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This book is dedicated to my mother, the novelist Blanche Howard (1923–2014), who encouraged me to write fiction.
Prologue
September 16, 1862
The solitude of the upper deck was perfect for me. I suspected that many people on board the ship were having trouble sleeping this night, but unlike me, they sought comfort from their fellow travellers. I didn’t want to trouble the others with my fears; they had their own to come to terms with.
From the time the captain had sounded the horn to signal our entry into British-held territory, excitement and anxiety had run high. Some chose to toast the news with glasses of champagne, while others huddled in small groups, their heads bent close together in murmured conversation. Tomorrow we would dock in Victoria on the northwest coast of North America, about as far away from my home as I could imagine.
Like pebbles tossed upon the beach, we would scatter, trying to make our way as best we could. Most of us would marry; some would not. All of us hoped for a better life than we could ever have found in England. As Charles Dickens once described us, we were the deserving unmarried—unemployed factory workers, Lancashire cotton mill labourers, orphans, the destitute. And a few, like me, were impoverished gentlewomen, unable to prevail upon our male relatives to support us for the rest of our days. To the best of my knowledge though, I was the only one who had been forced to flee England as a social outcast.
At the age of twenty-one I was about to start my life over. It is said that we are born alone and we die alone. And that certainly described me now. When I set foot on the foreign shore, I would have no loved ones to support me and no money to help me find my way. But I also would not have the same strict rules dictated by Victorian society, the rules that had been my downfall.
I had been told that the colonies offer women more opportunity. Despite the staggering uncertainty now before me, I couldn’t wait to taste freedom.
PART ONE
England
Chapter One
“One look at you tonight and George won’t stand a chance. Not that he ever did, once it was decided that he was the one for you. But this evening, you’ll dazzle him, seduce him, make him beg for your hand.”
It was an order, not a compliment. My sister, Harriet, leaned closer to me as we sat side by side at her dressing table. I could smell her sweet breath and a hint of lilac water coming from her long, elegant neck.
“And what a relief you’ve put on a proper corset for a change,” she half whispered in my ear.
I tugged absentmindedly at the wretched garment, looking forward to the end of the evening when I would gleefully fling it into my bureau, where I expected it would remain for some time. It had been agreed that I needed to wear a full whalebone corset only when I was in proper society, which was thankfully not a daily event for me.
“Tonight you’ll get George alone, allow him to steal a kiss or two, light a bit of fire in him. Give him a taste of what he can expect in married life.”
“I think I would stir more passion if I talked about duck hunting,” I said. “Maybe I should rub rendered duck fat behind my ears. That might stoke the flame a little.”
Harriet flushed. “This is serious, Charlotte! George Chalmers is a brilliant match for you. He’s your third suitor, and there’s not exactly a line forming behind him.”
“Not fair,” I said, holding up an index finger to make my point. “Alfred doesn’t count. He must be fifty if he’s a day and he’s more interested in a nurse than a wife. Surely I have the right to pick a man who offers me a little romance, some excitement even. And we both agreed Reginald isn’t a real contender—he rarely leaves his mother’s side. Thirty years old and he still makes faces at children during church service.”
“You can’t afford to be choosy,” she said. “If it weren’t for Papa’s troubles, you would have had a decent dowry and plenty of prospects. But now we have to be realistic.”
Hari’s abigail drifted silently into the room carrying the black-lacquered jewellery box that housed Hari’s newly polished earrings and brooches. Setting it on the dressing table, she bobbed a curtsey before busying herself with the white cambric day dress that had been tossed on the four-poster bed. I flipped open the box lid and began rummaging through, looking for the perfect jewelled pin for the bodice of my gown. Picking up the box, I wandered over to the window for better light.
In a low voice Harriet muttered, “Time is running out.”
I looked up to see Hari twisting her string of pearls into a ball around her neck.
“Time?” I echoed.
Hari turned from the mirror and peered at me, the bright light from the window making her eyes water. “It’s just that, after I pushed him to find someone, Charles went to great lengths. If this doesn’t work out, I can’t keep asking him to help you. George is the best of the lot.”
But that’s not saying much, I thought. It was a pretty narrow field, and Charles didn’t dig very deeply. I wasn’t really surprised. Harriet’s husband, the Honourable Charles Baldwin, MP, was much more interested in politics than finding
