This is a work of fiction and any names, characters, events, or organisations are either a product of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is purely coincidental.
© Alice Coldbreath, 2020
This book is dedicated to my good friend Diane in NYC, who is an angel.
1
Hill Boarding School for Young Ladies, Bath England, 1843
Mina glanced down at the untouched bowl of soup laying on the tray. “How about some beef tea, Papa? Would that go down any easier?” she murmured, looking at his dry, cracked lips. He had not taken any sustenance in days now.
His dull eyes, once so bright with intelligence, flickered. “Mina,” he wheezed, his hand on the counterpane twitched.
She reached out and covered it with her own. “Papa, you must eat, dearest,” she urged gently.
He gave a wan smile. “You must listen…” His words trailed off painfully. “I want you to go with him. He will take care of you.”
Mina frowned. “Please Father, you must not fret yourself. We need to concentrate on rebuilding your strength now the fever has left you.”
His eyes fixed on her urgently. “Promise me!” he burst forth at last. The effort of his entreaty left him weak and trembling.
Mina paused, looking at him intently. What was all this about now? While feverish, her father had railed and babbled a good deal, but she had thought that stage had now passed. “With whom, Papa?” she asked carefully, patting his hand.
“Lord Faris,” he said, confounding her completely.
“Lord Faris?” she echoed blankly. She did not know the name. It was not one of the patrons of their school. She had never heard of him.
“You must go with him, Mina,” he said, carefully framing his words as though it took great effort. “For he’ll take care of you when I am gone.”
At this, Mina’s resolve to stay calm fled her. “Go with a stranger, Papa? Who is he to me?”
“Family,” her father managed to gasp out. She noticed how his gaze kept drifting to the door as if he were waiting for someone. She glanced that way herself in confusion.
“Family?” If anything, she felt even more bewildered for she knew herself to have no other kin in the world apart from her father.
“Your... your brother Jeremy.”
Jeremy? Mina felt a sudden shock as the world as she knew it, lurched violently off its axis. The only brother Jeremy she knew about was the brother her mother had told her had died in infancy. Mama had been buried with his lace cap and booties in her coffin. It had been her explicit wish. “But surely Papa—?”
He cut her off with a quick movement of his hands. “Forgive me, child,” he said, closing red-rimmed eyes. “Forgive.”
“Forgive you? Dear Papa, you’ve done nothing wrong and have always been the very best of men,” she assured him. He gave a small sigh and Mina bit her lip, wondering if she should send again for Dr. Carruthers but, how could she? Knowing both the meagre contents of her purse and the fact the good doctor had assured her there was precious little else he could do for him now. Yet, Dr. Carruthers had assured her the ravings had passed, yet here was Father talking so strangely that she scarcely knew what to think.
A tap on the door let her know Hannah, their maid of all work stood on the thresh-hold. “Yes, Hannah?”
“I wanted to tell the master I done it,” Hannah said with a nod, folding her hands over the front of her apron.
“Done what?”
“Posted his letter off.”
“What letter?”
“The one to that address in Cornwall. To that Lord whatsit.”
Mina pressed a hand to her brow. Was she dreaming this entire exchange she wondered, her head swimming? She had scarcely slept a wink this past three days and the whole thing was starting to take on the strange properties of a dream.
“Miss?” said Hannah, starting forward from the doorway. “Oh Miss!”
Seeing the fixed direction of Hannah’s gaze, Mina turned back to her father. “He’s just sleeping, Hannah,” she said, leaning forward to catch the labored breathing, but found she could hear nothing. “Papa!” She stood so fast she caught the edge of the bowl of soup on the side-table and overturned it. “Papa!” Heedless of the soup stains all down her navy crepe skirts, Mina pressed forward. “Please, Papa!”
It was Hannah who had to pry her fingers from her dead father’s shoulders some minutes later. “He’s not dead, Hannah!” she said wildly. “He’s not dead, he’s just sleeping!” When Hannah’s capable hands clamped over hers and turned her from the bed toward her solid form, Mina clung to her stout waist like it was the only thing that kept her afloat in an uncertain sea. She wept wildly and unrestrainedly as she never had allowed herself when Mama had passed five years before.
“There now,” Hannah murmured. “There child.” Child. No one had called her child in years. Now here was Papa and Hannah both addressing her as such, in the same day. She had been Miss Walters to all their pupils as soon as she had turned seventeen. “You let those tears flow freely now, miss,” Hannah encouraged. “He was a good gentleman and an honest master. None can say fairer than that.”
Mina sobbed until her throat was raw and her face sore from tears. She scarcely heard the words which flowed from Hannah’s lips in a steady stream. She caught the odd sentiment. “We’ll soon have him laid out and then buried like a good Christian,” and “A real gent to the end he was—even his manner of passing was mild as a lamb.” But the words held no meaning to her at the time. It was Hannah’s steady, solid manner she derived comfort from.
Over the next three days, she found herself grateful all
