Prologue
1986


Three slow, dull raps at her study door startled Elizabeth Wilby. She glanced at her watch: 4:35. Whenever her concentration became so intense, it was like going into a time warp. So much for judging the efficiency of her new domestic staff; they should all be gone now. She lowered the broadsheet to the blotter topping her Chippendale desk.

“Come in, O’Brien.” As the heavy oak door slowly opened, she removed her glasses.

Her caretaker’s approach was a blur as Elizabeth rubbed the tiredness out of her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup. She squinted at the subtle contortions in his pale face, but suspected he was just reacting to the lingering cigarette smell; she had been smoking earlier.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, Master Jack just drove up. We’re almost out of tea. Should I be fetchin’ some more?”

“Well, since I don’t like coffee as well, I certainly don’t want to run out. Try to get orange pekoe if you can find it.” Slipping on her glasses, she reached into the bottom left drawer of the desk. “Has there been any sign of that painting?” She pulled her purse from the brown leather handbag and handed him an orange-and-brown ten-pound note.

“No, Miss Elizabeth.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “It has to be somewhere! A canvas that large is hard to lose. Did you try the old servants’ quarters?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bloody hell! If it isn’t here for my morning meeting, I’ll be doing nothing but wasting time.”
“I’ll look for it after tea, ma’am.”

“Thank you, O’Brien. I appreciate it, but I’m beginning to think it might have been stolen. Don’t worry about cooking anything for me tonight. Mags rang a little while ago. I’ll be having supper with her. Did Jessy ever show up?

He looked a little surprised by her question, but that quickly melted into a confused frown as he slowly shook his head. “No, ma’am. I haven’t seen her.”

“It figures.” Elizabeth repacked her handbag. “Take those boxes in the foyer and throw them out.”

O’Brien’s mouth dropped. “Won’t she be wanting them anymore?”

“I guess not. She was supposed to come for them a fortnight ago, and those boxes are still sitting there. I warned her I was going to get rid of it if she didn’t come. Obviously, her things aren’t important to her.”

Through the still-open door, the sound of energetic footsteps pounded up the master staircase in the quiet manor house. As Elizabeth stood, the slim form of her brother appeared on the second story, quickly moving in their direction. “Before I forget, I am expecting a reporter here at ten tomorrow morning. I know what we told you about reporters before, O’Brien, but I want you to make an exception for her. Her name is Virginia Tucker and she works for The Dispatch. You are not to allow anyone else from the press in without permission. Can you remember that?”

Jack entered the room as the estate’s caretaker responded, “Yes, ma’am,” but there was obviously confusion in his voice.

Jack flopped into one of the chairs facing her desk.

O’Brien’s hesitation made Elizabeth nervous. He had a tendency to agree to things he failed to understand. Normally, she would just provide him with a name, but if that woman mentions her paper he could be thrown into a paradox. She dreaded the reporter would be turned away. When O’Brien understood, he was very good at following orders, but with the emphasis the Wilbys put on avoiding the press in the past, she wanted to make it clear that this was an exception. His thought processes or responsiveness was slower than she liked dealing with, but considering his position had few prospects, there was no one better suited to be Wilby Manor’s caretaker and gardener. He was loyal, discreet, knew his place, and satisfied with the job, not to mention complaisant about the ghost. Several of their employees gave notice after a sudden temperature drop or exposure to the delicate scent of ambergris. Some lasted longer than others, but O’Brien had been with them for an unprecedented eleven years and still showed no sign of leaving. Sometimes, however, it took some effort to ensure he understood what was expected of him. “This is very important to the whole family, O’Brien. Can you repeat what you’re supposed to do?”

“If a reporter comes from The Dispatch, I’m supposed to let them in.”

“Which reporter?”

“From The Dispatch.”

“Who, O’Brien? What was her name?”

He rolled his eyes with uncertainty, glancing briefly back at Jack. “Virginia Tucker.”

Elizabeth exhaled. “Excellent! Now go get some tea.”

He took the tenner she handed him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Buy yourself some supper, and don’t stay up too late looking for that painting. I’ll probably end up calling the police.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have a nice supper, ma’am.”

Jack’s raised his eyebrows as O’Brien turned left in the hallway, toward the servant’s stairs.

“What are all of Jessy’s boxes doing in the foyer?”

“They’re going to the rubbish bin.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ve been left in my old bedroom way too long.”

“Why don’t you just let her be?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of the way this family keeps coddling her.” Elizabeth knew he had something more to say.

He changed the subject instead. “What painting are you looking for?”

Elizabeth grabbed her handbag as she stood up. “Aunt Bettina’s portrait. Something that big doesn’t just disappear. Since no one’s been living here for almost two years, the only thing I can think of is that it’s been stolen, along with a few others.” She went out the door, veering to the left.

Jack followed her. “No, it wasn’t. I’ve got it.”

She halted in her path to the master bedroom and glared at him. “You’ve got it? What are you doing with it?”

“I had it photographed for that article I wrote.”

She frowned. “You wrote that thing three years ago!”

“So?”

“They didn’t even use it.”

“So? It’s not my fault if the editors preferred to use their own art.”

Trust some inept editor not to know superior art when she sees it. “So you went and rewrote it like it was fiction.”

“So?”

“So why do you still have it, you lazy git?”

“Because I have to hire a lorry to move all of the bloody things. They aren’t exactly something I can throw in the back of my Escort.”

“Three years has been more than enough time to do that. That’s a Thomas Lawrence, Jack! It’s valuable!”

“It’s perfectly fine.”

“Not if you keep it laying around that little flat! It’s bound to get bashed sooner or later. Now I remember Diane nagging you about moving paintings. I hope you realize you sent O’Brien and the rest of my new domestic staff on a wild goose chase today.”

“All right, all right! I’ll have them back here by the end of the week!”

“That won’t do, Jack. I need that painting tomorrow morning. I’ll have to make arrangements for someone to pick them up.” She continued to the master bedroom.

Jack followed her to the bedroom. “What’s this all about anyway?”

“What?” She stopped in front of the full-length Georgian mirror to study her appearance.

“Since when do you get so cozy with the press?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“You just told O’Brien it was important to the whole family.

She sighed deeply and looked him in the eye. There was no point discussing it with him. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon?”

“You didn’t come here just to tell me you have Aunt Bettina’s portrait. You usually keep your distance from me. Why are you here?”

He lowered his eyes. “I need some more money.”

“I knew it! What for?”

“The rally.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped. “The rally? But I gave you ten grand for it already.”

“I know.”

“Why do you need more?”

“Because we’re flying in some of the victims of Apartheid and I don’t think we’re going to have enough to cover their expenses.”

“Oh, bloody lovely. No wonder you’re broke all of the time. You have to learn to budget.”

“I thought if people heard their stories first-hand, the effect would be more powerful.”

“On who? The press?”

“The media does have influence.”

“I saw that letter The Telegraph ran a couple of days ago, Jack. What influence are you using there? I don’t want to hear any rubbish about people we don’t even know when you keep criticizing your own father in public the way you do.”

“He doesn’t care. He still won’t listen to me.”

“Oh, aren’t you the sensitive one? You encourage Jessy not to be a victim, but don’t realize the other members of Parliament are laughing at your own father. ‘There goes Sir Jack Wilby, the one whose son writes to the newspapers telling him how he should vote.’” Jack mimicked along with her words. She picked up a golden tube of lipstick from her dressing table and threw it at him.

“Hey!” he yelped, his expression growing cross.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me? Can’t you see how much you’ve hurt him?”

“You flaming hypocrite! You’re the one who’s shagging your sister’s boyfriend!”

“You say that like she was serious about him!”

“Just because you’re having second thoughts about marrying Mr. Right, don’t take it out on me!”

Elizabeth froze momentarily, taken back by what he said. “I never said any such thing.”

He shook his finger at her. “But you’ve been thinking it, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t actually.”

“If Dad wasn’t giving you Wilby Manor, you would have dropped him ages ago.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, come on. You’ve been fighting with him enough.”

“So what? I fight with you. You’re still my brother.”

“Yeah, you can’t get away from family, can you?” His tone implied he was also talking about himself. The ingrate!

“Get out!”

“You can’t throw me out. This is my house just as much as it is yours.”

“Not anymore! You’re the one who turned your back on it!”

“So maybe I’ll ask Dad if I can have it after all. It’s so big, it would make a great headquarters for our anti-Apartheid campaign.”

A knot tightened in Elizabeth’s stomach. Their father had really wanted him to take it. By tradition, Jack should take it. The manor house was their heritage. That was why she loved it. The other one the Old Major had up in the Midlands had passed into another branch of the family and had long since been sold. There was too much family pride wrapped up in Wilby Manor. “How could you think of such a thing? This is our home.”

“And that’s something to be proud of? This house was paid for by the blood of the poor!”

“We earned that money legitimately!”

“You call exploitation legitimate?”

Elizabeth stared at him, her fury mounting. The advantages their ancestors took of the lower classes were hideous, but at least they were not among the idle rich of the period. Her activist brother rubbed her nose in it because she took charge of Wilby Enterprises when their father went into full-time politics. Jack even wore his old bellbottoms in public to spite her. “You wouldn’t even consider taking Wilby Manor before Dad offered it to me, so you can forget having it now! Get out of my house!”

“What about the money?”

“I’ll write you a check tomorrow morning, if you have that painting here before ten.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He strutted out of the room.

That was the part that made her maddest. He never took these arguments to heart. She collapsed into her dressing table chair to calm down. He always said the things he did just to provoke a reaction. Their mother and Jessica were the only ones in the family who ignored his militant tirades. Their mother was now dead and the only thing Jessica ever showed a passion for was attention. How Jack ever found a woman to live with was a mystery to her. She waited for her rapid breathing to return to its natural pace. It was not worth taking his arguments seriously. She would be damned if she let his outbursts bother her long.

Despite missing the work she had planned to do that day, she felt tired and her stomach was rumbling. She had been so wrapped up in her research, she had refused lunch. Margaret Lacey-Forbes, her best friend, was supposed to meet her at five for supper at a small Greek restaurant. Elizabeth was anxious to see how Margaret was recovering and to tell her that persuading Richard to move into Wilby Manor was a problem soon solved. She glanced at her watch. Alarm overtook her as she realized she had only five minutes. Fortunately, the bistro was an easy walk.

Elizabeth checked her appearance in the dressing table mirror. She had been so oblivious to the world that day there was no telling how she looked. She was flushed, but that would pass. A lock of her permed hair had been worked loose by her constantly curling fingers. She unclipped the clasp, tossing it on the dresser, and let her brown mane fall to her shoulders. She quickly brushed it and dissatisfactorily appraised her makeup, as there was no time to fix it. Since she wore low-heeled shoes, the casual, long skirt and sports shirt she was wearing felt no less comfortable than a pair of jeans. It still amazed her how slender she looked after losing a stone off her weight. She frequently admired her image in the mirror with pride.

Good god, what was she doing? She was thinking like Jessica. There was no time for vanity.

Elizabeth walked back down the hallway and retrieved her handbag from the study. After all of her complaining about Jessica, it would be embarrassing if she were late. She had to bundle up first, though. The local forecast for the week was cold weather with a storm on its way. Rainy weather always enchanted her, despite the inconvenience, especially when she was in Wilby Manor.

As she picked up her handbag, a noise came from the east wing. Sound only traveled short distances in Wilby Manor, except when it was quiet. Jack had left and O’Brien had gone out to do the shopping. She should be the only one in the house. Had Jessica come after all?

The thought that Jessica would appear now produced a fresh flush of anger. She stormed past the main staircase to the other side of the house to investigate the noise. As she approached her old bedroom, she recognized the familiar sound of a crying baby. It was not Jessica after all. Elizabeth’s sister was going to be sorry she missed Bettina’s ghost.

She peeked into the front bedroom. Although the house was cool, the temperature in that room was colder than the hallway. The baby’s crying was more distinctive, yet nothing was visible. Slow-paced footsteps pressed into the thick wall-to-wall carpeting.

It had been a while since Elizabeth was visited by poor Aunt Bettina. Even though she had been dead for 171 years, Bettina was still welcome as part of the family. The Wilbys thought of her as a benevolent ghost, although with her presence came the aura of loneliness.

A few years earlier, Elizabeth’s mother nearly fell down the main staircase. She swore that an unseen person held her back. When Elizabeth had pneumonia as a teenager, Bettina had insisted on being one of her nurses. Overwrought with fever and alone in her room, Elizabeth mustered up enough energy to open the window for ventilation. As soon as she crawled into bed, the window slammed shut. The process repeated twice before she gave up. Grandfather George had once told Elizabeth how the ghost had saved the household from fire when his father, as a little boy, was playing with matches in the attic. Just as the fire had begun, her great-grandfather and his playmates watched an old blanket fly across the room and smother the flames before they did serious damage.

Apparently, Bettina was back. If Elizabeth’s plan succeeded, she would miss her. A different sound drifted to her ears. She stared in the other direction down the hallway. Her curiosity captured, she strided past the master staircase back to the to the west wing hallway. The sound was familiar, but she was unable to distinguish it. There was an inconsistent rhythm of metal scraping against metal, nothing at all like Bettina’s familiar activities. She stopped at her study. The door to every room on that story had been left open while cleaning was in progress. She flipped off the lights. The sound persisted. Her heartbeat quickened.

The ghost rarely frightened the family. Since most of them had lived around Bettina all of their lives, she was just another Wilby. Her walk to the gun gallery felt slow. It was ridiculous; knowing Wilby Manor was haunted never bothered her before.

The scraping stopped.

Elizabeth’s nerves rattled. As she apprehensively approached the gallery door, she remembered the sound was similar to that of loading an antique gun. A couple of clicks penetrated the silence. She paused, building up the nerve to enter the door way.

“Jessy?”

There was no response. Of course there was no reply. Jessica was elsewhere. That left one other possibility.

“O’Brien?”

“Run away while you can!”

Elizabeth jumped. The words were disembodied, coming from nowhere. While the voice was feminine, it certainly was not Jessica—or anyone else she recognized. Strange phenomena occurred in Wilby Manor, but this was a new one. Bettina never spoke to her before.

“Go!”

Elizabeth ran. Not because the ghost scared her; Bettina would never hurt them. Bettina knew something that was beyond Elizabeth’s knowledge. Elizabeth trusted Bettina. Elizabeth flew down the master staircase, grabbing her mac from the coatrack and knocking it over. As she flung open the door to the main entrance, there was a gunshot. Something hit her in the nape of the neck.




Part One:



The Legend

1814


One

“No—no, Alice. Remember, you want the buds. Watch out for the thorns…that’s good.” Bettina Wilby stood as the little servant girl unsteadily snipped at the rose bush with the scissors. Bettina heard the approach of horses and glanced up at the estate entrance to see who was coming. Her heart skipped a beat when the familiar curricle of Victor Filmore drove through the black wrought iron front gate. She should have known it would be someone close to the family. It breached propriety for anyone else to arrive this early. A strong urge to run up to him came over her.

“Would you be wantin’ some more, Miss Bettina?”

“What?” Bettina suddenly remembered she was. Victor’s presence always distracted her. “Oh, no, no. That’s enough. Go take them to Mrs. Wilby.” She regretted bringing Alice with her. If she had known Victor was going to arrive, she would have saved that time in the meticulously groomed garden for them to spend alone. “Mrs. Wilby will know what to do with them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As Alice skipped over to the servants’ entrance, Bettina examined her long coat and straightened her chestnut brown hair. Her appearance was the best it could be, under the circumstances.

Victor climbed out of his worn curricle. The man she loved was a rugged—albeit poorly dressed—contrast to the large, stucco Gothic structure of Wilby Manor. When they started living together, she would take better care of him. The clothes he wore were the style two or three seasons ago.

William, one of their footmen, came out the main entrance to greet him as she approached. “Good afternoon, sir. May I take your horses to the stables?”

Victor grabbed a small valise from the open equipage. “Yes, thank you, William. Please give them something to eat. I didn’t give them much chance this morning.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman climbed into the curricle and drove it behind the mansion.

Victor studied Bettina with a smile. His green eyes glistened despite the overcast. Her father usually introduced her to young men who smelled of smoke or alcohol, which she loathed almost as much as those using toilet water. Victor’s scent was his own. He had blond hair, a lean, angular face, and a tall, lean physique. She knew the magnetic affect he had on women, although he was oblivious to it. It excited her that she was the one he wanted.

Bettina took his hand in a movement that was almost a leap. She led him away from the main entrance to the French doors of the yellow drawing room. “Why didn’t you send us a message you were going to be here this early? I haven’t seen you in a sennight. I wasn’t even sure you’d come tonight.”

“I said I would be here. Have I ever broken my word to you before?” He shut the door, dropped his valise, and pulled her close. “I feel as though I haven’t seen you for years.”

The intensity of his stare aroused her. She was losing herself again, backing up until a midlevel table she bumped into gave her some support. She tingled underneath his touch. “It’s only because you were working on that corn bill.”

He unbuttoned her coat, reaching into it afterwards to draw her closer. “I don’t like waiting that long to have you.” Her back arched a little as he stroked her sides. She took a deep breath. He cupped her breasts, firmly rubbing her nipples. His touch ruined her equilibrium. Her reach found his firm buttocks with growing anticipation at having his masculine body pressing against her. She wanted him, too.

Her breathing quickened. He slipped the coat off her shoulders. His kisses trailed up her neck until she melted at the connection of their lips, their tongues slowly probing each other’s mouths. He pulled her onto the table so she straddled him as she sat. His stiffening groin pressed against her, their clothes impeding further progress.

A noise prevented her from completely surrendering. Bettina pushed away to see what disturbed them. The door to the foyer slammed shut.

“Oh, no!” She pushed away from Victor, pausing to recover from the powerful sensations that throbbed through her.

“What is the matter?” Victor tightened his hold on her waist.

Bettina quickly dislodged herself from him, although she would have preferred being caught. “Sacré bleu! Papa will be furious! Somebody just saw us kissing. We shouldn’t be here without a chaperone.” She strode to the door. She had to find out who interrupted them.

Victor followed her. “As if we’re doing something wrong? We are married.”

Another argument was starting, she could see it. “You know Papa doesn’t know it. You know I love him, Victor. It would break his heart if he didn’t give me away at my wedding.”

“Don’t be so damned naïve. He’s hoping you will change your mind, Bettina.”

She swung open the door to see if there was any sign of the intruder. Her tall, lanky younger brother spun around with a stern expression on his face. “Oh, Colin, thank goodness it’s you.”

He ignored her relief, looking straight into Victor’s eyes. “Good thing for you, sir, I know that you are married. Even so that kind of indiscretion can still ruin my sister.”

#

Wilby functions always fascinated Victor Filmore. The atmosphere was festive as the servants bustled about with food and tended to their guests’ comforts. Since Colin had to return to his regiment before his discharge was official, he wore his dress uniform. Wellington may have avoided uniforms while off duty, but his troops exploited them. The military was way too fashionable at that minute to be ignored and they wanted to impress the ladies by showing off their raiment. Sixty guests were expected that evening, most of them coming from the Wilbys’ Whig circle. Jeremy Benthem was in the background. Lady Melbourne was present and unescorted. Knowing the woman’s reputation, Filmore wondered whether her affair with the Major was just for fun or if she was looking for something in return.

By high society standards, it was a medium-sized soirée. Richmond was a long way to go even for some of the upper class. As the Wilbys’ lavishly dressed guests arrived, they were initially ushered to their right in the foyer where they were greeted by a member of the family. The doorman then announced their presence to the others in the ballroom.

One of the servants scurried about the gold-brocaded walls of the ballroom, checking the oil level and wicks of the sconces. Bettina had mentioned that the Major considered installing some of those new gas lamps in Wilby Manor. It would be interesting to see what the difference would be.

Filmore was disturbed to see the Weeds—who were old friends of the Major’s—there, but if Arthur had been aware of it, explaining to the Major why they should exclude them might create more problems than tolerating their presence. Filmore was surprised to learn Robert Owen was there, but Benthem was one of his new partners. Considering the Whigs’ liberal policy of Catholic emancipation, mixing with wealthy tradesmen—or “Cits” as high society deigned to refer to them—should have seemed consistent. It was amazing any of high society still showed favor on the Wilbys. (Beau Brummel had once said the Wilbys’ goods were superior quality, but he questioned the Major’s judgment in his choice of company.) Regardless of the Major’s mixing with tradesmen, though, he was still the fifth born son of a landed gentry family. His fortune obviously made his conduct forgivable, otherwise he’d be labeled a Cit as well. After fighting the war in America, he came back to England with the fanciful notion of becoming a business investor. The idea was considered eccentric to most other members of gentle society, but no one laughed at the wealth he amassed as he occupied himself with this hobby. Society was capricious. Even Filmore was still welcomed by that fickle lot, despite his pronounced disgust of the games they played. Owen, although very rich, came from a Welsh working class family who most of these people could care less about. Nevertheless, Filmore had never met Owen before and found it amusing that he would in the blue drawing room of Wilby Manor.

Filmore listened closely as Owen spent the bulk of a discussion with Augustus Percell, a tall, lean English gentleman who had just returned from a trip to Australia. Wool production was a growing industry there. Percell considered buying a ranch. Owen was an astute and highly successful businessman who put pride in his related trade of cotton spun products.

Bettina swept into the room catching the eyes of several men. Her high-waisted, powder blue silk evening gown had a cut of white material at the center of her low-cut bodice. A connected white stripe ran down the front of her skirt. Her brown hair was French plaited and elegantly decorated with blossoms on her head. She walked straight over to Filmore, making him proud when she stood next to him. Her floral fragrance was subtle and feminine. “Hello, Mr. Owen, Mr. Percell. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Owen smiled. “And it is always delightful to see Major Wilby’s charming daughter.”

A twinge of pink colored Bettina’s cheeks. “I don’t mean to intrude, but since we’re such admirers of your pamphlets and lectures, I was wondering if you would contribute something to my album.”

Percell laughed. “Is this the same one that has poems by Byron and Lamb?”

Owen’s eyes betrayed a reluctance to join the company of two such exalted poets when he contrived a smile.

Filmore stared scoldingly into Bettina’s eyes. “Did you know that Sir Walter Scott wants to form a society for the suppression of albums? I imagine it should soon become equal to other good felon associations.”

She shifted her weight onto her other leg as the other men chuckled and innocently looked back at Owen.

“I’m afraid poetry is not within the realm of my talents, Miss Wilby,” he replied.

“Oh, well. It was just a thought. I was wondering how Victor was doing.”

“Quite well, ma chérie. I’ve been learning about the business of textiles.”

“There’s been talk that you two will be getting married soon,” said Percell. “If that’s true, will be going into the business as well?”

Filmore set his empty wine glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “I doubt it gentlemen. The Major has two grown, healthy sons. It would not signify if I took over from them.”

“But the Wilby businesses are very widespread. The Major has ten manufacturies in the United Kingdom. His son is negotiating for others in France and Australia….”

Filmore resisted the insult. “Even at that, sir, my family still has mining interests in Cornwall. I will not depend upon Bettina or her family for our livelihood.”

“Oh, I see….” Percell paused thoughtfully for a moment. He had inferred Filmore insinuated annoyance. It was true the Wilbys had more money than the Filmores ever hoped to see, but Victor could adequately support Bettina. “So, you have had business experience.”

“Some.”

“Then perhaps I can direct my questions to both you and Mr. Owen. Australia is a beautiful place that I would like living in. I have the opportunity to buy a sheep farm where the rancher produces wool. Now Mr. Owen’s reputation in the industry for spinning cotton is famous. How do I make sure this farm would turn out work as superior as yours?”

Owen responded slowly. He put some thought into his answer. “My method has always been to treat my workers with consideration and justice.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you do your best towards them, they’ll do the same for you.”

“I still don’t understand….”

Owen sighed. Filmore sensed a reluctance from him to elaborate on the subject. Filmore guessed Owen was trying to find words that refrained reflecting on the Major. “I do not think of New Lanark as just a mill. It is also a community. Many a millowner has criticized my wages as being inferior to others, but I also make sure my laborers receive other compensations as well. I provide them a general store where they can get goods at cost. I paid them when I had a work stoppage that was no fault of theirs. They have doctors whenever they need them—at no expense of theirs. A healthy worker is one who works well. I found production is better when they only work eight hours a day. I also mind the child labor laws. Until the children are 10 years of age, I see to it they get a good education. Nothing is more important than education.”

Bettina’s head quickly jerked to an angle. “Educating the lower classes? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“If our society was more literate, my dear, I am sure England would achieve things it never dreamed of before.”

“But even now, they are so restless, so violent. The Luddites are literate and they were—trés impossible!”

“I am sure the results of a decent education would prove less provoking than some of the alternatives the less fortunate now take.”

“What horrible alternatives are these? I am sure they are much better off in the shelter of a mill than they would be on the streets with not a farthing in their pockets.”

There was a pause while Filmore and Percell allowed Owen and Bettina to carry the conversation. The Major had more influence over her than any other man in her life, and her last point reeked of the ignorance he kept her in.

Owen continued: “Miss Wilby, there are millowners in this country who take underage children from the poorhouses to spin their yarn and weave their cloth. They pay their parents or parishes an insignificant sum for the privilege of working their little children four-and-ten hours a day. They herd them as others do cattle into cold rooms with brick walls where they sleep on straw. These same children eat from troughs.”

Bettina had kept still. Her expression was incredulous. She took a deep breath as she straightened her stance. “Well, my father would not permit anything such as that in his mills.”

A silence momentarily paralyzed the conversation. Percell almost said something, but kept his tongue. Bettina looked ignorant, showing the naïveté of a child. In addition, she noticed the uncomfortable pause as they turned their stares away from her. Aside from being uncouth, this might become dangerous. Filmore had to change the subject promptly, without being too obvious.

“I heard that you nearly lost New Lanark last year, Mr. Owen. How did you manage to win it back from your last set of partners?”

#

The audacity, Bettina thought, as she walked through the foyer from the blue drawing room to the yellow. New Lanark and his lectures may have been great successes for Mr. Robert Owen, but his insinuation about her father clearly represented his low birth. She was tempted to throw him out herself, lady or not. Why the Major thought their friends wanted to meet him was a mystery to her. The man was uncouth. It took more than all of his money to give him good breeding. Owen was working class.

The announcement of the doorman blared through the din. “Lord and Lady Charles Donahue!”

There were a couple of small clusters of lavishly dressed people in the yellow drawing room. William, their footman, was at one of them proffering glasses of claret from a silver tray. He wore his dress uniform. He cut a fine form.

“It is a lovely portrait,” a woman’s voice said as Bettina whisked into the room. Regardless of trying to remain casual, the large five by four feet portrait of herself still took her by surprise. The commission was delivered four months before and hung over the mantel. “Lawrence makes everyone look so majestic, but he does a splendid job of capturing her softness.”

“Is something wrong, Bettina?” the Major said within seconds, unresponsive to the woman beside him.

She found her father off to her right with Lady Melbourne. Major Martin Wilby was a large man who stood over six feet tall. Bettina was a little taller than the average woman she knew, but her father was a man she still literally had to look up to. His thinning hair was more gray than the brown of his youth. His blue eyes were particularly jovial that night. The tone of his voice, however, expressed concern.

It was a poor time and place to tell him. She would wait until the morrow. It may ruin his mood for the ball. His good spirits even kept his leg from bothering him. “Oh, it’s nothing, Papa. I just left a boring conversation.”

“Well, I’m not bored at all.” Lady Melbourne was in quite a good mood. “You always have the most fascinating people at your parties. The conversations of your guests are always so much more stimulating than most of today’s routs.”

“Thank you, milady. That’s an excellent compliment considering you host so well yourself.”

Bettina envied the Viscountess. Even at her age she was still beautiful and feminine. Her eyes were lively. They matched her graying hair. Although her figure was a bit heavy, it still remained shapely. Lady Melbourne’s outfit was the current season’s style, yet lacked any pretensions of youth. Her aura radiated strength and readiness to take challenges. Considering the scandalous behavior of her daughter-in-law, it was amazing she how well she kept her dignity.

She eyed the Major. “Is it true that Robert Owen is here?”

“Yes.” He waved the footman to come over. “I do believe he is in the blue drawing room.”

“That’s positively famous. I heard he gave an excellent speech in Parliament last year. Even William went when he was no longer a member.”

Bettina took a deep breath, doing her best to hold her tongue. Robert Owen was a pompous bore.

“He’s been attracting a lot of attention lately. I don’t normally mix my business associates with the upper classes, but most of the people here were interested in meeting him.” The Major waited for his guest to take one of the filled crystal glasses from the footman’s tray.

The man was an ingrate. Bettina had to change the subject. “Have you been in touch with Phyllis Jenkins, Lady Melbourne?”

A startled expression crossed the older woman’s face. “I was not aware you that you knew Phyllis, Bettina.”

“I don’t very well. We met at Almack’s a few times.” She sympathized with Miss Jenkins as she was attracted to a Tory; however, her father had refused to let her have anything to do with him.

“You won’t see her there anymore. She married a Tory.”

“She went to Gretna Green?” It would be something she had in common with Miss Jenkins.

“She was not quite so forward. Her husband got a license. They married in the Marylebone parish, as I understand it.”

“But why won’t she come back to Almack’s?”

Lady Melbourne glanced briefly at the Major. “Because she married a Tory, Bettina. Her membership was withdrawn. I hear your young man is working on that corn bill.”

“He’s working against it, actually. He says he’s tempted enough to become a Tory.”

“Good heavens. Why?”

“He wants reform. Right now the power is with the Tories.”

“His Majesty’s Opposition has just as much power in the Commons, and they are not as easily bought by the royal family.”

“Victor has more integrity than that. —And I don’t think it was fair of Almack’s to drop Miss Jenkins’ name from the membership list.”

Lady Melbourne’s expression betrayed impatience. “It was not Almack’s decision. Her father asked that it be dropped.”

“Her father? Why would her father do that?”

“Because she married against his will. She disgraced the family.”

“Because she married the man she loved? That isn’t fair. Papa knows I love Victor. He wouldn’t want to see me hurt. Papa, would you do that to me?”

The Major had kept quiet during their exchange. That was unusual, since family was one of his favorite topics. “Her father was probably hurt, dear.”

“You loved Mama. If Grandpapa refused you permission to marry her, would you have eloped?”

He paused for a moment before answering. “Yes, but I proved myself worthy for her father’s sake. I guaranteed that I would provide for her in the style she was accustomed. There is no honor in deception. And I would kill any man who soiled your virtue.”

#

Victor Filmore had his reservations about marrying into the Wilby family, but his attraction to Bettina was powerful enough that he easily forgot any conflict that would bring. It was well known how attracted they were to each other. Some resentment the Major bore Filmore was because of his seven-year-old illegitimate son. Considering the gossip his ex-lover created when she ran off to marry a Scottish earl, it was a subject Filmore dealt with Bettina right away. The Major had no sympathy on that account. Most of his resentment obviously grew from Filmore’s fights for social reform. Because of him, two mines and one manufactory suffered when he exposed how their managements mistreated their workers. The Major never confronted Filmore with it, but was apparently concerned with the threat he posed the Wilby businesses. Ironically, he turned a blind eye on the Wilby mills because of his relationship with Bettina. He intended to persuade their reform there more discreetly.

Despite his love for Bettina, Filmore had to admit to himself that she was rather ignorant when it concerned her family. Her intense devotion to them was one of the things he loved about her; on the other hand, it blinded her to the Major’s darker side. Her father had money and power. He used them both. Although Filmore admired what his father-in-law achieved to take care of his children, Filmore despised the tight emotional rein the Major held over his daughter. When they approached the Major about their marriage almost two years before, he avoided giving Bettina his blessing. Since they only knew each other a couple of months, he simply said that if they could wait a year for the ceremony, he’d give it then. Bettina easily accepted his answer.

The year had come and gone. They stayed together. As it turned out, the church Bettina wanted to marry at was heavily committed for several months. Bettina wanted the same vicar who married her parents to marry them. The week before posting their bans, he took ill. He had to leave the country for an indefinite period for his health. The wedding was rescheduled for the following spring.

Filmore understood quite clearly what the Major was doing. If he out-and-out denied his blessing, the more likely Bettina might rebel. Whilst he procrastinated the ceremony, he used the time to change her mind about marrying Filmore. If Bettina changed her mind, it would avoid bitterness amongst the Wilbys.

During the last couple of years the Major had been doing his damndest to show her Filmore was untrustworthy. And as long as she lived in her father’s house, the Major had the advantage. It was as if the Major had expected the whole situation to clear up by this time. Filmore’s and Bettina’s relationship had endured and he grew close to her brothers.

Filmore had felt more secure after Bettina and Colin took a trip to the Scottish border to visit their aunt a few months before. Filmore sneaked up there himself. After seducing her, he easily persuaded her to go to Gretna Green and marry him. He now had more leverage over her than the Major did. Her one condition in going, however, was that they remain discreet about it until they had their “official” ceremony.

The fashion trends of high society helped his father-in-law’s futile cause somewhat. The “promiscuous” seating arrangements at the ball annoyed Filmore. The Wilbys set three long tables in a squared U formation for dinner that evening. Large, gold-plated candelabra were set on them for the guests to appreciate the chefs’ art in good lighting. The Major sat at the center, while Filmore was seated at one of the tables of four-and-twenty, with Bettina at the upper end of the table.

Filmore had escorted Bettina’s sister-in-law, Elizabeth, into the dining room. Elizabeth looked more radiant than he had remembered, if a little tense. Arthur, Bettina’s elder brother, and his wife were expecting their third child and they were ecstatic about it. Despite this, she was too shy to say much when he made small talk. Elizabeth never was outgoing. Bettina, in contrast, could charm a mink into giving up its coat to her. He glanced at his wife, who was caught up in a conversation with a Frenchman from Lyons. They were talking in French, by the looks of it.

For dessert, Filmore chose a petite apple soufflé over the chocolate. There was no denying that the Wilbys fed their guests well. The sweet dish almost melted in his mouth, leaving the subtle, lingering spices of cinnamon and nutmeg on his tongue.

Directly across the table from Filmore, one young gentlewoman, who must have just come out, was impressed when she found out one of Wellington’s junior officers sat beside her. She prodded him into telling stories about the most popular man in England. Most of Filmore’s and Elizabeth’s attention focused on them, although the officer clearly had something else on his mind.

“Shortly after Salamanca, the Duke asked his batsman if his boots were cleaned so he could wear them again. One of his corporals told him he no longer had them. They were being saved for posterity. The Duke said, ‘By God, if that don’t take the cat’s whiskers! Me favorite boots, too!’ I reckon it won’t be long before we see them in a museum someplace with all that mud still on them.”

“I daresay those will come dearly. He’s such a remarkable man. Did you know that Caroline Lamb has taken a fancy to him?”

Their conversation was interrupted when the Major clanged his crystal water glass with a silver spoon. The mingling gradually dropped off. He waited until he had his guests’ full attention. The Major looked especially handsome in his evening ensemble. Not even the arthritis from his old war wound appeared to bother him that evening. He was moving around well without his walking stick. His navy blue breeches and jacket were worn with a sky blue waistcoat. The chain of his gold watch hung between the two waistcoat pockets. The ruffled neckcloth that matched his white shirt looked smart on a man of his years. Most men of fashion wore their breeches or pantaloons skintight, but he refused. Filmore annoyed himself when he paid attention to such details. Since the Wilbys amassed their fortune through the fashion and textile industries, Filmore put more significance on it than he normally would have.

“I want to thank everyone here for coming tonight to help welcome my son, Colin, home from the continent,” the Major finally said. “It has been a tough and bloody war and I am proud of both my boys for the service they did for their country.”

A brief applause went around the tables in agreement with the Major.

“Now that Napoleon is safely on Elba, it is time for Colin to come home and take care of his duties here. Since I became a member of Parliament, my eldest son, Arthur, has taken most of the responsibility for our businesses. Which—if you’ll allow me to digress—we will be commemorating the peace by our most recent acquisition: a silk mill in Lyons.”

“That ought to make Boney eat his heart out!” a slightly inebriated male voice cried out from the other table. A rush of laughter soon followed.

The Major smiled. He picked up his water glass. With a raised eyebrow, he saluted the glistening glass in the man’s direction. “I assure you, sir, that we did not buy this mill for Napoleon’s sake—but I would not mind it if we did.” More laughter moved through the room as he took a sip. When it stopped, he continued. “Needless to say, eleven mills is more responsibility than one man can handle, so Colin will be working with Arthur to make sure our investments continue to profit for us. With Colin lifting this burden off of me, I shall be able to devote all my time to Parliament.

“The Wilbys have one more announcement to make before we continue the celebrations. Colin, come here.” Colin, who sat a couple of seats away from the right of his father on the other side of Lady Melbourne, crossed over to him. The Major wrapped his arm around Colin’s shoulders, obviously proud of his son. “My youngest is a man now. And now that he has taken the responsibilities of one, he wants the privileges. I have always believed that the most important thing that can happen to a man in is to find a good woman.”

What was this? Filmore sat erect in his seat. It sounded as if the Major was going to announce Colin’s engagement. Bettina had said nothing to him about it. Filmore glanced up at her. His wife’s expression gave no intelligence of a betrothal. Insult and humiliation washed over him. Bettina’s “impending” marriage was still waiting to be officially announced.

The Major continued: “Jessica was very special to me. I cannot picture what my life would have been like without her. I am sure that without her I would have remained the poor and hopeless youngest son of John and Alberta Wilby.” The Major glanced down at Catherine Weed, the beautiful young woman who sat to his left. “Jessica was my driving force, the one who made me what I am today. Or should I say Jessica’s parents…?”

This sparked more laughter throughout the room. Filmore, however, resisted the levity. Bettina looked back at him with a quivering smile, then returned her attention back to her father. Was she so enamored with her father she failed to see how their relationship was being snubbed?

“Losing little Harlan and then Jessica was my nadir. If she had not given me these three—Arthur, Bettina, and Colin—I would have no reason for living. A man is nothing without a family. Colin was only a few days old when Jessica died, so he couldn’t fully appreciate having a mother, but he is soon going to have a family of his own.

“Shortly after his return from the war three weeks ago, Colin told me there is a young lady who is very special to him. We finished negotiations with her parents this evening. I am proud to announce my youngest son’s betrothal. Catherine, will you stand up?”

Off to the Major’s left, Miss Weed stood up. She wore a resplendent, pale green satin gown. The high-waisted bodice had a wide V cut that exposed quite a bit of her beautifully-shaped breasts. Her fine, red hair was exquisitely dressed up on her head. Catherine smiled as she faced her audience. Her line of vision rested in his direction, but he knew she focused on Elizabeth. The smile contorted the rest of her expression. It was easy to understand why Colin was taken by her. Physically, her beauty even surpassed Bettina’s. Filmore had been aware of the young man’s infatuation with Catherine before the trouble she created. He wanted his young brother-in-law to make a happy match, but being tied to a vixen like Catherine would make his life miserable. Had Filmore been aware of the courtship, he would have discouraged Colin. Before his return home, Catherine had never shown interest.

“My son, Lieutenant Colin Wilby, is betrothed to Miss Catherine Weed, daughter of my great friends, Jonathan and Sarah Weed.” A few sighs and wistful gasps came from the onlookers. The Major joined the young couple’s hands as he spoke. “The Weeds and I have not yet determined when the wedding will take place, but it should be shortly after New Year’s.”

That was it. The Major was making both Filmore and Bettina look as though they were fools. If his father-in-law was going to show such disregard for his daughter’s feelings, not to mention the inadvertent swing at Arthur and Elizabeth, Filmore intended to fight back.

Shaking slightly, Elizabeth picked up her water glass. She was yet another victim of this misguided decision to bring Miss Weed into the family. This young woman was one experience Elizabeth clearly wanted to forget.

“I notice that some of you have not yet finished your dessert,” said the Major. “I believe that the musicians have set up in the ballroom. So, once you’re finished, let the revelry go on!”

Sounds of people talking filled the room again. Silverware clanged against china and crystal. Bettina crossed over to the newly betrothed couple, giving them a brief hug. Elizabeth swallowed her water wrong. She coughed as she set the glass down.

Filmore immediately jumped up and patted her gently on the back. Her health was critical now. “Elizabeth, are you all right?”

She patted her chest a little and gave a couple of choking gasps. “I’ll be fine. I have to leave the room for a few minutes.”

As she left, Filmore noticed that the color had left her face.