A stab of sadness assaulted me, for no doubt Harry would have loved it here; it was so different from the nursery at Lymington Park—a stark, unfriendly room. I’d done my best to see that he’d spent as little time there as possible, whisking him away whenever I had had the opportunity. We’d go to the kitchen and pester Cook for biscuits or spend long hours exploring outside. But as soon as Harry turned eleven, Aunt Agnes had put him thoroughly out of my reach. At Harrow. He wasn’t due home for a visit until Christmas. My only means of cheering him now was through letters.
My letter! I patted my pocket, having completely forgotten about it during my walk in the gardens. I pulled it out, opening it and unfolding it hungrily. I was anxious for news.
Dear Juliet,
Lest you worry, please know first and foremost that I am well. That is, as well as one can be at a place like this. I like my classes well enough, though many of my teachers are bores. Mr. Brown is the worst in this regard. He is supposed to teach us Latin, but his class could more appropriately be titled Putting Young Men to Sleep as Quickly as Possible.
We do get a good deal of time outdoors, which I enjoy, although I have yet to make any friends. Somehow everyone’s background is known here, and they cannot seem to forgive me for mine. My hair color gives them plenty of fodder as well. They taunt and tease mercilessly. I’ve been shoved and knocked down on occasion, and though they pretend it was an accident, I know better. Sometimes I get so angry I worry I’ll lash out.
I can hardly wait for this year to pass so I can come home for the summer and we can go to the ocean. I miss hearing your stories of Father and his adventures as a sea captain. I miss you, Juliet.
Love,
Harry
I gritted my teeth, knowing if I were there, my temper would no doubt have gotten the better of me already. Boys Harry’s age were the cruelest sort, always looking for tender spots in others as they tried to prove their own worth, and it could only be worse with so many of them together. I’d heard enough stories from Robert about his own school days to fear this very behavior toward Harry. It seemed my fears were justified.
When Harry had left for Harrow, I’d pretended to be happy for him, thrilled for his chance to have such an opportunity. What good could come from giving voice to my doubts? Hoping I would be proven wrong, I’d said nothing of my plans to bring him back home once his guardianship passed to me.
But now, to hear how miserable he was . . . to hear that he missed my stories . . . Nighttime was when I missed Harry the most, for I used to sneak into the nursery and tell him stories of Mother and Father—all the things a boy should know about his own parents. He especially loved to hear about Father’s travels and adventures—his many escapades during the war. Sometimes I worried I told him too much, for Harry talked about the sea so often I feared he’d want to follow in Father’s footsteps. At least, for now, he was safely occupied at Harrow.
I folded the letter and returned it to my pocket, determined to write back as soon as I finished exploring the castle. I already had a long list of things I wanted to tell him.
The far corner of the room held a large and intricate dollhouse. It was not difficult to think of Lady Ellen here as a youth, since she was close to my age, but envisioning the duke as a child required a great deal of imagination. How much older was he than Lady Ellen? It seemed likely he had been off at school before she had even been born.
I walked over to the window and peered down at the gardens. How tiny they looked from up here—as miniature as the ones that adorned the perimeter of the dusty dollhouse. As I watched, the duchess appeared in the garden walkways, with several laborers in tow. She began giving instructions, and I drew back, fearful she might catch sight of me.
Had I been raised in this home, I would have spent a great many hours looking through this window, observing people as they came and went.
Making sure to leave everything as I’d found it, I made my way back down the stairs. The third floor held the main living quarters, and I avoided it, guarding my solitude. I found an out-of-the-way staircase and ventured down to the second floor.
Though tempted to go back to the library, I didn’t want to intrude as an unwelcome guest for the second time in as many days. Instead I pushed on, meandering through endless corridors.
At the end of an unfamiliar corridor I found a closed door, wedged tight. The door wasn’t locked, so I pressed against it, and it gave way all at once. I stumbled forward, barely keeping my footing.
The room was brighter than I expected, with large west-facing windows that drew my eyes upward. An antique chandelier was centered in the carved white-lattice ceiling. The room smelled of sunlight and dust, and the sun’s rays highlighted the floating specks, giving the room an ethereal feel. Strangely, all of the furniture was covered, and the musty air hinted that the room hadn’t been touched in some time.
I pushed the door closed behind me as quietly as possible, wincing at the loud scraping noise it made as it rubbed against the floorboards. Hoping no one had heard, I walked through the ghostlike forms of chairs and chaises, moving over to the large and awkward covered form near the window. I held my breath and wondered if I could be so lucky.
I pulled back the sheet in one swift motion to reveal the grandest pianoforte
