NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be

aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold

and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the
publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events

portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously.

if the slipper fits

Copyright © 2012 by Barbara Dawson Smith.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,
NY 10010.

ISBN: 978-1-250-00177-1

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / June 2012

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Chapter 1

1836

It all began with a letter.

While the rest of the teaching staff sat down to dinner,
Annabelle Quinn hurried along the gloomy corridor at
Mrs. Baxter’s Academy for Young Ladies. The loud
knocking echoed again through the entrance hall, and in
her haste, Annabelle nearly tripped on one of the cracked
tiles in the foyer. She steadied herself with a hand on the
newel post before proceeding to the door.
It was highly unusual to receive a visitor in the eve-
ning. The pupils were already settled in their dormitory,
and she and the other teachers would soon retire for
the night. Few people ever came to this remote country
school in the moors of Yorkshire, only the vicar and the
occasional tinker or deliveryman.
The massive front door creaked as she opened it.
Framed by the purple dusk, a stoop-shouldered stranger
in the garb of a workman stood on the porch. “Ye took
yer sweet time,” he grumbled while shoving a letter at
her. “I was paid to put this straight into yer hand.”
2 OLIVIA DRAKE

Orphaned at birth, Annabelle had never received a

letter. “My hand? But who—?”
The man ignored her questions. He clomped down
the steps and climbed onto a sway-backed nag. With a
flick of the reins, he went trotting off down the drive.
She turned over the sealed note with great interest.
Her mind resurrected a buried dream from her child-
hood: a long-lost relative arriving to declare that Anna-
belle had been stolen at birth, and offering to whisk her
away into the arms of a warm and loving family . . .
The last light of dusk fell upon the front of the enve-
lope. She blinked at the elegant spidery script. It was
addressed to the headmistress.
Annabelle felt instantly foolish. Of course the letter
wasn’t meant for her. The man had been instructed to
give the note to someone—anyone—at the school rather
than drop it into the postbox by the door where it would
not be noticed until the morrow.
In all her twenty-four years at the boarding school,
first as a charity student and then as a teacher, Annabelle
could not recall a single other instance in which Mrs.
Baxter had received a letter by special delivery. If this
message couldn’t wait until the midday post, it must be
extremely important.
The thought gave wings to her feet as she hurried
back along the murky corridor to the dining chamber at
the rear of the ancient converted manor house. There,
she paused in the doorway.
Candles in pewter holders cast a meager illumination
over the long table laid with crockery and tin flatware.
The aroma of roast beef and potatoes drifted from the
covered dishes on the sideboard. The dozen teachers sat
listening while Mrs. Baxter read aloud in a gravelly
monotone from her well-worn Bible.
 IF THE SLIPPER FITS 3

Annabelle debated whether or not to interrupt. Did

she dare to break the rule of silence during these nightly
readings? But what if the letter conveyed urgent news?
Wouldn’t she then be scolded for not speaking up at
once?
She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon.”
Mrs. Baxter stopped in mid-verse and scowled over a
pair of rimless reading glasses. A skeletal woman with a
bony bosom, she had gray hair scraped back into a bun
and covered by a lace widow’s cap. “Have you so little
regard for the holy Scripture, Miss Quinn?”
“Forgive me,” Annabelle murmured, deeming it wise
to lower her chin in humility. “But you’ve received a letter
by special messenger.”
“No earthly correspondence could be more important
than the heavenly Word.” The headmistress clapped the
Bible shut. “However, since you’ve been so bold as to in-
terrupt, don’t stand there like a dolt. Bring the letter to me
at once.”
A muffled giggle emanated from one of the teachers,
followed by the murmur of whispered conversation.
Annabelle knew without looking who they were, razor-
tongued Mavis Yates and her dull-witted disciple, Pru-
dence Easterbrook. They were two peas in a rotten
pod.
The other women avoided Annabelle’s gaze as she
walked toward the head of the table. Almost too late,
she spied Mr. Tibbles lying beneath the headmistress’s
chair. The orange tabby cat was Mrs. Baxter’s pride and
joy—and a bane to everyone else.
As Annabelle handed over the letter, Mr. Tibbles
hissed a warning. His green eyes looked demonic in the
candlelight and his long tail flicked back and forth on
the carpet. Having been scratched in the past, Annabelle
4 OLIVIA DRAKE

wisely backed away and slipped into the single empty

chair at the long table.
Mrs. Baxter broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
As she scanned the message, her pinched features took
on an unusual animation. Twin spots of pink appeared
in her waxen cheeks. “Why, this is extraordinary. Most
extraordinary, indeed!”
“Is something wrong, ma’am?” asked Mavis in the
toadying manner she always used with the headmistress.
“I should be happy to lend assistance in any way you
wish.”
“As would I,” Prudence chimed in. “Unless of course
it is a private matter.”
Removing the glasses from the bridge of her nose,
Mrs. Baxter gave her favored two teachers a distracted
smile. “How very kind, but your concern is misplaced.
It seems I am to have the honor of a visitor from London
on the morrow, a fine lady from the royal court. She will
wish to meet the staff, so you must all wear your very
best.”
The news set the dining room aflutter. “The royal
court?” chimed several teachers. “Who is she?” “Is she
bringing her daughter to study here?”
“Her name is Lady Milford and she is seeking a gov-
erness for the young Duke of Kevern in Cornwall. She
will be interviewing a select number of you for the post.”
Annabelle sat riveted. Cornwall! It seemed as distant
and exotic as China or India. For many years, she had
yearned to see the sights beyond the insular world of the
school. On the rare free day, she would hike the moors
and imagine what lay beyond the barren, windswept
hills. Hungering for knowledge, she’d read every geo-
graphy book in the library. She’d pored over maps of
England and foreign countries, places with fascinating
 IF THE SLIPPER FITS 5

names like Egypt and Constantinople and Shanghai.

She had studied and dreamed and saved when the other
teachers had spent their wages on new gowns and ribbons
and other frivolities.
Now this was her chance to escape the tedium of
teaching manners to giggly young girls concerned only
with fashion and gossip. She would have to carefully con-
sider what to say in the interview, how to present herself
as the ideal tutor for a young aristocrat . . .
As Mrs. Baxter glanced around the table, her gaze
stopped on Annabelle. Those pale eyes took on a distinct
chill. “Miss Quinn, you must instruct the maids to clean
my parlor from top to bottom. And since you will not be
participating tomorrow, you’ll have ample time to assist
the other teachers in any needlework they might require.
Run along now, and close the door on your way out.”
The joy drained from Annabelle. She was being ban-
ished. She would not be granted a coveted interview. The
colossal injustice of it overruled all caution.
She stood up from the table, the chair legs scraping
the wood floor. “Please, I should very much like the op-
portunity to meet Lady Milford.”
“Do you dare to gainsay me?” Mrs. Baxter said in
tight-lipped astonishment. “I have issued an order and
you will obey it.”
“But I’m as well prepared as anyone else here to be
governess to a duke, perhaps more so. I’ve studied Latin
and Greek, I’m adept at mathematics, well versed in sci-
ence and literature—”
“Your qualifications are of no consequence. My lady
visitor will wish to hire someone from a respectable fam-
ily. She would never consent to employ a bastard who
cannot even put a name to her own parents.”
The scornful words echoed in the cavernous dining
6 OLIVIA DRAKE

chamber. Mavis and Prudence had the audacity to smirk.

The other teachers regarded Annabelle with pity or dis-
comfiture. Although most of them were pleasant enough,
they would not align themselves with her for fear of being
ridiculed, too.
Her cheeks burned with humiliation. It took an effort
to harness the impulse to lash out in anger. Protesting
further would only invite the headmistress’s wrath—
typically in the form of docking Annabelle’s already pal-
try wages. She couldn’t afford to lose a single ha’penny of
her nest egg.
She curtsied to Mrs. Baxter, then walked out of the
dining room and shut the door. Annabelle paused there
in the dim corridor with her head cocked, trying to dis-
cern meaning in the muffled drone of Mrs. Baxter’s
voice. What was the headmistress telling everyone? Was
she giving them instructions on how to act and what to
say? Was she announcing the order in which they were
to meet Lady Milford?
Realizing her fists were clenched, Annabelle gulped
several deep breaths. Wild emotions must not goad her
into another impassioned outburst. Better to have a clear
mind so that she might determine rationally how to
proceed.
One thing was certain, she would not relinquish this
golden opportunity. A chance like this might not come
along again— ever. By hook or by crook, she must finagle
her way into an interview.

Shortly after luncheon the following afternoon, the rat-

tle of carriage wheels outside disrupted the discipline in
Annabelle’s classroom. One minute, the group of fifteen-
year-olds paraded in a dignified circle, each girl balanc-
 IF THE SLIPPER FITS 7

ing a book on her head to learn proper posture. The next

minute, several students broke rank and rushed to the
windows overlooking the front of the school.
“Why, will you look at that!” exclaimed Cora, a red-
head with a dusting of freckles over her elfin face. “Have
you ever seen such a splendid coach?”
Beside her, a plumpish brunette pressed her nose to
the glass and peered downward at the drive. “Who could
it be?” Dorothy asked. “Do you suppose it’s a new girl?
But why would anyone so rich be coming here—and
after the term has already begun?”
Annabelle clapped her hands. “Ladies, it isn’t polite
to stare. Come back here at once.”
“Oh, please, Miss Quinn, do spare us just a moment,”
Cora said, casting an imploring glance over her shoulder.
“Don’t you want to find out who’s come to call?”
They could have had no inkling that Annabelle already
knew, or that her insides were twisted into a knot. The
visitor had to be Lady Milford.
For the umpteenth time, Annabelle fretted over how
best to present her credentials to the lady. It was a quan-
dary she’d pondered into the wee hours, sewing by the
light of a single tallow candle, repairing rips in hems
and attaching new lace to the gowns worn by the other
teachers today. While she’d labored, she had considered
and rejected numerous plans. The fly in the ointment,
of course, was Mrs. Baxter. The headmistress would be
keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings. But if all went
well, there might just be a way—
The thump of falling books yanked Annabelle’s at-
tention back to the classroom. The rest of the pupils had
seized upon her silence as an invitation. They made haste
to crowd around Cora and Dorothy at the windows.
8 OLIVIA DRAKE

The buzz of their excitement infused Annabelle, too.

As a former charity student, she knew the ennui of end-
less classes in deportment, art, music, and other skills
necessary to become a lady. How could she scold the girls
when she herself felt an irresistible curiosity?
Maintaining a semblance of dignity, she strolled to
join them. For once her tall stature proved a boon. Peer-
ing over the heads of the students, she studied the vehicle
that rolled up the graveled drive.
The girls were right to ooh and aah.
A team of four white horses drew the cream-colored
coach with its fancy gold scrollwork decorating the door.
Large gilded wheels glinted in the dappled sunlight. A
coachman in leaf-green livery drove the equipage, while
a pair of white-wigged footmen perched at the rear.
Annabelle forgot herself and stared openly. Never be-
fore had she seen a sight so magnificent. The girls here
were mostly commoners, the daughters of local landown-
ers, and they tended to arrive for the term in pony carts
or sturdy carriages suitable to the country.
This coach, however, had sprung straight out of a
fairy tale.
The fine vehicle drew to a halt in front of the portico.
One of the footmen leaped down to lower the step and
open the door. A moment later, a woman emerged from
the vehicle. Petite and slim, she wore a waist-length
black mantelet over a turquoise gown with a fashionably
full skirt. A black-veiled bonnet embellished with pea-
cock feathers hid her features from view.
All at once, she cast an upward glance. For one pierc-
ing moment, she seemed to stare through the dark tulle
straight at Annabelle. Then the woman lowered her
head and started up the steps to the porch.
 IF THE SLIPPER FITS 9

The incident unnerved Annabelle. The skin prickled

at the nape of her neck and she stood frozen, her gaze
locked on the figure below. How ridiculous to think that
keen look had been directed at her. More likely, Lady
Milford had merely been inspecting the façade of the
school.
Mrs. Baxter appeared on the porch. The headmis-
tress sank a deep curtsy and exchanged a few words
with her guest. Then the two women vanished into the
ivy-covered stone building.
A collective sigh rippled from the girls. They turned
away from the window to chatter among themselves.
“Do you suppose she might be Princess Victoria?”
Dorothy asked in a reverent tone.
“At this backwater school?” Cora said with a toss of
her reddish ringlets. “Hardly. Besides, Princess Victoria
is only seventeen and I think this lady looks quite a bit
older.”
Annabelle said nothing, though she privately agreed.
There was a mature dignity in the way Lady Milford had
moved, a graceful self-assurance that made Annabelle
feel gauche and countrified in her much-mended gown of
drab gray worsted wool. How did she dare hope such a
vision of elegance would hire her?
She shook off the question. Misgivings would win her
nothing. Her credentials were all that mattered. That, and
her determination to present herself as the best possible
candidate for the post.
Dorothy clasped her pudgy hands beneath a dimpled
chin. “Miss Quinn, you simply must find out her name.
Please, we shall die of curiosity if you do not.”
A clamor arose as the other girls chimed their
agreement.
10 OLIVIA DRAKE

“All in due time,” Annabelle said. “In the meanwhile,

you must practice your posture so you’ll know how to
comport yourselves someday in the presence of such
fine ladies.”
Grumbling, the pupils resumed parading around the
room while balancing a book on their heads. But an
atmosphere of liveliness lingered, affecting everyone’s
concentration. More than once, a girl squealed as her
tome thumped to the floor. The others giggled and whis-
pered among themselves.
Annabelle was too distracted to scold them. The
impatience to put her plan into motion gnawed at her
composure. But it was too soon, she told herself. Better
to wait a while and give Lady Milford an opportunity to
chat with the headmistress and to enjoy refreshment
from the tea tray.
Annabelle bade the class return to their desks where
they took turns reading aloud from a book of manners.
Scarcely listening, she eyed the wall clock as it ticked
away the sluggish minutes. It seemed an eternity—
although no more than three-quarters of an hour had
passed—when finally the bell rang and the girls left in a
chattering horde, some for drawing classes and piano-
forte lessons, others to a choir rehearsal.
Annabelle followed them into the passageway. Her
heart kicking up a few beats, she opened a door hidden
in the dark paneling and started up the steep wooden
staircase used by the servants. While Mrs. Baxter and
Lady Milford were interviewing the other teachers, An-
nabelle had time to set her trap.
With any luck the plan would work. It had to work.