’s voice was hushed as she stepped into Cordelia Ailsworth’s chamber and wheeled in the tea trolley. A single folded envelope rested atop it on a silver salver, its wax seal glinting red in the light from the window. She pulled the drapes open to let in the morning light.
Cordelia’s breath caught. “From Mr. Williams?”
Betsy gave a small nod. “I think so, miss. I recognize the writing.”
She set the tray upon the desk, but rather than step back, she shifted herself between her mistress and the half-open door, her body a quiet shield against discovery. “It came but a quarter hour ago. Our Samuel ran in like he was being chased because as he said he felt like he was being watched.”
A chill swept over Cordelia. “Watched?”
“Or… so he… thought.” Betsy cast her eyes down, suddenly feeling uneasy. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, miss. His nerves are worn thin with all these errands.”
Cordelia reached for the letter with hands that shook so violently she nearly dropped it.
The seal resisted for a moment against her trembling fingers, then cracked, scattering sharp flakes of crimson wax across her bedside table.
Her pulse thundered as she unfolded the paper, the script already too familiar—Mr. Reginald Williams’s neat hand.
She took a deep breath, unfolded the page, and allowed her eyes to drink in the words.
Dear Mr. Thornfield,
Even that salutation made her heart stop. Two years on, and the deception still endured. Two years of living behind a mask, her own name locked away with every paper she had written.
Mr. Williams’s praise spilled over the neat lines:
Your observations on the selective breeding of the Alpine Campanula mark most remarkable progress, worthy of serious attention by the society.
I trust further developments will follow with equal ingenuity.
The scholarly community is fortunate indeed to possess so keen a mind and a willingness to share…
Cordelia’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She read the passage twice, a third time, her pulse hammering against her ribs. His words were a triumph, yet also a blade poised above her head. Every phrase that lifted her higher only sharpened the peril of what would happen if...
Betsy leaned closer. “Good news, miss?”
“Remarkable progress,” Cordelia whispered, dragging herself from such fearsome thoughts, though her voice cracked as she spoke.
Betsy’s worn hands pressed together. “Then you’ve done it again, miss. Another triumph.”
“Yes...and remarkable ruin, should anyone guess the truth.”
Cordelia pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes.
If a single whisper reached society, that Miss Cordelia Ailsworth, niece of Lord Geoffrey Barlow, wrote under the name C.
A. Thornfield, the scandal would annihilate them.
It would take no time at all for her uncle’s title to be tarnished, her aunt’s ambitions dashed, and Priscilla’s hopes to fade.
Cordelia would be ruined and cast out for unladylike arrogance, her false signature a scandal forevermore.
She folded the letter with quick, jerky movements, forcing it back into its creased shape and opening the drawer next to her.
The wax fragments glittered like blood on the table.
Cordelia’s breath hitched as she slid the page into the false compartment beneath the drawer’s lining, pressing it flat with the heel of her palm until the wood closed over her secret once more.
Betsy’s eyes followed the motion. “I don’t want to worry you, miss, and I know he’s a sensitive soul, but Samuel is right uneasy.
I know it’s probably not my place, but perhaps there is some weight to his words, after all.
He says he feels eyes on him everywhere he goes.
He’s worried that there are too many letters, and far too often.
He reckons it won’t be long before someone asks questions. ”
Once the floodgates had opened, Betsy’s words came out in a flurry of concern. She was clearly torn between doing right by her mistress and taking care of her younger brother.
Cordelia swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Perhaps we should space them further apart,” she murmured, though her hand clung stubbornly to the drawer that contained her secrets.
“Yet if I delay, another brilliant scholar may publish the same results before me. All my father’s teachings, his years of labor, would wither away into nothing. ”
Betsy’s lips thinned, her voice fierce in its quiet way. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly, miss, but your father would not thank us if your good name were the price. Nor if Lord Geoffrey’s household was ruined.”
Cordelia looked up sharply. “Do you think I do not know it, Betsy? Do you think I do not lie awake hearing the whispers of scandal before they are spoken?” Her voice cracked, and she dropped it to a whisper as she pushed her hair behind her ears.
“I cannot stop. Every plant I cross, every note I scribble, it feels as though Father stands at my shoulder, urging me on, championing my efforts to continue his legacy. I long to share my knowledge. The world deserves to read it, but I’m terrified of the consequences should anyone discover my true identity. ”
The maid’s hands were unsteady as she set the tea tray down with practiced care.
She brushed the wax fragments into a small container, as if the letter had never existed, poured the tea, and placed the cup and milk jug next to her mistress with a faint rattle.
The silver spoon struck porcelain before she stilled it.
Betsy bit her lower lip before forming a considered response.
“I feel your predicament, miss, and I am sorry to prattle on, but I am concerned about Sam. These days, he looks over his shoulder more than he looks forward, and a guilty-looking lad is more apt to be questioned than one who feels comfortable in his own skin.”
Cordelia’s stomach clenched. “Oh, Betsy…”
“I told him to be careful, but he says if he keeps on, someone will wonder why a printer’s lad carries so many scholarly packets under so many different names.”
Betsy’s eyes softened. “I know what it means to you, Miss Ailsworth. But I’d rather your work waited a little than your ruin came swift.
Sam near refused it this time. He insisted he could feel eyes following him all the way down Ludgate Hill.
He’s got a family to think of. He won’t keep risking it, not for scraps of paper. ”
Cordelia’s chest tightened.
Scraps of paper? These pages are my life.
“You exaggerate,” she snapped, more sharply than intended. “No one suspects Samuel. He carries out a dozen or more errands for the household each week. What is one more parcel?”
“One more, and one more after that, until someone takes notice.” Betsy’s hands fluttered against her apron, twisting the fabric. “Pray, observe Miss Ailsworth, he’s pale as milk each time he comes back. If his nerves fail him, he might...”
“Might what?” Cordelia pressed, though she dreaded the answer.
Betsy hesitated. “He might speak, if cornered. Not meaning to, obviously, but words slip out when a young lad is frightened. And if that happens...”
Cordelia cut her off with a raised hand. “It will not happen. He knows the importance. He swore he would guard our secret, and I urge you to repeat it to him.”
“Oh, of course, I’ve spoken to him, miss. I’ve reminded him that he’s sworn to secrecy.” Betsy smiled as if to reassure, but she wasn’t even convincing herself. “We’ll find a way, miss. But careful-like. For all our sakes.”
Cordelia nodded, though her airways felt constricted. This was getting far too close for comfort, but she didn’t know how to stop it. She couldn’t help but be irritated by her lady’s maid’s words, although she knew it had taken courage for Betsy to stand up for her brother.
How would she continue to submit her works if not through Samuel? The last thing she wanted was to publicize their scheme further by asking someone else.
A floorboard groaned in the passage, and Betsy stiffened. The door creaked wider, and Cordelia’s aunt swept in with the rustle of stiff silk, her face pinched with impatience.
“Cordelia! How many times must I remind you that a young lady ought not to linger abed with only parchment and ink stains for company?”
Lady Margaret Barlow advanced, surveying her niece as though her demeanor and posture were matters of grave consequence, despite the early hour. “Your complexion will fade before the Season is half done, and then what use will your beauty be to us?”
Cordelia forced a smile to her lips, rising quickly. “Dearest Aunt, forgive me. I was only perusing sketches in this little book.” She reached for her journal on the bedside table and waved it. “A trifle to amuse an idle hour before breakfast.”
Betsy dropped a curtsy and slipped toward the sideboard, her eyes lowered, her presence vanishing into a servant’s invisibility.
Her aunt’s sharp glance eyed the journal in her hand. “Sketches?”
Before Cordelia could react, Lady Barlow snatched it, flipping the pages without care, then narrowed her eyes at the illustrations of flowers and marginal notes her niece had carefully disguised as girlish sketches.
“Botanical drawings, again? Cordelia, you know very well that such obsessions make you appear peculiar. Gentlemen admire watercolors of Italian ruins, not weeds scribbled in a childish hand.”
Cordelia clasped her hands and schooled her expression into blank sweetness. “Yes, Aunt. You are quite right. I vow I thought nothing of it. I simply enjoy creating and looking at beautiful things. What harm can it do?”