Of Tangled Hearts: Kinsley Sisters

Book 3 Jo Perry & Heather Chapman

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OF TANGLED HEARTS
THE KINSLEY SISTERS BOOK 3

HEATHER CHAPMAN
JO PERRY
 DEDICATION

To everyone who has enjoyed a second chance at love

 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
About Heather
About Jo
The Kinsley Sisters
Copyright © 2023 Jolene Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other
noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the authors’ imaginations.

Printed by Heather Chapman and Jo Perry, in the United States of America.

First printing edition 2024.

 1
CHARLO E

S altyMother
breeze and ocean spray. I closed my eyes and inhaled. This was freedom itself, and I was long overdue for a taste of it.
pulled at my arm. “Charlotte, you mustn’t.”
Laughter touched my lips. She still attempted to rein me in; had she not had enough obedience for the last two seasons in
London? I persisted in unlatching the carriage door. “If you will not stop the carriage, then I have no choice but to jump. At
least Papa can nurse my wounds.”
“Do be reasonable.” Her soft eyes begged me to stay in the carriage, and her eyes creased nearly as much as the fabric of
her traveling coat.
The walls of the carriage had grown smaller with each passing mile.
Reasonable? This time, I arched a brow in her direction instead of laughing. “If you remember, Mother, that is all I have
been the last two years. Reasonable.” I paused, clearing my throat, and attempted to imitate my mother’s pinched tone.
“‘Darling, you must allow me a season in London...Oh, but a summer in Bath with Isabelle will do the trick...Another season, I
am sure of it...Why, we have not tried Bristol. Juliet and Miles will surely have luck at it’.”
Mother’s expression cracked, almost softening my heart. “Dearest, stubborn girl. The cliffs will still be there tomorrow.
Allow us to return to the cottage and clean up before someone sees you in that state.”
A simple flick of my finger and the carriage door swung against its frame. Wind pelted my mother’s face, and she shielded
herself with both gloved hands. I might have laughed at her expression if I had not felt so irritated. I had given into her
outrageous requests over and over, and she would not grant me the simple pleasure of walking the rest of the way home,
alongside the cliffs that I had so dearly missed.
“Upon my word, stop the carriage,” she exclaimed, knocking her fist against the roof.
The forward movement came to an abrupt halt, and the swinging door returned to its closed position. I nearly flew into
Mother’s lap.
“There, be off. I won’t have you jumping out of carriages. See your cliffs but come straight home.” Her lips formed a firm
line, and her gaze was unflinching. “No dawdling, you hear?”
There was little that Mother spoke that I did not hear. There was not a more direct woman in existence. I lifted my chin,
wholeheartedly intending to dawdle but did not wish to divulge it to my mother. “I shall bathe upon my return.”
She narrowed her eyes. For one so self-preoccupied, she proved perceptive. “I shall see to it that Mrs. Randal fills the
tub.”
I climbed out without another word, leaving my gloves and bonnet behind. The August afternoon breeze was as warm as it
was wet. There was not a cloud in the sky—a rare occasion for England—and the sun lit against the cliffs.
Something in my chest lifted: my heart.
Hello again, my heart. Oh, how I’ve missed you.
I tugged at the painful hairpins, freeing my hair. The wind twisted around each dark lock as if to greet me in return.
The driver clicked his tongue, and the horses began to a comfortable plod once again.
Happiness encompassed me like the wind herself, carrying me along the well-trodden path of my youth. The white, chalky
cliffs and the lighthouse, made of the same white chalk, seemed as welcome a sight as my closest friends. I weaved in and out
of the long grass and ran my fingers through the blades. Seabirds spun in small clusters above and near the cliffs. The gannets
and kittiwakes were indistinguishable overhead, but the puffins, my particular favorite, padded along the rocks below and in
the nooks of the cliffs themselves.
Home. Flamborough Head was my home. I’d walked the length of the promontory—eight miles of perfect coastline that
ended in Bridlington Bay—more times than I could count. My eyes flitted over the familiar scene, the colorful swirls in the
ocean below.
A cottage was a sore excuse for a home. What was a house but sticks and stones? This—this view and this landscape—
housed my very soul. There were fragments of it all around. The sea breeze, the sounds of the water even on a gentle day, the
seabirds, and the fishermen in the boats below.
 How I’d missed those fragments of myself. I wanted to scoop each one and hold it close to my heart.
London was diverting enough and Bristol almost an equal replacement for my home. But oceanside did not equate to the
years of memories and adventures that lingered in the views before me. And, despite Mother’s best attempts, no man of means
could steal my heart when it already resided here.
I continued down the path toward the cottage. The carriage was already out of sight, and gratitude swelled in my heart. So
much so, that I began to run. Laughter met my lips for at least the fourth time, and the sound itself felt as freeing as the wind.
My twenty-two years were nothing to the ancient stones beneath my feet. No matter what mother said, I was no spinster and
I had not lost all that I might offer in the way of beauty. The cliffs were hundreds of years older than me, yet they had never
looked lovelier.
Mother nature did not abandon itself for the sake of a wealthy man, and neither would I.
No, if a man of any means wished to capture my heart, he would have to capture Flamborough and the fragments of my soul
that lay littered about.
I slowed to a walk when I saw the masculine figure in the distance. Most likely, I would know the man upon closer
inspection. Contrary to Mother’s concerns, these cliffs hardly saw the likes of society. Rather, fishermen and country folk
roamed this landscape.
“Miss Charlotte?” a deep voice inquired when we’d come closer.
I squinted, shading my eyes from the sun. Mr. Harding, Miles’s father, lifted a thick hand in the air. His grin pulled back one
of my own. “Mr. Harding, I daresay you’ve caught me.”
He cleared his throat. “I should say Miss Kinsley, as Miles says you are now called. I enjoyed his letters this summer, very
much—particularly all the stories he relayed about you. Seems you made quite a name for yourself.”
My cheeks pinched. Poor Miles. If not for his amusement at my every mistake, I might have felt inclined to better behave.
Reputation preceded the Harding name, and, unfortunately, I had not quite lived up to the model of my sister. Good, dear, gentle
Juliet with her poetry and embroidery. “I am glad to hear I provided any amusement, even by way of letter. Miles and Juliet
were the best of hosts. Your son even allowed me to sail to Ireland to retrieve a shipment. Mother nearly collapsed when she
heard.”
Mr. Harding chuckled, shaking his head. “I doubt your mother had that in mind when she sent you to Bristol. Miles
recounted the task laid before him on more than one occasion. He was to secure you a match, but you would not have it…?”
I nodded, smiling far too wickedly. “You see, Mr. Harding, Mother cannot bully me into marriage, for now I have two older
sisters married to men of means, and I am in need of nothing but these cliffs.”
“Is that so?” He sighed, shaking his head for the second time, though this time it looked like pity. “If so, tell me your secret
so that these cliffs may comfort my loneliness.”
My lips flattened. How was a man like Mr. Harding still lonely? He had an abbey full of mystery, rooms full of exotic
instruments and souvenirs. And, outside his stone home, lay the prettiest of views. No amount of loss could cloud all of that,
not for me. “Perhaps I can come play guitar for you. Miles and Juliet purchased me a new one, and I take great joy in
practicing. Mother does so hate that I play such an instrument. She’d rather I cross-stitched.”
“I’d like that, Miss Kinsley. Bring your mother and father, too. I have not had company for far too long.” He dipped his chin
and began to walk once more. “Oh, and do bring the guitar. I should like to play a duet.”
I nodded, but my heart sank. For the entire way home, I could not shake the image of Mr. Harding’s loneliness. Would there
someday come a time when these cliffs would not be enough for me?
The wind picked up once more, nearly pushing me to a run. My hair blew all around me, and the waves began their
rhythmic crashing against the rocks. I exhaled when I reached the cottage. Mr. and Mrs. Randal were at work harvesting some
of the garden, and Papa emerged from the greenhouse, waving both arms when he caught sight of me.
I sprinted, nearly tripping in my traveling dress.
Papa’s arms enveloped me, and he lifted me like I was a child again. “Lottie, how I’ve missed you. I’ve a new horse to
show you. Purchased her just for you.”
I kissed both of his cheeks. “We shall have to ride then.”
He set me to the ground again, inspecting me. “I expect your mother wishes you to wash. She’s complained since arriving
that you care more for the cliffs than her nerves, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was right.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Oh, yes. I’ve a bath already waiting for me. Of that, I am sure.”
He chuckled. “I am so glad you are home.”
Emotion swelled inside my heart, but I pushed it away with a smile. “Me too, Papa.”

Dearest Charlotte,
 Since you departed Bristol, my Samuel has asked for Aunt Lottie more times than I can count. He does so
miss your taking him to fish and chasing him around these now lonely walls. I told him he will have to be
patient for his sister to learn to walk, for then he shall have his very own playmate that will not ever leave.
Miles just returned from Ireland with a shipment of exquisite linens. I have already been spoiled with a
pile of my own, and my needle and thread have been employed in more moments than not. Charlie told me I
must sell my stitches at market, to which I could only laugh.
I was quite tempted to recite him a portion of William Blake’s Auguries of Innocence:
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
See, even in my letters you are not free from my poetry readings. There, did you see how it is done? My
words and letters rival your cleverness, for just as you will not be made to do something you are against, I will
share poetry with you no matter our distance.
Do tell me of home. How is Father? Mother? Have you been forgiven for your singlehood yet? Perhaps
you need refuge again? Miles and I would gladly take you on for any and all amounts of time. Samuel would
most certainly agree. You needn’t endure Mama’s disappointment. She has not learned one cannot curb the
waves.
Juliet

Dear Juliet,
Please give Samuel and Emma my love but tell them I will not be away for so very long. Not if I can
manage it (or manage Mother, to be precise). Bristol may be my second favorite place in the world, other than
my cliffs.
Poetry. Goodness, Juliet. I am almost surprised you included a poem in your letter. Almost.
Home is home. Mother is a dreadful nuisance to my nerves, but Papa remains ever my favorite (as he is
yours and Isabelle’s too). He gifted me the most beautiful horse and named her himself! Can you believe that?
Gifting me a horse but refusing me the chance to name her?
I am not surprised, nor would I wish Papa any different. Brash is the perfect name.
Charlotte
 2
ALEXANDER

I stretched my legs and rested my feet on the opposite seat within the fine carriage—it had taken me years to do something so
casual, despite often traveling alone. A quick ‘ello’ from a passing traveler pulled my gaze away from my book and toward
the window.
Home.
Each hill was familiar, the trees larger than when I’d come last, marking the years away. I drew in a long breath. These
windows had soothed my soul in ways I had not known I’d needed. For seven years.
Home, the small town of Bridlington where I had grown up, was a more welcome sight than I could have ever anticipated.
The carriage moved through town, and I nearly requested the driver stop and allow me to walk the final miles home, but as a
gentleman, my wishes were not often the first to be considered.
For ten years, I had worked under the tutelage of two kind and wise men to fully learn how to run the Marchand Estate as a
Baronet—a title that was not intended for me.
The three years since my twenty-first birthday, when I first had full control of the estate, had passed in a whirlwind of
praying that I had learned enough to maintain the reputation that the Marchand family had worked so hard to create. In all those
years, I’d only managed to find my way to Flamborough Head two times, and both visits had been far too brief.
There were only a few miles left. I set my feet on the floor and nearly tapped the roof of the carriage for them to stop and
let me out, but I hesitated.
Lady Marchand, the widow of the former baronet, had been both kind and patient with my fumblings in the beginning, but
even here...even so many miles from Devon and the title I had inherited, I did not wish to disappoint her. I set my hands back in
my lap.
Soon, the small shops disappeared and made way to expanses of fields and the homes along the sea—one of which had
belonged to my parents, and now housed my mother and aunt. However, the drive was just as it had been when I had come
home last...as was the faade and the front garden...just over three years ago.
How had this not changed? I had sent Mother funds to update the house.
My brows furrowed as the carriage pulled to a stop, my valet and driver already busy unloading. I stepped out of the
carriage and stared at the worn front door. The garden in the front of the house was also unchanged. Mother and I had discussed
this. We had discussed the improvements she was to make. I had written my aunt as well, attempting to appeal to the life she’d
always longed for.
Though, my aunt was not to blame. Mother would be saving every bit of the money I had sent. Unless...unless she had
perhaps used it all inside? My hope was misplaced, but it was still there as I opened the front door to the same worn furniture
of my youth.
“My handsome boy!” Mother crooned as she came from the hall that led to the kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder if she
was hovering over the cook.
“Hello, Mother,” I said as I pulled her into a hug. I had seen her at the Marchand Estate the previous year, but her shock at
the opulence of the home tainted every visit.
“Are they with you?” she asked brightly. “The young Marchand ladies?”
If they had been, they certainly would have come inside before I entered. “No. In one month’s time.”
But I could not help my gaze traveling from one piece of the house to the next. “Where is Aunt Josephine?”
“Oh, she’s out,” Mother said with a quick, dismissive wave.
I continued to walk through my parents’ small home, through the lack of refurnishing, jaw slack. “What...why haven’t
you…”
“Pull your chin off the floor,” Mother said in the same chiding voice she’d used since I was a small boy.
“But I’ve sent you money to help with…” With the hopelessly tattered small-town home this was. Amongst Bridlington’s
population, my parents’ home was a tidy and fine cottage.
Amongst the two young women who had become my wards after the death of their brother and father, the state of this home
was positively ghastly. I started up the stairs to the bedrooms, but nothing had changed here either.
“Where are they to sleep?” I asked. “And their companion?” As Jane was preparing for her first season, a companion to
help prepare had felt essential.
Mother gestured to the smaller stairs, which led to the attic. The attic? She could not be serious, but the wrinkles on her
face and the set line of her jaw said that yes, she was in fact serious.
Once I stopped in the doorway and saw the two small beds and simple, worn furniture, moved from other areas of the
house, I released another long sigh. “Jane and Rebecca will be here in less than a month’s time.”
“Oh.” Mother waved me down. “It will do those spoiled young women good to be in a real house before they’re off to
London.”
I should have never agreed to their pleading to see the town of my youth. Not ever.
But Rebecca had put up such a fuss, Jane quietly pleaded, and then they had resorted to guilt. Of course, they had always
expected their brother or father to escort them to London and also to show them the country—not some distant cousin who had
found himself a baronet at fourteen. Yes, they called me brother, but it was a term of endearment and nothing more.
Nearly ten years later, and I still hadn’t fully settled into my title, or the properties I was now the owner of. A baronet did
not qualify me as a peer. However, it was so far removed from what I had thought my life to be, that there were still mornings
when I woke and wondered what had happened to the worn walls of my youth and the rhythm of the sea against the shore.
As a young man, I had thought I would stay in Bridlington forever. Perhaps talk Charlotte Kinsley into being my wife. I’d
planned on living on the seashore and fishing every day.
Instead, I had spent years in England’s finest schools, taken a tour of Europe, and my time over the past several months had
been spent outlining Jane Marchand’s first season as Sir Alexander. At times, I missed being Alexander Marchand—young man
from Bridlington and destined to remain in Bridlington. This moment, in my mother’s out-of-date and worn parlor, was not one
of them.
“Mother, I begged you to put the money to use on the house.” I scratched a stray bit of hair over my ear. “I can only tolerate
so much fuss from the two girls.”
“They are hardly girls anymore,” Mother said. “And I stand by what I said before. We have a cook and a housekeeper, and
the young ladies have already said they are amenable to sharing a room.”
“You have given them the attic,” I stated. “In any other home, the attic would be reserved for servants.” Speaking of which,
I now knew not where Mr. Kettles would stay. After so long with a valet, I could not quite picture my day without him.
“The room is large, there’s a fireplace.” Mother gestured to the old bricks. “The linens are the finest in the house.”
I pressed the bridge of my nose between my fingers and this time managed to hold in my sigh. “I’m aware they’re the finest
in the house. Which is why I sent funds for renovations.”
Her chin lifted. “Your aunt is far too proud.”
I knew this to not be true, as the tone of Aunt’s letters had been very enthusiastic about possible improvements. Mother was
too proud, and Mother ruled this house.
Would I always be outnumbered by women?
There would be no convincing her in a conventional manner. “Think of the young folk in Bridlington who could use the
work, Mother?” I pleaded. “Think of the good you could do for the shops in town as well as the laborers if you were to…” I
had to tread carefully now. “If you were to update a few rooms. Or...all of them...and the drive...or...gardens...”
Her eyes softened—the same pale blue as my own—but her mouth still rested in a thin line.
Now was when I should take my leave and allow her time to mull over my words. I knew when not to press, and as I had
been living in a home with the woman who had been the lady of the house, and her two daughters, I was quite used to being
outnumbered.
“I don’t suppose this house is good enough for the likes of you anymore.” Her voice was haughty but laced with hurt.
I had taken my pleading too far. “I love this home. I also love the idea that I could use some of the wealth bestowed upon
me to help the members of the town of my youth.”
Mother sighed. She would need time to consider.
“I’m going to take a walk along the shore,” I said. “Stretch my legs after the journey. Would you please show Mr. Kettles to
the guestroom?”
A single one of mother’s brows rose. “Thought gentlemen didn’t walk,” she teased.
“I won’t be gone long,” I said as I started down the stairs. “Gentlemen are allowed to walk, unless the walk is necessary.”
I’d taken up hunting—not because I particularly enjoyed it, but because it was an activity in which gentlemen walked long
distances.
The moment I stepped into the wind-whipped air and felt the whisper of an incoming rain, I took a long breath in. No matter
my station, nor homes, nor fortune—this place would always be home.
As I neared the shore, and the roar of the ocean filled every sense, I paused; the pang of nostalgia lodged in my throat.
Every day for as long as I could remember, I would run along these cliffs with Charlotte and Benjamin. These hills were not
the same without them. My feet were so much larger, my strides far more cautious than they had been. I paused when the trail
split. I could go down to the shore and the series of small caves or continue along the ridge.
I found myself going down. The last time I had been here with Charlotte was just after Benjamin had joined the Navy. She’d
been angry, angrier than I’d ever seen her. I’d barely been able to keep up with her as her skirts flapped in the wind she caused.
I was between Eton and Oxford at the time, home visiting Mother.
I swallowed.
My heart twisted and tangled itself within my chest. I knew enough of her to know she had gone to London for a second
season. I could not imagine Charlotte in London. I could not imagine her as anything but the wild girl who could outswim both
Benjamin and myself—even while wearing a dress.
I had not laid eyes on her in nearly two years, and that visit had been so short, I had only seen her long enough to know that
my heart had not yet mended from the knowledge that Charlotte Kinsley would never belong to any man—at least not a man like
the one I was expected to be. I thought of the former Lady Marchand and how she would react to someone like Charlotte. The
results would haunt all parties involved, I was sure.
Two years in London would be nowhere near enough for Charlotte Kinsley to be tamed enough to be the lady of a baronet’s
household. Nor, would I wish her to be tamed to that point.
At this very moment, she could be engaged. Married. My stomach lurched.
My new family had all but chosen a bride for me. Several young women, actually—just in case one of them was taken by
the time I had resigned myself to being married. They were all lovely young women who I could be happy enough with. We
would both deserve better, but how often were those with fortune allowed to choose their partner based on love?
I swatted at the tall grass with my cane as I walked. Both grateful and frustrated with the ways of the world.
I had seen Charlotte in London only twice, both in passing, and both times she teased me mercilessly at how proper I was
and how pretentious I appeared. Her words had cut deep, but my life was no longer only about me. My life and my actions
reflected on the title of the Marchand family. I hadn’t seen her since the very beginning of her first season in London. Her
letters had disappeared after Ben left, though, and so had my own. We all had to grow up at some point.
I sat on the rocky shore, just high enough that the sea would not catch my boots. Charlotte’s favorite cave sat to my right. A
few smaller and shallower caves to my left.
When had I last been alone? Out of doors, on my own.
Being alone in my bedchamber was one matter, but outside...I allowed my eyes to fall closed and took a long breath. The
rhythm of the sea lulled me back in time, and I kept my eyes closed to allow the sensations of youth to remain with me a while
longer.
I was roused by friendly laughter. “Alexander!” a familiar voice called.
Wrestling between rudeness and my wish to remain in my half-dream, I finally gave in to decorum.
His smile lit his wrinkled face, his hair a little greyer than last I saw him. “Doctor Kinsley.”
“If it isn’t the lord himself, gracing us with his presence,” he teased.
“Just ‘Sir’,” I corrected as I stood and immediately pulled him into a hug. “It is so good to see you.”
How is Charlotte, begged to be released between us but I held in the words.
“And you,” he responded as he slowly took back his arms. “What brings you to this far corner of our great country?”
“A much-needed respite.” I scratched at my ear. “And my wards wished to see the place where I grew up before I bring
Miss Marchand to London for her first season.”
Doctor Kinsley looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. “A large load for someone so young.”
My throat swelled at the simplicity of his concern. Most from this part of the world would tease me for my luck of family
relations, fine carriage, and custom boots. But of course Doctor Kinsley would see past the trimmings of wealth to the struggle
it had been to learn rules of etiquette that I had not grown up with.
“It is a large load at times,” I admitted. “However, I am very fortunate that the family who was forced to turn over their
home to me and have been patient and understanding of my position. My trustee is a very kind man. And while his duties
lessened considerably upon my twenty-first birthday, he has been indispensable.”
“That is a fine thing, indeed,” he said, his smile widening. “I am truly happy that you have found yourself amongst kind
people.”
“As am I,” I said with a laugh.
“I do hope we’ll see more of you. Did you hear that Isabelle and her husband live not far from here?”
“Whitingham Hall, if I remember correctly?” I asked, sifting through the information from Mother and Aunt’s lengthy
letters.
“That is correct,” Doctor Kinsley said. “Monetarily, they will provide far more than I was ever able.”
I shook my head. “You have given your girls quick wits, sharp minds, and fantastic character.”
“Thank you.” he said. “Both of my older daughters have married the very best of men.”
“And Charlotte?” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I both wished she were and were not taken.
I could not reconcile her with anyone else, yet I was certain she would suffocate within the Marchand household—at least the
Charlotte I knew.
He drew in a long breath and held it a moment. “Charlotte has not changed as much as her mother hoped. I often wonder if
she’ll ever see fit to marry. With two wealthy sisters, she certainly does not need to. I can’t imagine that either of them would
fully turn her away, and Charlotte is very happy with very little. A small cottage on the corner of the Whitingham Estate would
suit her quite well.”
I would rather see Charlotte alone than settling for a life she did not want. And his words meant that she was not attached
after a second season in London.
My shoulders relaxed in relief, but a new piece of tension crept into my heart. Her being attached to another would bring
agony, but it would mean that I no longer had to carry the weight of knowing that as much as she was not a possibility for my
future wife, the potential was still floating somewhere between us.
“She is home for…” he trailed off. “For, I’m not quite sure how long yet.”
“Charlotte is here?” I asked. “In Bridlington?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “She arrived only days ago, and I’d wager she’d love to see a friendly face.”
My heart lurched. Could I bear spending time with her? I didn’t care. I would rather spend a few weeks running along the
shore with Charlotte before my wards arrived, and mend my heart after I left, than to miss the opportunity to see the girl I had
loved since I was old enough to put a name to my feelings.
“We must have you to dinner,” I said. “As soon as I’m able to arrange it.”
“We would be delighted,” he responded.
“I will send word, as soon as⁠—”
“We’re in Bridlington,” Doctor Kinsley said with a smile. “Come by the house at your leisure.”
“Thank you,” I said earnestly, though I wondered if my heart and mind were wholly prepared to see Charlotte Kinsley.
“Glad you are home,” he said as he started back up the hill. “I hope we see much of one another.”
“As do I.” While I had the chance.
Charlotte was here. And she was unattached. My poor tortured mind and heart would not be resting soon.
 3
CHARLO E

I clung to my father’s arm as we weaved through the crowded streets of Bridlington. The town was busier than usual, the Fall
festival only two weeks away. I’d missed it for two years, and I was not about to miss it a third.
“All of my fishing poles and nets given away?” I scowled. Mama had overestimated her ability to manipulate me into a
lady like my sisters. “Did she think I would not notice?”
Papa’s lips curved. “She hoped you would be married, not home to enjoy your boyish pastimes.”
I studied his expression. His person was a welcome sight. In most ways, my father had not changed a bit—the way he
walked and spoke, his affection and never-ending acceptance of me, or the way he referred to me as Lottie. He was the only
one I allowed to use the nickname.
However, the color of Papa’s facial hair startled me. Since my being away for a year, it had grown considerably lighter, as
had the hair on his head. The streaks of white contrasted greatly to his dark ones. The effect complimented his weathered and
sun-soaked skin. He looked less like polite society and more like the fishermen we meant to join.
“I did tell your mother I thought disposing of your fishing pole was premature. Yet, her hopes seemed to be louder than my
warning.”
I squeezed his arm, smiling. “Yes, well I suppose I should thank her, for now you are buying me a new one, one much better
than my childish contraption.”
He nodded. “A price I ought not expend after purchasing you the horse.”
“If only you could survive without my fishing abilities. We would have to purchase fish at market if not for my skill—a
price I believe would far outweigh the cost of a pole.”
He paused and turned to press a finger to my nose. “Listen here, Lottie. I’ve not been without fish since you’ve been away.”
I pursed my lips to maintain my composure. “But have you feasted upon more than bass?”
“Certainly.” He shook his head, poking my nose again. “I had cod twice last winter.”
“Twice?” I laughed and dared to place a finger on his nose. “By the day’s end, I shall set a proper trap for crabs. Add to
that black bream, garfish, and bass. By winter, I shall have you eating cod and flounder on the daily.”
Papa swatted at my hand. “It’s not right, Lottie, that I should put up with a daughter outdoing me at the beach. A doctor and I
cannot remedy this ailment.”
“The ailment of having me for a daughter?”
He exhaled most dramatically. “The ailment of having to be bested.”
I grinned. There were few things I bested anybody in; I’d gladly claim fishing and swimming as my talents, no matter how
unconventional they were for a lady. I had the good fortune of being the youngest daughter of a country physician, which
lowered every expectation. All the while I had two older sisters that married men of society, and so I lived quite as I pleased,
free from the usual confines of both country girl or lady of the ton.
“Alexander,” my father called.
I squinted, scanning the crowds for the sight of my oldest friend. As children, Alex had accompanied Benjamin and me on
all our adventures. He had been my favorite of the two boys, until he’d inherited the title of Baronet and been whisked away
for schooling and all things proper. London could make even the most amusing boy dutiful and boring.
“Here, Alexander,” Papa said once more, this time waving his arms in the air.
“Doctor Kinsley...Charlotte.”
I blinked, and then a few more times. The gentleman standing in front of me had answered to Alexander, had gone so far as
to greet me like only those well acquainted would dare to do, and yet, the man standing before me could not be the Alex of my
youth.
“Alex?” I asked. My mouth dropped open in a ridiculous way. I was never one to mask my feelings, though I tried not to
feel anything beyond amusement as a rule. Surprise seemed harmless. “Is it really you?”
He removed his hat, and the morning light flooded his features. His light eyes were as familiar as the ocean water itself.
His blond hair stuck up just as it had when we were young, but the visage underneath the hair was not...not quite...lanky or
gangly enough to be the Alex I knew. “The very same Alex.”
“Certainly not.” I swallowed. Aside from his blue eyes and pale hair, he had changed completely. A near stranger. I shook
my head, repeating myself for lack of a better things to say. “Certainly not.”
“Lottie,” my father chided.
“It is of no consequence, Doctor Kinsley. I know Charlotte’s ways.” Alexander straightened, and I had to crane my neck to
see his face.
I had seen him in London at the beginning of my first season; had he been so tall then? Our meeting had been brief. I
inspected the length of him. Fashionable to say the least. If I cared at all for such things, I might have been impressed by his suit
and hat. Were those custom boots he wore? I exhaled, and I was sure my shock and disapproval shone back at him.
“How are you, Charlotte?” he asked.
I smiled, grasping at my father’s arm once more. “Wonderful. Papa and I are to fish all day. I would invite you along, but
you seem...you look as if you have somewhere else to be.”
He nodded, and his gaze fell to the ground. “Afraid so. My two wards will be coming in a month. They’re quite spoiled,
and I’ve come to fetch some fabric to reupholster the...the...entire house,” he said on a chuckle. “Mrs. Young at the tailor has
promised me a pretty rose-patterned fabric for the sisters’ guest room. I’m just on my way there now.”
“Oh.” Fabric...Alexander had been reduced to errand boy for his wards. “Do you fish at all anymore?”
“Lottie.” Papa’s voice was more warning than chiding this time.
Alexander’s eyes searched mine with a question, as if he was looking for the same thing that I had—a sign or piece of
evidence that I was the same childhood friend he remembered. “Of course, I like to fish. Though I admit, it’s been a while since
I’ve had the pleasure of fishing in the ocean rather than on the estate’s stocked lake.”
A stocked lake? Were we so very different now? Had time changed us both so much that we could hardly speak without
stumbling over words and forced conversation? We had sailed Bridlington Bay, fished all day, explored the caves, and caught
our fair share of puffins. Flamborough Head had been our world; we hadn’t needed more.
But then a baronet was a title. He must be educated, responsible. There was no time left for fun, no time left for Benjamin
nor me.
“Yes, I am sure you will,” Papa said, placing a hand against Alexander’s shoulder. “And, most likely you’ll out fish me as
Lottie does.”
Alexander smiled, though there was nothing happy about the expression. “I’m not sure I could now. I shall have to
relearn.”
“Once a fisherman, always a fisherman.” I tried at a smile, wishing there was not so much distance between us. “I do hope
you have luck with the fabric. Your wards will be so pleased with your efforts, I am sure.”
He nodded. “Yes, I suppose I should be off in that direction. Good to see you again, Charlotte. Doctor Kinsley.”
He walked by my side, his arm brushing against mine as we passed. The movement stole my breath, as if time itself had
sped entirely too fast and I was left to see what he had become and what of myself had remained.
“Lottie, you mustn’t give Alexander such a hard time. He’s got more to deal with than you might imagine. An estate, title,
connections in parliament, two wards, a widowed mother, education⁠—”
“I’m quite aware. Alex has grown into a man, while I’m nothing more than a child.”
Papa clasped his hand around mine. “Twenty-two years old is not considered a child.”
“No,” I agreed. “Mother says I am a spinster, but...Papa, did you see the heaviness in Alex’s manner? He is nothing but
responsibility. Gone is my friend that roamed the cliffs, gone is the boy that once laughed. Growing up is a tragedy indeed.”
Papa shook his head. “Indeed. Let us find you a fishing pole, my overgrown child.”
I adjusted my bonnet and grinned. “Just as I wish.”

Charlotte,
I do hope this letter finds you well. Simon was just reminding me that he never told you his critique of
your card playing before you left for Bristol. For a lady—and let that be high praise indeed, for I am the only
other lady he deems worthy of critiquing—he finds you quite skilled. He even went on to say he did not let you
win that last time. I had such a laugh, for Simon never lets anyone win at cards.
Felicity and Annabelle have been giving their little brother quite the trouble. You see, they wish to play
dolls with him, while he wishes for them to stop picking him up and carrying him all about the house like he is
the doll. And so, they pick him up and so he pulls at their pretty braids. Too many tears and too much repetition
of this sad scene. I do wish you were here. You always bring such joy to the children. And me.
Felicity asked when we may expect you next at Whitingham? I do plan to ride to the cottage soon, but I
hope to plan a picnic of sorts, so that I might hear all about Bristol, while also sharing about my summer here.
You cannot escape your oldest sister, no matter how hard you try. I am determined to bother you constantly until
you return to London or wherever it is you plan to go next. I do wish to hear your plans.
And I would be honored if you would come to London again. I know three seasons in more than you wish to
endure, but we might make a bit of fun of it, and you might placate Mama for longer. No need to let her know
your nonmarital plans just yet.
Isabelle

Dear Isabelle,
Do plan a picnic. Simon’s cook is my favorite in all of England, and my insatiable need for sweets has not
dwindled. Until then, rest assured I am enduring Mother’s efforts to send me back to London. I needn’t your
nagging too! Send me sweets or send me nothing at all!
In the meantime, you must take Felicity and Annabelle fishing. They must see there is more to life than
dolls and dresses. If you are not equal to the task, their aunt most certainly is. I have so many secrets I could
share with them. I have at least twenty spots that are perfect for gathering shells, and have they seen the puffins
much?
Puffins are undeniably more desirable than dolls and even little brothers.
Until the picnic,
Charlotte
 4
ALEXANDER

I stood in the attic bedroom and stared at the rose-patterned fabric I had picked up after seeing Charlotte in town. The roses
began to blur and waver together on the surface of the material as my vision unfocused. Every youthful glint of mischief she
used to have, had still rested in her eyes. There was still the same confident ease in her walk, but her features had grown more
handsome as her cheeks had lost the softness of youth.
Her expression...My heart twisted again. She had looked upon me as a stranger. And then worse...upon hearing of my
errand. And I could not blame her. The person I had become was a far cry from the one who had run along the seaside with
Charlotte. I missed parts of that young man.
“Are you in need of aid, sir?” Mr. Kettles asked from the doorway.
I released a sigh. “No, thank you.”
“I have a cousin who works at Hosmer Hill Abbey, and I hoped that at some point⁠—”
“Please.” I turned to face him. “I will not require your services until late this evening.”
He smiled widely. “Thank you, sir.”
“Of course,” I responded as I looked about the room. Knowing Rebecca’s adventurous spirit, she would love being in the
attic. She would convince Jane that it was a proper sort of adventure—one that would not leave their mother feeling too
scandalized. And if she brought her horrid cat...
No, I shook my head. She would never bring that monster here.
“Oh, there you are!” Aunt Josephine gushed as she dropped the new linens on one of the beds. “I don’t know how you
convinced your mother to finally redecorate this house, and I wish we had more time, but I am thankful beyond words.” She
brushed off her clean apron.
I wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders. “You are very welcome.”
“Someone is coming to pick up the furniture from the parlor to recover this afternoon.” She tucked a stray grey hair behind
her ear. “He has promised to rush, and I plan on finishing the draperies for this room today.” She left my side and began
spreading the rose pattern across the floor.
“You have chosen a lovely print,” I told her.
My awareness of fashions and prints was astounding, and quite embarrassing, now that the knowledge had followed me to
a home where I had lived wildly as a boy with a busy father. The pang of missing him was familiar and dulled with time, but
the ache was always waiting at the ready.
I walked down the stairs to my old bedroom, situated directly underneath the attic beds. I loathed the idea of being able to
hear the two young women whispering late into the night. Not only did I not wish to be kept awake, but I also did not wish to
hear their musings on life and young gentlemen nearly as much as they wished to speak on those topics.
For a moment, my mind strayed to Benjamin; such different paths our lives had taken—he out to sea in the Navy and making
quite an impressive figure. I kept up on news of the Navy, and Benjamin had been part of many great battles, always seeming to
come up on top, as he had in our youth. I could run faster, but once there were obstacles of any kind, he had me beat. We were
both strong swimmers but neither as fast as Charlotte.
When I was fourteen, I had not a care in the world. I gave very little thought to safety or future. My father had only died a
few years prior. My mother and aunt had no hope of keeping up with my whereabouts, and then a ship went down with my
cousin and uncle, leaving me to be Sir Alexander Marchand, Baronet.
More knocking at the door brought more chaos within the walls of the house, and as grateful as I was for the changes being
made, I needed out of the house.
I strode out the servants’ door and toward the sea, thinking of my final few days in Bridlington before leaving for Eton. All
the skills of making a fishing pole out of materials found in a field, and the speed with which I ran and swam...knowing none of
those feats would matter at Eton. In ways, the skills of my youth had hurt me there, showcasing my roots. Even then, I had been
smart enough to know that Sir Alexander was nothing when compared to someone who was Lord Marchand, or someone else
with the title of Duke. I had known there would be differences, I had not known they would be so great.
 I set my cane and hat against the post of the outer fence of my parents’ land and began to run along the familiar path above
the sea, slowly going lower to the hidden, sandy spot that I had shared with Benjamin and Charlotte as children.
I arrived, gasping for air, and fell to sitting on the sand. The miles and miles I’d walked while hunting had not done me the
good I had hoped for. The waves glistened in the August sun, and I found myself staring at the flickering light on the waves.
Surely, no one would come down this unused path. The beach was not large, just a small patch near the northwestern-most
part of the cliffs of Flamborough Head. I tugged at my cravat and glanced at the steep hill behind me. There were outcroppings
of rock on both sides.
Another bead of sweat dripped from my brow, and I swiped at my damp forehead. I had come swimming here many times
as a young man. There were official places along the sea where one could bathe. I was not considering anything wholly
untoward.
In a moment fueled by missing my younger self, my untitled self, I quickly stripped off my clothes and jumped into the sea
with a yelp.
The frigid water rinsed off my tired body and as I began to swim, the familiar action brought a smile to my face more
genuine than I had felt in perhaps years. Taking a deep breath, I rolled onto my back and floated, bobbing up and down with the
waves. The warm sun rested upon my face, and the cold water brought every inch of me to life.
“Oy!” a woman called from the shore, and I swallowed two mouthfuls of sea before righting myself, the water just shallow
enough to find purchase with my feet.
Charlotte Kinsley stood on the beach, her feet bare, her white dress damp and muddy along the hem and a grin on her face
the likes of which is normally seen on an eleven-year-old boy who has just stolen candy.
My mouth gaped.
Only now did I notice that she held my breeches in one hand. “Sir Alexander,” she chided, “is this appropriate wear for a
titled gentleman?”
“Oh, I’m…”
And laughter burst from her mouth. “I am glad to see you are not wholly lost to the ton.”
“I am not a peer,” I called back to her for lack of anything else to say. My nakedness, which a few moments ago felt
blissful, now...well, bliss was not a word I would choose.
“Why don’t you come out and sit on the beach with me, old friend?” Her laughter grew to a delicate snort, followed by
more laughter. “You won’t mind if I use your breeches to keep my dress from becoming soiled by the sand, do you? No
gentleman could refuse.”
Not knowing what else to do, I allowed myself to sink beneath the waves for a moment. As young men, Charlotte had done
this to Benjamin and myself more than once. We always would come barreling out of the ocean in fits of laughter, but now…
I swam slightly closer to shore, and slowly stood--the water lapping at my chest. “Good afternoon, Charlotte,” I said in my
best London accent. “I don’t suppose you would like to turn around so I may step out of the water without causing irreparable
damage to your reputation.”
“You know me better than to believe that I would care about such things.” Her smiled widened. “At least you used to.”
There was no winning with Charlotte. Not ever. Not unless she wanted me to. And then there would be a catch.
“I am in the most fortunate position of having two older sisters. Both are quite wealthy,” she said as she swung my breeches
back and forth, now walking along the shoreline and letting the water lap at her bare feet and the hem of her dress. “I care not
for my reputation.”
“I do,” I said. “I have to.”
She scoffed, rolled her eyes and her head with them before looking back at me. “Ah, yes. You’re akin to a lord. I should
just call you a lord from now on. My lord, you do not have to worry yourself about me. I am quite capable of protecting my
own reputation.”
The pressure of the man I was supposed to be crashed down on me again. “I fear I should worry,” I responded. “My
reputation affects too many other people for my actions to be anything but appropriate.”
She paused, her smile growing wider. “Says the naked man in the water.”
I had no response, only hoped that my expression of pleading could convey what my words could not.
Her smile grew softer. “Very well,” she said,” I shall set down your breeches and turn around while you dress, but we are
not leaving this beach until you tell me what happened to the best portion of one of my best friends.”
I took a few steps closer to shore, the water now pulsing around my waist--dipping lower between waves. As promised,
Charlotte had set my breeches upon the beach and had turned to face the hillside.
In a few quick strides, I sprinted onto the beach and snatched my breeches from the sand. I slipped my shirt over my head
and shoved one sandy foot into a leg of my breeches before losing my balance.
I fell with an oof, and Charlotte snorted. “Have you forgotten how to dress yourself after having help for so long?”
“I am perfectly able to dress myself,” I said as I attempted to pull the other leg on over wet skin.
Two-handed, I finally managed to pull my breeches on high enough to work on the buttons, at which point Charlotte turned
to face me.
“Charlotte!” My shirt gaped, my breeches were not yet buttoned, and my calves were bare.
She sat, neither looking directly at me, nor purposefully away. “I’ve seen your bare bottom, Alex.”
“When I was six and you ignored my mother’s wishes!” My fingers fumbled as I attempted to dress faster.
“Alexander,” Charlotte said. “You can relax. Even most of the local people don’t know how to find the path to this beach.
And why bother when there are so many others?”
She was correct, of course. It had just been so long since I’d been able to release the weight of responsibility.
I slumped in the warm sand, stretching my legs out in front of me. “It feels good to be home again.”
“It does,” she agreed, her green eyes lit up with the sun.
“You surprised me,” I told her as I shrugged back into my waistcoat.
“I find I do that to a great many people.”
I buttoned my waistcoat, leaving my feet in the sand. The tide had already begun to creep up the beach. “And how did you
find London?”
“Enjoyable enough, but…” She paused. “But too full of people doing and saying all the right things for all the wrong
reasons.”
I peered over at her for a moment. “That is succinctly put and brutally accurate.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “Speaking of haughty London, I nearly didn’t recognize you the other day.”
“I recognized you,” I told her.
“So...tidy,” she said as she gestured to me. “And polished, and…”
“You forget we did meet in London.”
“Yes, but it was my first season, and I had decided to at least put forth some effort because Isabelle and Simon had been so
kind. And I had the slightest inclination to make my mother happy in securing a reputable match. Fortunately, that inclination
did not last. Only my wish to spare my family humiliation.”
“That is why I worry about appearances and reputation,” I said suddenly. “It is out of kindness.”
“To whom?” Charlotte asked, challenge in her gaze. “You are a man with a title, who do you need to concern yourself
with?”
“My aunt is a widow and a formerly titled woman who lost both her son and husband in one accident,” I said. “She has
always gone above duty to make me feel welcome, even though my father shunned his family from a very young age.”
“Hmm,” Charlotte said, her face impassive.
“Not wanting to disrupt her life more than it had already been, I asked that she stay in the house with her two young girls.”
“I suppose you shall marry one of them,” she said thoughtfully. “Your cousins, I mean.”
I shook my head. “They feel far more like sisters than cousins. I cannot imagine any amount of romance there. They call me
brother, and I call them sister.”
“Determined to find love, are you?” Charlotte asked. “If not for my sisters, I would think such a thing only exists in
books.”
“Cynical as always,” I teased. “However, those same two young ladies both deserve good men as husbands, which will not
happen if I sully my reputation. So you see, my actions are not just about me, but also about two young ladies—younger than
you—both of whom deserve a full opportunity for the best life has to offer them.”
Charlotte sighed, but her lips curved into a gentle smile. “Always so reasonable.”
“I did wish to explain to you...after the way you stared at me in town…”
“I don’t know how to be subtle,” she said. “It is something Juliet has exhausted herself in attempting to fix within my
person. Sadly, I believe that when she was born, she took all the remaining subdued qualities my parents had to offer their
children.”
I found myself laughing. “This sounds exactly like you. I am glad your seasons have not changed you.”
“They have,” Charlotte said, her legs also stretched out in the sand, her legs bare nearly to her knees as the waves now
occasionally touched her small feet. “In ways. But I do not plan to go back. I do not need a husband. My sisters have married.
That is enough.”
There was a chance that Charlotte would forever be without a husband, and I could not forever be without a wife. Once
again, I did not know if her admission and determination gave me hope or increased the tension within my being.
“I must marry,” I said. “Though, I am not in a hurry.”
The sound of the waves sliding over rocks soothed the silence between us. I peered over at Charlotte to find her watching
me.
Charlotte stood. “I have vexed my mother enough for five lifetimes. I should get back to the house with the berries I
promised.”
“And how many did you eat?” I asked.
A corner of her mouth lifted. “At least half.”
 Of course. “May I escort you home?”
“You may walk with me,” she said, “but we both know I am not in need of an escort.”
Impossible. Charlotte was impossible.
In moments I was dressed, though not nearly as neatly as Mr. Kettles would have done.
We started up the path together, her satchel resting over one shoulder and her shoes in one hand, her bare feet clutching the
trail.
“What was it like?” Charlotte asked over her shoulder. “Going from here to Eton?”
“Terrifying,” I admitted. “It was what I was thinking on as I walked to the beach. Very little of what I learned in Bridlington
helped me there.”
“Much the same as I felt in London, I’m sure,” she said.
“I’m sure.” Only she had no one relying on her success—save her mother.
She stopped and turned toward me. “Father worried about you.”
“He is kind,” I responded.
“I see a little more now,” she responded as we continued walking, “how hard it must have been for you.”
Charlotte told me of Juliet and Isabelle and their growing families. Of some of her more scandalous moments in London. I
found myself laughing as easily as I always had.
“I still cannot believe you have two wards. Little Alexander.” She shook her head, her already wind-tossed hair further
tangling down her back.
“They are...a handful,” I admitted.
“They are lucky to have you,” Charlotte said.
“They will be here in less than a fortnight,” I responded. “They wanted to see where I grew up.”
She threw a smile over her shoulder—one that lit my body in a way that I knew no other young woman would ever be able
to do. “They are lucky to have someone so kind watching over them.”
I swatted at the tall grass. “Someone with more experience would perhaps be better.”
“Nothing is better than kindness.”
My hand twitched wanting to grasp her strong hands in mine. Wishing that we had been able to rest our legs together as we
sat in the sand.
“Oh! You must meet Brash!” Charlotte sprinted head where a black horse stood at the corner of the stone fence marking a
pasture near her house.
Had we walked so far already?
“Brash?” I asked. “The horse’s name is Brash?”
Already Charlotte had climbed onto the top of the stone fence, treating it like a bench and the horse had rested its chin in
her lap, its deft lips searching for treats.
“She loves berries,” Charlotte explained.
The horse was quite striking—four white legs and a nearly symmetrical blaze running down its face. “She is beautiful,” I
said. “I didn’t know you rode.”
“Think you can keep up after all your fancy gentlemen-training?” She was teasing me again. Charlotte always would.
“There is only one way to find out,” I said, and we immediately arranged a ride the following day.
As Charlotte started toward her home, feet still bare, horse following her movements, I was perhaps more taken with her
than I had ever been. My poor heart would need some time to recover after I left this place.
 5
CHARLO E

I ’dsleptscarcely eaten the edges of my scone. Normally, I had quite the appetite for a lady, despite my small frame. Yet, I’d hardly
and, now, hardly eaten at all.
“Riding with Alexander?” Mother asked again. “I imagine you don’t care a whit that he is titled now. Wealthy, too.”
My eyes widened. I huffed. “Mother, do not attempt at persuading me to try for Alex. He’s more brother than lover.”
“Lover? Watch your tongue.” She shook her head, trembling as if she’d caught a shiver. “The way you speak, Charlotte.
Truly, you ought to know better.”
I did know better, but so did Mother. Suggesting I pursue Alexander for the purpose of marriage was as ridiculous as me
speaking the word lover. I had lost both sleep and appetite because of Alexander, but not because of anything as silly as
romance.
My catching him unaware at the beach the previous day had sparked unimaginable happiness. My friend—the boy from my
childhood—had not disappeared as I had feared. Rather, his smile and laughter remained intact, even if it sat beneath layers of
manners and responsibility. The Alexander of my youth was still alive, and I felt as if I’d grown more alive too with that
knowledge.
I lay in bed all night imagining the adventures we might have before he returned to London with his wards. Perhaps we
would sail as we had before, wander the caves, or fish all day long as we spoke about things of little consequence. The very
idea of having a friend—Alexander in particular—back into my life seemed more glorious than sleep or scones with clotted
cream.
Losing a friend was almost as horrid as losing a sister. Even with Juliet’s propensity for nonstop poetry readings, I missed
her dearly. A sister was a fellow soldier of sorts, enduring the same parents and upbringing. Little had to be explained, and
understanding was most natural.
“Where will you ride, Charlotte? It almost looks like rain.” Mama coughed between sips of tea, gesturing to the window.
“You are not known to catch colds in weather like this, but Alexander might. What good would he be to his wards then?”
I stared at Papa’s empty chair. I rather detested his work as a physician in moments such as this. Breakfast with Mother as
the only company. At least she had not suggested a visit to Mrs. Clifton again—that woman was even more difficult than
Mother.
“Nobody dies of colds,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “Besides, those are only clouds in the sky. Nothing dark nor
ominous in any sense. I doubt Alex has time for a long ride. His wards will be arriving soon.”
“How old are his cousins?”
I tilted my head and shrugged. I’d not thought to ask about them, and if not for our talk on the beach yesterday, I would not
have known they were cousins. I didn't even know their names. “I believe they are out, or the oldest is out, but I do not know
their ages.”
Mother arched a brow. “Seems like something a brother would tell his sister. Perhaps you are not so very familiar. Tell me,
has he changed much? Mrs. Clifton says he called upon her after arriving and that he had grown quite charming.”
My lips puckered. “Charming? Alex?”
“Yes, she said all the young ladies of London are after him. I suppose titles do that for a man...and wealth. But, Mrs. Clifton
said she blushed herself.”
“Mrs. Clifton’s sight is failing her.”
Mother arched both brows at that declaration and leaned forward. “How do you find him then?”
I huffed. Alexander was... changed. “His hair is all the rage in London—wispy and long, his blond curls quite perfectly
arranged. I daresay his valet spends more time on his hair than my maid on mine. His attire is positively ridiculous. I hardly
recognized him with his new overcoat and over-puffed cravat. His boots were custom made, Mother. Custom, as if regular
stock is beneath a baronet. Goodness. The only thing that remains the same is his eyes.”
“His eyes?”
I sighed, irritated she wished me to elaborate. “Yes. The same swirling blues, colors that match the ocean waves. I used to
tease him about that, for it was the one wild thing about his appearance. But now, the effect of his eyes is rather depressing. A
pooling of lost spirit.”
“My, my,” Mother said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “You do describe Alexander most poetically. I believe Juliet might
transform your words into a sonnet.”
Heat flooded my face, and I stood. “Oh, Mother. You do know how to irritate me.”
“Do I?” Her lips lifted.
I shook my head, growling in the most unladylike way I could. My neglected breakfast was not about to be remedied by
Mother’s designs. I stood and departed straight away toward my room to change into a loose muslin gown. I would wear my
riding spencer but not the dress. This ride would require a split saddle if I intended to best Alexander.
Racing against Alexander atop Brash would be enough to clear my mind. No more talk of wards or titles or how
Alexander’s looks had changed; I was not interested in that. In fact, I was interested in quite the opposite—finding the ways
he’d remained the same.
The beach had given glimpses, and a horse ride seemed hope of more substantial proof.
My father returned from his ride just as I saddled Brash. Thankfully, he did not even raise a brow at my choice of dress nor
at the split saddle.
He smiled. “I am glad to see you taking the horse out again.”
“Yes, she’s much too lovely a creature to be stuck in the stable or pasture all day. Mr. Randal feeds her too many oats, too. I
won’t have her hobbling like an overstuffed pony.”
Papa dismounted, rubbing a gloved hand at his forehead. I’d seen that expression enough times to understand.
I swallowed. “Your visit?”
He shook his head. “There are hardships everywhere, Lottie.”
I watched as he stalked to the house, a heaviness upon his shoulders that I detested. Life was full of hardships as he
declared, but I wanted none of them. I did whatever I could to avoid them. The waves and wind were much safer companions
than a husband or friend that might be whisked away as a wife and then mother. I had already watched my two sisters disappear
from my life, and more patients of Papa’s than I wished to recount.
I stepped onto the mounting block and swung one leg over the saddle. Brash remained still as a statue. My weight was
nothing for her steadiness and strength—just what I’d hoped for. Since returning to Bridlington and meeting Brash, I’d ridden
her each day around the pasture in attempts of familiarizing with one another. Now, I was testing her limits, determined to best
Alexander and, in the process, restore our friendship.
We moved down the road in her large trot, the rhythm of her hooves erasing some of the tension from my morning with
Mother. Her muscles loosened up underneath me as the cool air whipped across the fields from the ocean. Yes, a ride was
exactly what I needed. I eased her into a canter, already thankful I’d ridden astride.
Alexander’s eyes rounded at the sight of me. “Charlotte.”
I laughed at his apparent shock, pulling at the reins. I labored to catch my breath, panting as dramatically as a dog. My
cheeks heated in equal parts because of humor and exertion. “Did you expect anything less?”
“Your dress...and you had to ride split saddle? I suppose you and my aunt have that in common. She is an excellent
horsewoman.” He shook his head, but the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. “I suppose you’ve already mapped out a
course for us?”
I nodded. “As I always do. I would never leave that much up to chance. And what of your outfit? You look as if you are to
ride around Hyde Park instead of racing.”
He wore a brown coat, one that matched the shade of his horse--a horse that stood nearly five inches taller than mine. The
smallest fit of nerves rattled my composure, but I did not mind. Not truly, for nerves pushed me to excel. Brash would have to
earn her name.
“Yes, I thought you might remark about my attire, but I’ll have you know this coat is two years old,” he said, lifting his chin
as if his declaration was something to be proud of. “And these boots, at least that old.”
My face could not conceal my amusement. “Goodness, however do you manage? A coat and boots that are older than...than
yesterday. I should not stand for it. I would march straight up to the king, demand something better for his titled people. A
lord⁠—”
“Baronet, Charlotte,” he said in a tired but jesting voice. “Just a baronet.”
Just a baronet. The phrase struck me as even sillier than his fussed-over curls. Our situations, despite the wealth of my
brothers-in-law, could hardly be more different. Just a baronet—Alexander might as well have been royalty. We did not belong
in the same circles.
I cleared my throat, swallowing the last of my giggles. “Very well, Alex. You’ve shown me you are quite sensible with
your attire. I shall not hold it against you in the least.”
He pulled his horse directly beside mine and leaned closer. Alexander’s expression was a mixture of exasperation and
humor. “You mean to tease me.”
 “Never.”
His light eyes settled on mine with an intensity I had not known him capable of. Then, with a slight smile, he dared, “What
fun it will be to best you at last.”
The unexpectedness of his ridicule brought a wave of heat to my cheeks. I recovered quickly, gritting my teeth. “We shall
see, Lord Marchand⁠—”
“Sir Alexander, if you insist on titles, which I wish you would not.”
I nodded but had no intention of reducing him to a baronet. Not in my presence. I would mock him incessantly, until he lost
all sense of pretense. Until he fully returned to himself. “As you wish. Now, will you be needing a head start? I do hate to
embarrass a man of means.”
With that, Alexander’s shoulders caved forward. “Oh, Charlotte. You must think little of me indeed.”
My smile flattened. “No, but I do wish I could make out where the old you resides. Are there many pieces left, or has your
title stripped the rest away?”
Again, the gaze that unnerved me. “Pieces, yes. Perhaps more than pieces, though I cannot reconcile all of them with the
man I am to become. You’ve seen enough of the world to understand, haven’t you?” He sat up straighter, his tone more serious.
I had unknowingly chased away his teasing manner. “Isabelle and Juliet...they are both mothers now. They cannot be what they
always were, not when new responsibilities—people—count on them.”
A lump formed in my throat, but I could not swallow it away. I did not wish to ever become pieces of myself, a remnant of
what I once was amidst the duty I’d become.
“Well?”
I shook my head, lifting a hand in the air. I tried to speak, repeatedly. But no quick rebuttal came. No easy answer. Rather,
no answer that I liked. After an uncommon silence, I did the only thing I could do, kicking Brash to a sprint.
“To the lighthouse,” I called back over my shoulder as I nudged Brash with my heels. “If you can make it.”
I turned back, but not before witnessing Alexander’s late start.
Brash raced ahead, her hooves hitting the ground so fast, I could not distinguish one footfall from another. Her head
lowered as her hooves dug into the earth and I crouched over her neck. The heavy thunder of Alex’s horse behind me, said we
had some ground to gain. I glanced across the field and with a nudge, Brash took us over the fence into Mr. Smith’s pasture. A
glance over my shoulder showed that he had followed us over the jump.
The lighthouse peeked over the hills in the distance. Two more small jumps, and we’d be there. Perhaps Brash’s lighter
frame gave us an advantage. The subtlest shifts in my seat had her heading for the lower part of the next fence, and we cleared
it easily, her hooves silenced during our moments in the air.
Wind pelted my cheeks, whistling in my ears as I reached the lighthouse. My throat stung, and my legs burned. But, I had
bested him. I fell onto her neck as we stopped, wrapping my arms around her in a hug.
I slid down the side of my horse, and my legs nearly collapsed. I stayed there, choking on air as she sniffed my warm
cheeks. Brash had more than earned her name. For one so beautiful, she had quite the fire. I patted her back, smiling amidst my
overheating. Papa must have sensed something in her spirit akin to mine. We were both more than our small frames boasted; we
were fearlessness itself.
Alexander arrived nearly ten seconds later. His cheeks were almost as red as mine felt, and his perfect curls had turned to
disarray. I grinned, watching as he recovered, unaware of his appearance. He was looking more himself with each passing
moment.
“Charlotte…” He had dismounted and leaned against one leg. “You cannot possibly ride like that often.”
I ran a finger through my tangled curls. The pins had long flown away, and I was sure my hair looked as pitiful as
Alexander’s. I tucked a few strands behind my ears for good measure. “I do not ride often, in general. But when I do, I do like
to exercise.”
“That was… that was... absurd…” he stammered. “I must speak to your father. You might have been thrown or fallen or⁠—”
“Or? Perhaps been hurt?” I crossed my arms. Had he forgotten how I did not like to be fussed about? Or, the fact that I had
never wished a man to claim protection over me?
He shrugged. “Perhaps. You might consider it before doing something so reckless again.”
“Reckless?” Emotions stung my windblown eyes. I hardly knew what was happening. My attempts to restore what had been
lost were failing. I seemed to be becoming nothing more than the wards in his care, little girls that needed chiding. “I have no
one I am responsible to or for.”
“Ah, but that is not all that matters. What about yourself? Don’t you answer to yourself? And what of your father and
mother, Isabelle and Juliet? Your loss would mean more than a failed duty, failed responsibility. Your loss would hurt them. No
matter what you say, I cannot imagine you wish to do that.”
I wrapped the reins around the post and stomped to the lighthouse steps. I felt like the waves themselves, brewing in an
unexpected and ferocious storm. Why did his poor opinion hurt so badly? Why did I long for our friendship in such a mutinous
way? I was unravelling, as quickly as the rain began to fall.
 Mother would boast of her foresight, demand I take better care in the future, especially in the presence of a baronet. I
stomped harder, all the way to the entrance. The enclave shielded me from the rain, which had nicely covered up the absurd
tears. There had only been a few to escape, but that was more than I wished to allow.
Alexander was quickly beside me. I knocked against the lightkeeper’s door, hoping he might allow us to climb to the top—
or something that would distract me from the sickening sensation pooling in my stomach. I did not understand it, nor did I wish
to.
“Charlotte,” he whispered, directly behind me. “I didn't mean to upset you. Concern overtook me. You must know that I
well remember your abilities. I didn't mean to question them or suggest that you are intentionally thoughtless of others.”
“But you believe I unintentionally am?” I asked, resuming my usual demeanor. I would need to accept that my oldest friend
had grown up, leaving me alone for the adventuring. He would not be the companion he once was. “I do not make it a habit of
risking my neck, Alex. I only wished to rekindle our—what was once shared—love of excitement. Do you not remember the
fun we had?”
He fell back a step, and I knocked again. What was taking the lightkeeper so long?
Silence ensued. Then at last, after a painfully long moment, he spoke. “I well remember those times, too. Sailing and
exploring the cliffs with you remain some of my very best memories.”
“And Benjamin.” Being around Alexander had brought back all the memories. The three of us had been inseparable, before
Alexander was called away for baronet duties, which mostly consisted of Eton, and before Benjamin had joined the navy as a
midshipman. “Don’t you remember him too?”
I turned to face Alexander, demanding his full attention. Instant regret settled deep into my soul, as those sea-colored eyes
met mine. That intensity, that depth. There was an entire world encased in that gaze, a world I no longer knew how to navigate.
“I could never forget about Benjamin either. We three were the best of friends. Childhood friends, Charlotte. But then we
all had to grow up and go our separate ways—me to Eton, Ben to the navy, and you to London.”
I exhaled dramatically. “My going away never changed me, not in significant ways. I may employ proper manners in the
company of others. I may wear gowns at Almack’s and offer polite conversation to gentlemen...but that has not changed who I
am at the core. I could not offer my soul in exchange for managing a house I care little about living in. Not when Flamborough
Head is here, not when my entire soul belongs to the beaches and cliffs.”
His lips pulled to one side, seemingly lost in thought. I could not decipher if his gaze held pity or jealousy. “In certain
ways, I am sure you shall never change.”
“But you?” I asked, curious as to why my pulse raced in anticipation of his answer. “Do you belong here anymore?”
He leaned a hand above me, against the small archway. His curls were dampened from the rain, his cheeks still pink from
the race. Yet, he no longer looked at all a boy. Not a speck of him seemed boyish at all. “I belong with duty, Charlotte. I cannot
allow my heart to run rogue like yours, following whatever whims you see fit to follow. I’ve people depending on me. The
waves and caves and everything here still pull at me, but there are choices that I must make in order to take care of those I am
responsible for.”
For so long I had wished to be a boy, wished for the opportunities that came with strength, power, independence. But now, I
saw he was no freer than me. He was strapped to duty like the rocks to the ocean floor. There was no chance of him floating
away, becoming light again. After a long silence, I answered, “Yes, I understand.”
His gaze flitted from mine at last, and he straightened as much as he could in the small doorway. “I don’t think the
lightkeeper is home. A true shame, as those at sea could use his guidance in this precise moment.”
I nodded, unsure of how to speak under such closeness, such strain. I could not despise Alexander for becoming what he
had to become. Yet, I still mourned my loss—enough that I had actually shed a tear.
“Well, should we wait out the rain here?”
I shivered. There was nothing I liked less than standing still.
He moved to remove his coat.
“Not necessary,” I assured him. “I prefer to ride back now.”
His brows knit together, and he adjusted his stance. “You will ride in the rain?”
I pushed past him, and relief flooded my being. “Yes, m’Lord. Rain does not rattle me.”

Dearest Charlotte,
Your letter did little to inform me of home. Speak to me of the cliffs. I do wish you’d try your hand in
describing them. No matter what you say, you’ve more poetry inside of you than you let on. Miles is considering
a trip to London next month, and Isabelle demands I accompany him. If you were to come for a third season, we
might all be reunited!
 Emma and Samuel are quite the pair as of late, and I believe they mean to deprive me of all sleep. So, I’ve
tried my hand and writing my own poetry. Perhaps you will be the first to read it?
My sister is the worst at letters,
For writing to her is much like fetters.
At least she is a dear, sweet aunt,
Of that, my dear, I could rant.
I hope your writing continues to be betters.
Perhaps I should stick to reading poetry? I have subject matter enough, but I fear it hasn’t the ring as
Byron nor Blake. Do write a longer letter if you can manage. Here are some questions or ideas you might
answer:
How is Mrs. Randal? Has she forgiven me for marrying?
Describe the cliffs in detail—the sound of the waves, the recent storms, anything at all that might take me
back home in my mind.
Have you heard from Benjamin?
Are you still receiving those anonymous gifts?
Ever yours,
Juliet

Juliet,
The cliffs are high, the water deep.
Also, why must you, Isabelle, and Mother wish me to endure a third season? The three of you cannot
conspire against me. I cannot understand why you would suggest such a thing, when you know my feelings so
completely.
Your poem was perfectly crafted, though betters did not work at all. Everything else seemed accurate and
quite pretty on the tongue.
Charlotte
 6
ALEXANDER

T hedanger,
only thing that had compelled me to ride so foolishly was fear for Charlotte. At times, I believed she invited more
simply to prove her lack of fear.
Far more than my soaking clothing weighed me down. My horse and I walked back in the rain, allowing him time to cool,
allowing me time with my thoughts before reporting on my ride. By the time Flint and I arrived back at the house, his ears
drooped to each side like a mule’s in his displeasure.
I had galloped him over uneven fields, jumped him over crumbling rock walls, we had lost a race to two quick young
ladies, and I had walked him home in the rain. We were soaked through and miserable. I handed him to the groom with a
request he be given an extra handful or two of oats. It still may take him a day or two to forgive me.
Certainly, I may not forgive myself within that time. I should have allowed Charlotte to win by a greater distance so that
perhaps she would not have ridden so quickly. After seeing her scornful looks over the caution I had always contained within
myself, but that had grown with my responsibilities, I had let pride get in the way of safety. I could not allow that to happen
again.
The moment I stepped into the house, my mother and aunt greeted with smiles that fell flat once they took in my appearance.
“I’d ask how you enjoyed your ride…” Mother trailed off.
“But you look as if you were trampled,” my aunt finished.
“Not on the outside,” Mother clarified.
“The inside,” Aunt added as she pursed her lips into a slight frown.
“Yes. Well.” I handed my drenched coat to Kettles who managed to take it with only a slight wrinkle of disgust.
“Would you like a bath sir?”
I exhaled as if the weight of the afternoon would be allowed to melt away in the bathwater. “That would be lovely, thank
you.”
“So extravagant.” Mother sighed.
I didn’t respond.
“Come see the room!” Aunt gushed. “We are finally finished with the attic!”
I attempted not to allow my gaze to fall onto the downstairs rooms that were within sight but failed. They were a mess of
fabrics and half-covered furniture.
Dutifully, I followed the women up the stairs, and Aunt stood by the door with a suppressed smile on her face.
“Stop making a fuss!” Mother chided. “You have gone far beyond what can possibly be expected! I do not know how we
will possibly use this room once they are gone.”
Aunt winked. “I know one person who would love her own sanctuary.”
The first shiver ran through me, and I wondered if Mrs. Randal would prepare a bath for Charlotte, which immediately sent
warmth to my cheeks.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mother said as she pushed open the door.
Despite the cold and frustration of my morning, I felt a smile light my face.
Gauze curtains rested on new bedframes. A small settee sat between the beds, as well as a small table with a mirror where
Jane and Rebecca could admire themselves and do one another’s hair as they did at home.
“It is beautiful,” I said in earnest. “And I do believe that it will help them to feel more at home than they would have
otherwise.”
“You are very kind to do this for us and them,” Aunt said.
Mother sighed. “Though, it was hardly necessary.”
“Thank you both,” I told them. “I have been unsure about this visit since they begged, and I found I could no longer tell them
no.”
“Your thanks are not necessary.” Aunt grinned and began to pat my arm but stopped just short of my soaked shirt. “I shall
move up here straightaway after your departure.”
 “Already planning my leave, are you?” I teased.
Aunt rested a hand on my damp shoulder. “We do miss you keenly,” she said and then her smiled widened. “But this lovely
room will take the sting out of your departure.”
I followed them down the stairs, Mother scolding and Aunt chuckling.
My thoughts bounced from Charlotte to my wards to my freezing body.
“I have your bath, sir,” Kettles said as we reached the bottom of the steps and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Perhaps I could lose my thoughts for a while.

The final week before the arrival of Jane and Rebecca passed in a blur of local persons in and out of the house, finalizing
renovations. I had gone to the Kinsleys’ home several times for dinner, while Mrs. Kinsley gave me many strange looks and
inquired after the Marchand estate and properties. Neither Charlotte nor myself spoke of our ride. My time with her before the
arrival of my wards should have been filled with fishing and sailing and walks along the shore. Though, I had to admit that the
quietness of our conversations with her parents was for the best. I enjoyed the softer side of Charlotte that came out during
those evenings, and too much time alone together would only do my heart further damage upon my departure.
We finished another meal together, and after a drink by the fire, I stood to leave.
Charlotte stepped outside with me into the cool night air and drew in a deep breath. “They arrive tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I responded, though, I knew she had already known.
“And am I to meet them?” she asked.
I paused, thinking of all the ways Charlotte could be a wretched example to my wards, but also how much I wished her to
meet them. To see more fully what had brought about this change in my person. “Of course.”
She started up the drive, shoulders back, fearless, walking into the dark. “I will walk you to the gate.”
I followed, the moonlight casting flickers of light over the quiet ocean and the tips of the silvery grass. “You are quiet
tonight.”
“I am…” She paused and chewed on her lip for a moment. “I have never been one to like change. A new adventure is
something I always seek, but the details of my youth, I wish to remain the way they were in my youth.”
This was something I could understand. “Perhaps the change from child to adult was simpler for me as I had been forced to
change so much while away from home, rather than seeing the places and people I love slowly moving through time on
journeys in and out of town.”
Charlotte’s gaze found the ground. “I have loved my time away, but when I return, I wish it all to be the same.”
“And it cannot be,” I responded.
“No,” she agreed, her voice low. “It cannot be.”
I paused at the wooden gate. “Thank you for another lovely evening.”
“Ugh.” She slumped before her eyes found mine, pooling warmth within my chest. “Is this us now?”
“Us?” I questioned.
She leaned on the gate as she had as a child, her eyes wide and frustrated. “Simply sitting for a meal and conversations
after a meal as our parents once did?”
“That is what people do,” I responded, not knowing what else to say.
There did seem to be something lacking between us, doing something so mundane. A spark of that youthful bliss.
“I bid you good night, Lord Marchand.” She performed a low curtsy and rose smiling.
I could not bring myself to reprimand her this time, but simply tipped my hat, bowed, and in a nasal off-key voice
responded, “Always a pleasure Lady Kinsley.”
She snorted before she laughed, drawing a warmth to my heart. “That is better, is it not?”
The light reflected off the hairs that had strayed from her face, her eyes, her pale skin. If I left tomorrow and never saw her
again, I would never forget this moment of lightness between us. The smile on her freckled face. Charlotte was more beautiful
than any young woman I had ever laid eyes upon. I only hoped that as I moved forward in my duties, that I would be able to
forget enough of my heart’s desire to be a good husband to my future wife.
Charlotte swung open the gate with another over-exuberant gesture. “I shall never be ‘lady’ anything, dear friend.”
You already are.
But I could not speak the words, only thanked her again and hoped that she and my wards could find enough common
interest for us to have excuses to spend more time together before my departure to London.
Mixed. Another moment with Charlotte that both mended me and pricked at my heart.
Never had I been more grateful that I’d been raised by my mother and aunt than when I was in the presence of my two wards.
The black carriage with the Marchand Family Crest on the door was led by four matching sorrel horses—I had allowed Jane
and Rebecca to choose the new quartet, and they greatly enjoyed putting them to use.
My heart thrummed in nerves. I remembered the first time I had come to the home where my father had been raised—where
he swore, he’d never go again—and had stood in awe of the massive manor I had inherited. Learning to navigate that world
had been difficult at best, near impossible on my worst days.
Knowing the two worlds of mine were about to collide in such a way had kept me awake on more nights than I cared to
admit.
Mother and Aunt stood by me next to the front door. I couldn’t help but compare our small entrance, marked by stones found
along the shore, with the giant slabs and grand staircase leading to the Marchand Estate entrance.
Would Jane and Rebecca find this cottage charming or horrifying? Either way, they were about to see far closer into my
personal history than was comfortable for a man who sometimes still felt like the fourteen-year-old boy who had been thrust
into the world of a baronet.
The horses trotted smartly until the curve of the round drive in front of the home, where they came to an abrupt stop, still
chomping at the bit.
“What a fine carriage,” Mother whispered under her breath, her disdain for the impracticality of such a fine thing evident in
each word.
“Stop,” Aunt said. “You would not wish the young ladies to believe you jealous.”
Aunt knew just what to say to Mother to straighten her shoulders.
Rebecca’s round face was nearly plastered against the window and she waved frantically even as their carriage door was
opened.
“It is charming! Alexander!” She leapt out of the carriage, and only then did I notice the bundle of gray fur tucked against
her side.
“Oh, Miss Rebecca…” I released a long sigh.
“Are you not happy to see me?” she asked, her eyes still wide.
Never did I suspect she would bring that devil with her. “Is Oliver Cromwell truly necessary?”
She held the cat up with both hands, his smooshed face was pointed directly at me and his ears tilted back toward his head.
“Hello, Mr. Cromwell,” I said as Rebecca continued to hold the beast toward me. He had grown since I’d last seen him,
and at that point, he had been the size of many a small dog I had seen in London.
He hissed in response.
“He is only cross because I had to keep him in a harness while we traveled.” She patted his head lovingly. “Mr. Hubert
was kind enough to fashion one for him so he would not get lost.”
“Very kind of him,” I replied and planted a kiss on her cheek. “It is good to see you.”
“And you.” She grinned up at me and took another deep breath in. “I am ever so excited to bathe in the sea!”
“Oh, I…” We had not talked of bathing, only strolling.
“Sir Alexander.” Miss Jane Marchand gave a slight bow to me, and then to my mother and aunt. Her nearly black hair was
tucked neatly under her hat.
“I hope the travel was not too terrible,” I said.
She grasped my arm and pressed a quick kiss on my cheek. “Without that monster, it would have been lovely,” she
whispered.
I laughed.
Rebecca frowned, but immediately turned and followed Mother and Aunt into the house.
While remaining still, Jane studied the façade of the house. There was no disdain or judgment upon her face, but the same
calm and thoughtful expression she often wore.
“You have come a long way, Sir Alexander,” Jane said softly.
“To be wholly honest, I have both been looking forward to your arrival and dreading it.”
“I knew...of course…” she trailed off. “I had the child’s version of your father walking away from the family. However,
seeing this home is quite different than simply knowing it exists.”
“It has not been easy,” I told her in a moment of truth. “To step into your world from this one.”
“It is our world, Alexander.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “I think of you as even dearer than my own brother, God bless
his soul.”
The compliment swelled within my chest—I had studied and learned and done all that I knew to do to be a worthy heir to
the Marchand estate, and the persons who came with it. To know that I was not failing in this endeavor meant more than Jane
would ever know. Though, a fortnight in Bridlington may change her mind.
Her eyes darted over the façade of the modest home again.
I patted her hand. “I also must warn you that Mother and Aunt saw fit to⁠—”
 “Jane! Jane!” Rebecca bounded down the stairs and nearly collided with us as we stepped inside. “You will never guess
where we are to sleep!”
“The attic,” I whispered. “I am sorry.”
“You can see the ocean through the most charming window! You will love it!” Rebecca spun and darted back up the stairs
—no hint of gray fur, which meant the cat was loose in the house. Which further meant that I was very likely to suffer another
wound from the beast. Only Rebecca could love such a creature.
Jane raised a brow.
“We thought you two young ladies might like a bit of adventure while you are visiting our wild coast,” Aunt explained.
“Mrs. Marchand is upstairs acquainting your sister with the house.”
“Thank you so much for having us,” Jane said. “Might I inquire where our ladies’ companion is to stay?”
“We have…” I cleared my throat. “A family room for her. I thought you may wish for some privacy,” I explained. “We are
also very amenable to moving you and Rebecca to one of the family rooms and giving Miss Butler the attic.”
Our eyes met, both of us knowing that would be the proper solution, but a corner of Jane’s mouth twitched upward.
“Neither of us wishes to hear my sister whine if we are not to have our adventure,” Jane said, polite as always.
“Jane will insist on tea.” Rebecca stopped at the bottom of the stairs once again, her cheeks flushed with exercise. “But
once we are finished, will you please take us to the sea?”
“It is but a short walk,” I explained, knowing that I could never relax and enjoy tea with Rebecca’s small feet tapping on
the floor in impatience. “Perhaps we could take tea upon our return?”
Rebecca began clapping until Jane stared at her sister long enough that Rebecca’s visage grew more somber.
“If that suits you?” My question was more for Jane than Rebecca.
With a slow sigh, Jane turned back toward the door. “We have spent many hours in the carriage.”
In moments, Rebecca had darted ahead on the trail, leaving Jane to walk with me. We walked in comfortable silence.
Familiar silence.
“It is beautiful here,” Jane said. “I see now why you miss it.”
“It is beautiful,” I agreed.
“Thank you for this time in Bridlington,” she said. “I’ve been so anxious about London that I felt as if I could not bear
practicing my walking and dancing and all the other necessary details that come with preparing for my season.”
“And I have been anxious for you to be here and to see the place that raised me.” In ways. In other ways, I worried their
judgment may taint their feelings toward my person and my worthiness to have such a presence in their lives.
Rebecca had disappeared from view, but this path didn’t split for some time, so Jane and I continued to walk slowly. She
talked of Miss Butler and her tutelage and how at times she found it helpful and at other times found her nerves taking over her
thoughts.
Two heads appeared ahead of us on the trail, moving our way. Rebecca’s pink bonnet next to Charlotte’s wild tresses.
More pieces of my life were coming together, and I dreaded Jane’s examination of Charlotte, almost as much as the dread I
felt in knowing Rebecca would adore her. And Charlotte...this would only give her more reason to feel me so wholly altered,
which pricked at my heart in ways that her opinion should not.
“I have found a childhood friend of Alexander’s!” Rebecca called.
Charlotte smiled and the same familiar warmth grew within me.
“I supposed the same rules do not apply in a place such as this,” Jane said softly. “For her to be walking alone.”
“The same rules don’t apply to Charlotte,” I explained.
Jane’s gaze paused on me for a moment longer than normal. “You use Christian names with her?”
“We grew up together,” I explained as we walked closer.
“But you are no longer children,” Jane urged.
I had possibly broken more rules that weren’t as clear to me as they could be.
And in a too-brief moment, we were all four standing together. Charlotte’s dress stained along the bottom. Her hair flying
free. Her cheeks freckled from the sun. Fortunately, she still had shoes upon her feet.
Next to Rebecca and Jane in their fine traveling clothes, the contrast was stark.
“Miss Kinsley, this is my ward and cousin, Miss Jane Marchand,” I said. “And it seems you have already become
acquainted with Miss Rebecca.”
“Lovely to meet you.” Charlotte’s demeanor changed, and she gave a slight curtsy, greeting Jane as if we were at an event
in London rather than on the hillside.
Proper voice. Proper short curtsy. Demure tone. The gestures did not seem as foreign on her as I supposed they might be.
Charlotte would forever be full of surprises.
“And you,” Jane responded. “We have heard a few stories of you, Benjamin, and Sir Alexander.”
A slight snort escaped Charlotte at the “sir.”
“We have been invited to a picnic,” Rebecca announced.
 “How lovely,” Jane responded.
“Yes,” Charlotte jumped in. “Levi said we can explore the ruins anytime we like. He’s been bored and lonely in that big
old abbey, so Simon and Isabelle decided on a picnic on the grounds.”
“Levi?” Jane questioned.
“Oh, yes.” Charlotte paused. “Mr. Harding. He is the owner of the abbey.”
“You two must be close then?” Jane asked.
“He’s a lovely friend,” Charlotte responded before peering up at me with eyes that still made my heart flip within my chest.
“Please say you will join us.”
“We do not wish to intrude upon a family affair,” I responded.
“Oh, goodness, Alex.” Charlotte scoffed. “It’s just me, my parents, Simon, Isabelle, and Levi. You cannot be an intrusion in
that party.”
“Simon and Isabelle?” Jane questioned.
“Simon and Isabelle Windham,” Charlotte said. “Isabelle’s my sister.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Windham?” Jane asked again. “I believe I’ve met his parents.”
“They are quite social,” Charlotte said distractedly. “Will you join our party? It is in three days’ time, which should give
everyone a chance to recover from the long journey.”
Rebecca’s wide, pleading eyes were something I could rarely say no to. “We would love to, as long as Miss Marchand and
Miss Rebecca are not too tired.”
“We will be delighted to join you!” Rebecca smiled widely.
“That is fabulous news. I am headed to my sister’s house now and will say that you have accepted.” Charlotte tipped her
head forward in a brief nod. “I will not detain you from your walk. Perhaps Sir Alexander will share some stories from his
youth.”
Pleasant farewells were exchanged as I stood between my youth and my future and then Charlotte disappeared from sight.
We walked down the path toward the ocean, my thoughts still tangled in seeing Charlotte while also serving in my new
position in a more official capacity.
“So…” Jane drew out. “Should we continue to find you a match Sir Alexander, or have you settled upon your friend?” Jane
asked as Rebecca once again ran ahead.
I shook my head. “I cannot see how Charlotte Kinsley could be a possibility.”
“Hmm,” was all Jane said in response.
Jane was pretty, smart, thoughtful, and the exact type of young woman that men in my position wished for. If she desired it,
she would find a match her first season.
While Jane felt a sister to me, I also knew I should rely on her to find someone of her temperament for my own match. The
weight at the prospect was a familiar one.
“I have touched the sea!” Miss Rebecca hollered from in front of us.
Jane released a sigh. “I knew her impetuous side would come out here.”
As did I. “Thankfully, there are few persons of consequence in Bridlington.”
“And how shall we reign her in once we leave?”
How indeed.
 7
CHARLO E

T hehadnoon sun had been hidden for a good portion of our picnic, casting a comfortable shade for our entire party. Each family
spread a large blanket and comfortable chatter filled the afternoon air.
“Simon requested bread pudding for your sake, Charlotte,” Isabelle whispered in my ear. She straightened and brushed a
wrinkle from her afternoon dress. “No matter what he claims, he has a weak spot for you...just as Miles and Juliet and I have.
That is your lot as the youngest sister.”
I took another bite of the pudding. I neither deserved such affection nor wished it different. My sisters’ love, despite them
not understanding me, was truly as delicious as the dessert beside me. “I admit I have not the fancy to marry, but if I did, I
could never hope to find a husband as good as Simon or Miles.”
Isabelle’s lips hinted at a smile. “What of Benjamin?”
I considered the idea, as I had many times. Almost eight years had passed since his entry into the navy. Unlike Alexander, I
had not seen Benjamin at all since. Our last goodbye had been tear-filled on my part. I’d been so jealous, so angry I was a
woman and not allowed to go on the same adventures as Ben. He and I were so similar, and the pairing made great sense. If
Ben wished for my hand, I would agree, for being a sea-captain’s wife seemed the only mode of marriage I would enjoy.
Having a husband who was often gone, and who knew my nature when in town, felt a much safer prospect after experiencing
what the men of London sought for in a wife.
“Well?” Isabelle nudged me with her elbow.
I shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Simon showed me the paper over breakfast, and it seems your Benjamin has come into a great deal of money. In fact, the
navy is heralding him as a rising star, one of the next in line to become a captain. Twenty-three years old. The notion is unheard
of, Charlotte.”
Again, I considered. “Prize money? Did he capture pirates then?”
“Really, Charlotte?” Her brows danced upward. “No, an enemy ship. They took an entire shipment. Imagine the Harding’s
loss of years ago, and his shipment was not a fourth the amount that Benjamin helped to capture.”
“I see.”
My niece climbed atop my lap, disrupting my bread pudding and sending it to the quilt we sat upon. Thank goodness
Isabelle’s cook had sent a large portion on my behalf. Still. Such a waste of heavenly effort.
Felicity’s lips fell into a pout. “Aunt Lottie, please say I can come to the ruins too.”
Isabelle clicked her tongue. “We’ve already been over this, dear. The ruins are too far away for your little legs. Papa and I
will settle you in the house with Nurse while the others embark. You shall have Annabelle and James to keep you company—
and an entire abbey. A magical place. Mr. Harding will have to tell you the tales later.”
Felicity groaned.
Watching my niece being escorted back into the house, with the other children, was more entertainment than the rest of the
company provided. She walked with her head down, an enormous frown plastered across her face, and she flung her arms in a
dramatic way.
I’d have felt just the same. I detested being made to sit out an adventure.
Alexander and his wards were finishing their meal and like the gentleman he had become, he cautiously helped Miss
Marchand to her feet. Miss Rebecca was already moving for the crumbling stones.
Mother and Papa stood, awaiting our walk to the ruins. As per usual, I remained eating after most. I dabbed at my lips and
hurried to join them.
Mr. Harding began the task of relaying the history of the place.
I did not listen for more than seconds before forging forward. I knew these lands, and I certainly knew the history. I’d
longed to explore this place for many, many years. Since childhood.
The Marchand sisters trailed me, though they remained in earshot of Mr. Harding as proper guests were required. I adored
familiarity. Mr. Harding had become a second father figure to me, and we’d shared many conversations on my morning walks.
He was a dear soul, a man that truly did not mind my ways.
Not that minding my ways would have changed me. Rather, I appreciated his acceptance and approval. That was to be
celebrated—to be approved by a man of both adventure and society.
I paused when the Hosmer Hill ruins came into view. Towers amidst the rubble, greenery growing between and over and
around the archways. Sunlight peeked through cracks and openings; shadowed doorways housed spirits of long ago.
Mr. Harding’s property had once boasted much more than the abbey. An entire settlement had lived upon this cliff, within
those broken walls. I rubbed my gloved hands together, imagining the possibilities before me. What had this scene looked like
before the rains and wind had washed them away? And, how could something as slight as wind and rain, coupled with time,
ever do such a thing to such a place?
Benjamin, Alexander, and I had trespassed upon the ruins as children, but after a heavy chiding from the then owner, we
had not dared step foot there again. Not when Mr. Fielding had threatened to speak to our parents or, worse, fine each of us.
There had been adventure enough elsewhere. Neither Benjamin nor Alexander nor I had money to be spared. At least not then.
Alexander now claimed the title of baronet and possessed money and property we had only dreamed of, and Benjamin had just
claimed a large portion of prize money during his career in the Navy.
I’d remained poor, and the ruins had lived on in my mind. I sighed, turning to the oldest of Alexander’s wards. She flinched
when I gazed at her. “Miss Marchand, what do you think of that?”
“Those piles of rock?”
My mouth dropped in surprise. Since our meeting, Jane had seemed to think herself above and better than my ways. I’d
been to London; I was well aware my ways did not always tickle the fancy of other ladies. But here? These ruins? These
cliffs? This majestic scene of what once was? No one could truly believe themselves above this type of enjoyment, could they?
“I assume you refer to the ruins when you say ‘piles of rock’?” I adjusted my bonnet, though I wished to remove it
completely. “Village ruins may seem inconsequential, but these cliffs, these ruins—these are the places of smugglers and
romance. You cannot say that does not interest you, can you? The stories that lay within a place’s history?”
She shrugged. “History has its place. My governess taught me well of England’s history, though I doubt she wished me to
dwell upon smugglers or scandals.”
My eyes widened, and I onced again was taken aback by Jane’s aloofness. She was so young, so inexperienced. I was not
much better than her, but four years older and two seasons in London seemed sufficient claim to some experience. I suppressed
a smile. “Yes, very unbecoming subjects to be sure.”
She must have sensed my insincerity, for she turned away.
Alexander, escorting the younger ward, paused at Jane’s side to catch his breath. “I forgot the path was so rocky. Did you
recall those stone walls back there? I don’t remember climbing them before.”
I shook my head, trying not to look as disappointed as I felt. “Please say you have not grown weak, Alex.”
Rebecca giggled. “Not at all, Miss Kinsley. You see, I managed to get stuck atop that stone wall...twice. Alexander was
forced to catch me and Oliver Cromwell both times.”
Alexander released a heavy breath. “That cat gave me a sizable scratch as a thank you.”
Suppressing a smile became impossible when I caught sight of the cat. Oliver Cromwell looked like most any cat would
under similar conditions; his fur was matted from the humid air, his neck pulled back in seeming disgust, and his claws looked
to be sunk into Rebecca’s overcoat as if he clung for his life.
That creature possessed the ability to simultaneously appear pitiful and ornery.
Rebecca giggled again as she lovingly stroked his broad head. “He meant none of it. He just isn’t used to the country yet.”
“He is a cat of the town then?” Alexander rubbed a hand over the red sliver on his neck. “Does he prefer punch or ratafia?
As host to Oliver Cromwell, I must know his preference.”
“Milk. The dear loves his milk.” Rebecca’s attention turned to me, her eyes bright. “Would you like to hold him, Miss
Kinsley?”
“Perhaps another time.” I bit my lip. I wouldn’t have touched that cat with a long stick. Oliver Cromwell could only have
been loveable to one—and only one—person on earth...Rebecca, dear soul that she was, must have been blind not to see what
a wretched creature that cat was. “We are almost to the center of the ruins! Such beauty.”
Mr. Harding and my parents brought up the rear of the group. Isabelle and Simon were still at the abbey, settling their
children with the nurse, but they promised to join us as soon as they could.
I forged onward, reaching the first stone archway before the rest of the party. One step inside the broken room, and I
released a sigh. Possibilities pulsed through my being. Ivy sprawled across the ceiling in a multitude of directions, providing a
blanket of green against the cracked covering. Strange shapes danced across the ground, as clouds rolled over the sky and the
sun peeked through.
Imagination consumed me. I pressed a hand against the plant-covered stone and then twirled in the open space. I was not
the type of girl that often opted to spin around, though places like this ignited an unmatched joy, a feeling that encompassed me
so fully I could not help but express it.
 How I wished I’d been born hundreds of years earlier. I might have lived in this very place, fought off smugglers—or
perhaps aided them. I imagined the adventure, the sneaking and the sailing. How I loved the ocean and sailing. A woman had
the fortunate position of never being suspected of such things and the unfortunate position of expectations.
Thankfully, I’d never adhered to those—not in the traditional way. Yes, I wore bonnets in company such as this. Yes, I
behaved in London.
But here?
I tugged at the ribbons on my neck, tossing my bonnet to the side. If not for the Marchand sisters, I’d have taken down my
hair completely. But, as Alexander reminded me, propriety sometimes was an act of kindness, and Jane Marchand was already
far too nervous around me. If Alexander cared for his ward, even if it was in a fatherly or brotherly way, I would spare Jane
the shock.
“What are you doing?”
I spun to face Alexander, nearly knocking into him when I lost my balance. My breath was heavy, and I laughed at the
surprise. “Imagining.”
He steadied me by the arm. “Yes, just as you did years ago. You suggested burying treasure here. I well remember.”
“Yes.” My mouth opened, and I laughed again. He remembered? My heart seemed to swell at another glimpse of the friend
from my childhood. “But you did not agree with my scheme of stealing away Mrs. Clifton’s beloved vase. Ben was quite on my
side, as I remember. I suppose even then you were responsible.”
His lips pulled to one side. “Even Mrs. Clifton does not deserve your silliness.”
“She wouldn’t have even noticed.” I waved his concern away. “She hardly saw it on the mantle, if she saw it at all.”
Alexander’s eyes widened at my declaration, and his lips spread into the first true smile since my return. He shook his
head. “Oh, Charlotte. You are unbelievably wicked.”
Warmth spread throughout my chest, and I sighed. For most, his words were no compliment. “Do not tell me you think she
would have missed the vase? Mrs. Clifton’s only care is holding young ladies hostage with drawn out conversation. And, as a
child, that vase was the most valuable artifact I could think of. I was so limited in my experience.”
He laughed. He actually laughed. A genuine, surprised but amused laughter sparked my own grin. “Truly, you are wicked.
You will never convince me that thieving from Mrs. Clifton is acceptable.”
I nodded. “No, you are right. I felt quite justified as a child, but now...I see the silliness of the idea, even if I wish we had
actually followed through. Just think of it! We might have dug and recovered the vase this very day, presented Mrs. Clifton with
the offering as penance.”
“You… penitent?” His lips relaxed into a calm curve.
The warmth in my chest seemed to rise to my cheeks when I realized he still held a hand to my arm. When had his hands
grown so large, so strong?
“I suppose even young rascals can grow into women of morals.” Alex searched my gaze for some time, as if he recognized
my nerves. He brushed his thumb against my arm, as if to ask if I was well.
Another sign of Alexander. We’d never had the usual barriers when it came to physical contact. We’d held hands as
children, even until he left for Eton. His touch felt as comfortable and welcome as the sight of the cliffs. So why had my
breathing ceased?
I swallowed and moved to collect my bonnet. “Perhaps we will find a new treasure today. And anyway, you must have
heard about Ben.”
“Benjamin?” He retreated. “I have not stayed acquainted with any news that I ought to due to Jane and Rebecca busying my
thoughts.”
My eyes widened. “He has won a large sum from his recent voyage—something about a captured ship. The London papers
covered it in great detail. Isabelle and Simon were the ones to speak of it. I imagine he shall become a captain in no time at all.
Imagine! The three of us...you a baronet now...Ben a captain soon...and I…”
There it was again. What was I to become?
“And you…?”
I shrugged. Nervous laughter came. “I shall haunt these cliffs, I suppose. But before then, I will become a spinster aunt who
does nothing but cause trouble for my sisters’ children. Particularly Felicity. I shall teach her to fish and swim.”
His eyes fluttered to a momentary close. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”
I fiddled with the strings of my bonnet, wrapping them around my fingers.
Relief flooded me when Oliver Cromwell darted across the space, Rebecca in tow. Her expression mirrored mine when
seeing the archway moments earlier. “Dear me, what beauty. Oliver has taken to exploring. Imagine that.”
I arched a brow. The cat was more likely dodging Rebecca’s smothering.
Rebecca beamed up at me. “Miss Kinsley, must I call you that? Alexander is always calling you Charlotte, as you are
nearly brother and sister, and⁠—”
“I’ve never claimed such a relation,” he snapped, folding his arms.
 Humor buzzed inside my cheeks and I recalled our reunion at the beach and his strange shyness. “You must call me
Charlotte, Rebecca. But Alex is right. Never brother and sister, though once we were quite inseparable like only the best of
friends can be.”
“Exactly so.” His hand moved to my arm once more.
I startled, once more unsettled by his glance and the warmth in my chest. I cleared my throat, hoping to sound as unaffected
as possible. “And now, I quite need to search for artifacts. Mr. Harding said arrowheads, locks and key, and an assortment of
antiquities can be found. I must search, for my collection is waiting.”
Rebecca squealed, clapped her hands together. “Please allow me to join you, Charlotte.”
I took her hand in mine and led her through crumbled passageways, all the while avoiding Alexander and the strange
awareness that something significant had changed between us. Yet, neither his duty nor my refusal for such duty was to blame.
There was a tangible feeling between us, something akin to the tide—a push and pull of sorts. I rather felt one, or both of us,
might be sucked under such a pull. I’d never considered the magnetism of childhood. Did most persons’ pasts cling to them in
such a way?
“Mr. Cromwell!” Rebecca exclaimed when one of Mr. Harding’s dogs ran through the ruins. Her light hair and blue eyes
were so alike Jane’s and, in turn, Alexander’s. The Marchand blood ran thick. She squeezed my hand, pulling me to the last
passageway where we had seen that dreadful cat. “Dogs frighten him to no end. He’ll be lost for days if we don’t get to him.
Poor, panicked creature.”
I complied but only out of concern for Rebecca. Her enthusiasm for life was infectious and endearing, and her easy
attachment to me only sparked an equal desire in me to help her. Even now, the gray clouds began their drizzling once again.
Where was my bonnet now, a moment I actually wished for its cover?
“Oliver Cromwell! Oliver!” Rebecca began to shout, until our entire party had joined our pursuit. “Do not be afraid!”
“My dog won’t bother the animal,” Mr. Harding explained, but then he paused as if reconsidering. “Not unless your cat
takes to hissing and scratching.”
Alexander rubbed a finger against his neck. “That he does.”
Rebecca whimpered, pulling me to the tallest of the ruins, where an old cathedral wall stood. As providence would have it,
we heard a hiss, followed by growl and bark. Then, a streak of gray darted up the wall and to the remnants of a roofline.
I swallowed. “Seems we found Oliver Cromwell.”
My young companion was near tears. “Alexander, you must come quick. Cromwell has run himself to the most precarious
position. You must save him. Alexander!”
My hair was already dampening at an alarming speed. I turned, searching for my parents. They were nestled quite safely
beneath a more intact roof, and they beckoned me to join them. Mr. Harding and the elder Marchand daughter stood beside
them. Isabelle and Simon had been spared. Felicity’s tantrum had saved my sister and brother in law from witnessing a tragic
rainstorm.
Rebecca grasped at my arm still, unwilling or unable to release me.
Alexander reached our side, and Rebecca was made to repeat her entire request. Her voice grew shaky, and she was near
white with worry. He listened, scanning the length of the wall. At last, he spoke. “Mr. Cromwell will have to find his own way
out of this predicament. I could not possibly climb such a wall, not even in good weather. My weight is enough to crumble that
stone.”
“Not at all.” Rebecca shook her head, but her efforts to reassure him were wasted. “You see, these walls have endured this
long. Surely they can support you.”
Alexander sighed. I recognized that shake of his head, the way he seemed to literally dig his heels deeper into the ground.
“I cannot, Rebecca. We will have to come back for Oliver Cromwell when the rain subsides. Perhaps a treat to lure him
down?”
Her round eyes filled with monstrous tears, the size of which I had never encountered. “Please, Alexander. We cannot leave
him here.”
“Less than ideal, I agree.” He walked closer, glancing at the angle. His tone softened, and his pitch rose. “Oliver
Cromwell, come. Come down. Here, boy.”
The fruitless endeavor might have made me smile, if not for the sound of Rebecca’s sobs.
I removed my gloves, pulling up the hem of my dress. Unless I wished the cat to be soaked through, stuck on that stone
pitch, someone—and, I had a notion only I would do—needed to scale the wall in order to rescue the creature.
“Charlotte, no.” Alexander’s attention flooded over me. His gaze landed upon my bare hands from the opposite end of the
ruined home. “Whatever you are scheming, I ask you to reconsider.”
I began the task of unbuttoning my spencer, all the while avoiding meeting his eyes. The jacket restricted my arms, and if I
was to climb with any amount of freedom, I would need it off. “If it could be helped, Alex, I would not dream of risking my
neck for a cat.”
His brows lifted. “But it can be helped, and you needn’t risk your neck for that dreadful...thing.”
 Handing my spencer and gloves to Rebecca, I hoisted myself to the first ledge, an opening where a window had once
resided. I grunted with the effort but managed to brace myself when I stood.
“Charlotte, get down from there,” Mother called from beneath her protective roof. “You mustn’t do anything foolish. Your
father’s skills as a physician only reach so far. Even he cannot fix foolish.”
I pretended not to hear her and looked to Rebecca instead. “I shall get Oliver Cromwell. You may rest assured on that
account. Dry your tears.”
Her blue eyes rounded, and her sobs subsided in an instance. “You mean to…”
Alexander sighed, coming after me. “Yes, cousin. She means to climb that wall, in the rain, to get your cat.”
I hugged the stone pillar separating the arched windows, sliding my body around each window opening and pillar until I
reached the dreaded roofline. The ledge sat just above my head, and I swallowed before grasping at it.
By now, my parents, Alexander, Jane, and even Rebecca began to protest. Only Mr. Harding remained silent.
The rain came down at a steady pace, drenching the obstacle before me and mixing with the dirt and plant residue to create
a surface more slippery than the ocean’s seaweed floor. I wrapped my fingers around two strongholds, pushing my feet against
protruding rocks. My left foot slipped for a half second, and I remedied the situation by sticking it firmly into a nook.
Cats were not suitable pets in my opinion. The animals seemed far too lazy and particular. And, their fur! I had seen a cat
brush up against a person’s leg, kicking up an unacceptable amount of dust in its wake. More unfortunate, felines were so unlike
dogs; they did not fetch sticks nor swim nor do anything exciting at all.
Oliver Cromwell deserved his own subspecies of felines, a subspecies of particularly miserable creatures without any
sense at all. At least other cats had the sense not to climb a wet ruin wall when I was wearing my favorite afternoon dress.
Other cats had enough sense to be lazy, to think only of themselves. Oliver Cromwell had not thought of anything or anyone
except his own fear of a perfectly harmless dog.
“Please,” Alexander pleaded below.
I offered a weak smile. My voice was shaky from the exertion and grew only shakier when I realized my predicament. The
ground was far below, and if I were to fail in this rescue attempt, I would be rewarded with at least one broken bone. Perhaps
a set of them or a cracked skull. Certainly not my finest moment of judgment, but thankfully, my father knew how to pick up the
pieces should I fall.
He called to me again. “Charlotte, that cat is not worth the trouble.”
Seeing his worry strengthened my resolve. I pulled to the top of the roofline and stopped to catch my breath. The cat was
only a few feet away. I beckoned to the animal, attempting to sound as nurturing as Rebecca.
A rock clattered below. “Charlotte. The walls cannot hold my weight. I cannot help. Please come down. I will stand below
you, and if you fall you will break the bones of both of us!”
“Then, I shall not fall,” I teased. “A little faith, Alex.”
My attempts did not fool Oliver Cromwell. For all his stupidity, he possessed more faculty than I’d given him credit for. He
did not trust me—a smart conclusion, in general, considering I detested him.
Yet, I did care for Rebecca, even after only a short acquaintance. There was something endearing about a person that could
love a cat like Oliver Cromwell. Something undeniably loveable about someone so ready to accept and love me too. Rebecca
was worth a ruined dress, a bit of danger, and Mother’s disapproval.
When the cat did not respond, I inched closer, balancing in a crouched position so that my hands might steady myself
against the slant. I swiped one arm in his direction, grazing against a patch of wet fur.
My hand was met with a set of sharp claws in reply.
I growled.
“Charlotte, you must come down. Oliver Cromwell will follow suit, I am sure,” Rebecca called through broken sobs. “I
could not bear it if you fell!”
Sucking in a deep breath, I attempted to snatch the cat once more. My hand came back empty, but the effort did enough to
cause Oliver Cromwell to lose his balance. He fell down the slant and into my arms, however reluctantly. That same set of
claws sunk into my arm, and I hissed in response but counted the act as a success. I had the dirty beast within my grasp, and I
let out a victorious cheer.
“I am still as underneath you as I can be,” Alexander said. “Please just drop the cat, Charlotte. I daresay he will land on his
feet.”
The last comment was clearly a forced attempt at humor.
My descent was met with far more approval than my climb.
Rebecca nearly tackled me in an attempt to get to her beloved Mr. Cromwell. “Oh, Charlotte! How can I ever thank you?”
I gladly dropped the cat into her arms and went to find my spencer. The rain chilled me to my bones, and I was sure I would
only grow colder.
Alexander was beside me before I could reach my now soaked jacket and gloves. He tore off his topcoat and placed it
around my shoulders. The gesture both surprised me and warmed more than my shivering body.
 His expression startled me. Mingled with the concern evident in his wrinkled brows and the way he massaged at his
temples, there was something more...something substantial that I struggled to identify. He finally spoke. “You shouldn’t have.”
But then what was that expression? I swallowed, pulling the collar of his coat around my neck and chin. “Rebecca
wouldn’t stop crying.”
He nodded. “But that⁠—”
“Lottie, we haven’t got time to stand around,” Father chided. “Mr. Harding will take you back to the house straight away.
There will be warm blankets and tea.”
I nodded, following my father and Mr. Harding while clutching the lapels of Alexander’s warm coat.

Charlotte,
I imagine it no surprise my letters come sporadically and irregular in length. Let that be proof that I am
ever the same as I once was—focused on the adventure and tasks in front of me without spending too much time
glancing backward. I do hope, however, that this letter finds you at home in Bridlington for I have been granted
a rare but much-needed leave. I shall arrive at my parent’s house just before Harvest Festival (and have been
invited to attend as the guest of honor—imagine my surprise!). I can think of nothing better than seeing you.
Currently, I am in London on navy business, but I will travel to Bridlington at soon as possible. Eight
years is far too long a separation for friends such as we.
-Ben

Ben,
You are coming home then? Isabelle said as much after she read about your recent success. Alexander is
also at home, but I’ve decided to call him Lord Marchand instead. As you may guess, the embellished title
irritates him to no end. So, of course I continue to use Lord in place of Sir. A wealthy baronet seems no different
than a baron or viscount or earl—just do not tell him I admit it. My mother would censure me if she heard me
speak of the gentry in such a lumped category.
Do come, and please bring with you the treats of London. Bridlington’s sweets have little to offer by way
of the marzipan and caramel varieties.
Charlotte
 8
ALEXANDER

Sir Alexander -
My daughters’ letters both contained such delight at the quaintness of your family home and the
adventures they have already experienced. I know I do not need to remind you to exercise caution as we both
know I have lost much already - but do take care to watch my dear Rebecca. Her untamed nature may be the
death of me.
Though, I do think this situation may prove to be just the thing to help draw my Jane out of her very quiet
disposition—not that I wish her to be so forward as her sister, but a young woman needs some resolve before
facing the wolves of London.
May I ask if they are indeed in the attic? Jane did not make mention; however, Rebecca’s long letter was
filled with every detail. Is this correct? I cannot conceive of it.
The house is so very quiet with all of you parted at once. Thankfully, I have my dear friends and horses to
keep me company. Your man of business will be accompanying me to London, and I look forward to seeing all of
you there.
Mrs. Marchand
P.S. Even as you insist on still using my former title, I cannot. That title dissolved with the death of my
husband. Once you have settled on a wife, the title will be rightfully hers.

Lady Marchand,
Know that you shall always be Lady Marchand in my mind. I do regret to inform you that your daughters
are indeed in the attic. I cringe as I write this. I promise that my mother and aunt took thoughtful care in
creating an “adventurous” space for them while in town—affording them some privacy and a lovely view of the
sea.
Miss Butler has been a delight and so thoughtful in her instruction with Jane. I do attempt to urge
Rebecca to listen in and partake, however, the short walk to the sea with my dear childhood friend seems too
much of a distraction. I hope that coming to London and observing more fully what a season entails, will
encourage Miss Rebecca to pay more heed to Miss Butler’s teachings.
Time has passed quickly since their arrival. We shall all be together in London in no time.
Your Faithful Servant,
Sir Alexander

J ane sat on a rock in the sun, a book of poetry resting in her lap. Rebecca danced in and out of the water, screeching in a way
she’d have never done at home. I wasn’t sure that the sisters’ visit was having quite the effect their mother had hoped for.
Jane seemed as quiet and steady as always, and Rebecca appeared more like Charlotte in temperament each day.
“Do you not wish to put your feet in the water?” Rebecca called to me over her shoulder.
The truth was that I’d have loved a swim. I did not dare in front of my wards. “I’m quite content.”
“Are you?” Jane said so softly from behind me that I nearly didn’t hear her.
And no, I was not at all content. I had watched Charlotte read poetry with Jane, breaking a smile from the ever-stoic young
woman, and watched her show Rebecca how to cast a line into the water in the hopes of capturing a fish. I had listened to Miss
Butler attempt to teach both girls, and also listened to Jane responding as she ought.
I had taken days for business and days for pleasure and now we had settled into something of a routine in our new
surroundings.
The sound of the sea had settled me into a deep reverie. The ocean near London was always fraught with traffic and debris
—not like here where the waves came clearly and openly from the distant parts of the ocean.
Jane stood abruptly. “Miss Butler will be expecting us.”
With a heaved sigh, Rebecca returned to Jane’s side, dusted the sand off her feet, and worked on her stocking and shoes
while I pointedly stared out at the water.
My thoughts continued to stray to the conversation I’d overheard between Isabelle and Charlotte. Isabelle asking Charlotte
about Benjamin, and I could not argue with her logic of being married to someone in the navy. Someone who knew her. Who
would, by default, give her much freedom. I selfishly preferred the scenario that allowed Charlotte to stay in a cottage on the
grounds of Whitingham Hall and spend her days on the shores she loved so much. I despised that Benjamin had more to offer
her. Charlotte cared not for money or possessions—though, it appeared that Benjamin would be able to provide for her on that
matter as well.
Even though I was older, I would forever be the most docile of the three of us.
The house had come into view when my mind finally caught up to the present.
“Are you all right?” Rebecca’s head rested to the side as she studied me.
“Quite.” I forced a smile.
“You’ll be glad to know that I plan on fully enjoying my lesson today as Miss Butler has promised to teach us a few
dances.”
Blast. I had forgotten that my presence was needed that afternoon. I would much prefer a nap in the sun among the ruins of
Mr. Harding’s abbey.
I changed my boots for the slippers I wore to balls and presented myself downstairs where Aunt had already begun to
warm up her fingers on the piano.
“Are you prepared?” Miss Butler asked as I stepped into the room.
“I am happy to dance with whichever of my cousins you see fit,” I responded. “I am fully at your disposal.”
It was decided quickly that Jane was in more urgent need of my services, so I found myself standing opposite her as Aunt
played. Jane studied her feet as she bit her lip, and Miss Butler instructed from the side of the room.
“You must give your partner some attention,” Miss Butler urged. “Jane. You must look up and trust your feet.”
Jane’s arms dropped as she stepped away, and I stopped.
I had no idea how to help her feel more confident. She knew the steps. She had practiced, and once dancing, most eager
partners were very willing to be led by someone with more experience.
“My turn then!” Rebecca immediately took her sister’s place, and Aunt began a lively tune, allowing me to twirl Rebecca
in circles until she laughed so hard she could hardly stay upright.
We paused, I drew in a long breath, and then frowned at Jane’s stoic expression.
“You will be all right,” I promised her. “There is always dancing at the festival here, which is in only a few days’ time.
You will gain practice in a much simpler setting.”
Jane swallowed, nodded, and her eyes welled with tears.
“We have had a long day,” I said to Jane.
“I would love some help in town,” Aunt said as she stepped into the room.
Rebecca lept at the chance to once again visit the few shops in Bridlington.
“Miss Butler”—I turned to face her—“you should take some liberty this evening.”
Her lips pursed but she didn’t speak, and I knew she felt I was often too kind to the sisters, but I could not help myself. Jane
and I had both lost our fathers near the age of ten. Rebecca was young enough to not have known her father as well, and
therefore, her scars hadn’t run as deeply.
Jane had been sitting with her father when his heart stopped, had yelled for help as he drew his last breaths. A young
woman who had been exposed to such horrors would always maintain a more serious disposition.
She started up the stairs.
“Jane, do not fret,” I said as kindly as I could. “You will love London, and I promise to do what I can to make your first
season enjoyable.”
She nodded slightly. “I shall nap with that feral creature Rebecca insisted on bringing.”
I snorted in response. Dismissing her frustrations was the very essence of who Jane was, and I wished I could do more for
her.
If only there was a way to draw some of Charlotte’s wildness and place it within Jane. Just a pinch. Charlotte would not
miss it and Jane would greatly benefit.
 I could not believe I was considering, but I did think that Charlotte could possibly do Jane a world of good—I would only
need to find something tempting enough for Rebecca to not be devastated to be left out...and I would need to see if Charlotte
was amenable to my wishes.
And then…and then I would attempt to quiet my heart while spending more time with Charlotte Kinsley.
 9
CHARLO TE

T hepooling
north side of Flamborough Head held my favorite beach, a parting between the cliffs that allowed, during low tide, rock
and exploration of whatever the ocean saw fit to wash ashore. The tip of Flamborough Head was eight miles from
Bridlington, a couple miles closer than that to our cottage.
I took my time that morning, alternating Brash between walking and trotting. Papa and Mother had long done away with
trying to restrict my morning time outdoors. Where they once had required a sister or companion to accompany me, I was now
given independence. My routes were as familiar as the people that crossed them. I rarely saw anyone at all, and, if I did, Mr.
Harding or a few friendly fishermen from the village were my only conversants. With Papa’s work as a physician, Bridlington
did not provide much in the way of strangers. Poor and wealthy alike—most everyone needed a physician at one time or
another.
Perhaps Mother had given up on me and raising me to make a respectable match and reputation. I’d heard her entertaining
Isabelle at tea a few days earlier; Mother had surrendered all hopes for my future. She did not think I would ever marry. She
did not think another season in London would do the trick. And, Mother claimed, she would have to find satisfaction in having
only Isabelle and Juliet to provide grandchildren.
Brash grazed upon the grass, and I walked beside her, wishing to truly be free of all that lie ahead. I’d felt angry since the
ruins, since sensing the way I’d disappointed the party, caused needless worry, and witnessing the way Mother had spoken
about the ordeal upon our return home. “You’re far too old to climb stone walls or trees. Can you imagine Isabelle or Juliet
doing so? Certainly not! They’ve children and husbands to consider. As well you might, if you quit acting so abominably!”
My sisters would never have attempted such a thing, especially for the likes of Oliver Cromwell. Mother was right; I’d not
considered anyone at all. In truth, I’d fooled myself into believing I’d done it for Rebecca. But, I only needed an excuse—
anything to make me feel something other than the angry fire growing in my chest.
Why did a person have to grow up at all? Why did running about and climbing and chasing have to become childish? And,
at which point? Why had my parents allowed me to do as I pleased at the age of fourteen but then censured me at the age of
fifteen? Did childhood end in a single year, when a young lady’s body decided to transition into a womanly figure?
Benjamin had left home at fourteen, Alexander at fifteen. Both of them had been tasked with immense responsibility. An
entire crew depended on Benjamin, while the entire Marchand family depended upon Alexander. Such weight for boys that had
once been children, friends.
I wrapped Brash’s rein around a log and pulled out my fishing line. I’d removed my boots since arriving at the isolated
beach, along with my bonnet and gloves. I did not wish to be separated from the breeze against my cheeks, the sand beneath my
toes, nor the water against my fingertips.
I sat at the water’s edge for almost an hour, silently casting my line into the ocean. The motions were automatic, and I
lacked my usual enthusiasm.
Would these cliffs be enough for me still, even without the company of my dearest friends? Perhaps I’d end up like Mr.
Harding, dear as he was, with a pocketful of memories and no one left to leave them to.
I startled at the flash of a figure in the water’s reflection. Who, in their right mind, would sneak up on a girl sitting at the
beach? Jumping to my feet, I turned to face my intruder.
Olive skin, tanned to a near exotic tone. Slender but tall, built about the shoulders. A smile so large it nearly overtook his
entire face. And those dark, deep brown eyes.
“Ben!” I dropped my line and jumped into his arms, hugging him.
His body shook with laughter, and he spun me around before returning me to the ground. “Your father thought I might find
you here. Let me look at you. Eight years has been far too long.”
I took a few steps backward, lifting my arms to the side and turning in a circle before curtsying. “Miss Charlotte Kinsley,
most accomplished fisherwoman of East England.”
“Lieutenant Benjamin Turner of the British navy at your service.” He smiled and stepped forward, not bothering to bow.
His eyes ran down my person, inspecting me closer. “My, you’ve not changed a bit, Charlotte.”
 That was almost as wonderful as Alexander complimenting me on my wickedness. “And you have not worn your hat as
dutifully as Mother would have liked. She is bound to mention your tanned skin.”
Benjamin smirked, nodding slowly. “Eight years, and that is what you notice first?”
I smiled. “I could never lie to you, Ben. Not as children and not now. Your features already bordered foreign but now you
look positively pirate instead of the navy hero I hear you are.”
This time, he laughed for a long moment. Then, he gestured to my discarded fishing pole. “Your father said I’d find you
here, though I half expected to find Alex too.”
I returned to my seated position, sinking my bare feet into the sand. “I did mean to meet him. I even invited his wards.
Fishing as we did as children—that was my hope. But, I received a letter this morning that business made the outing
impossible.”
“Sounds like a baronet.”
“Yes.” I wrapped my arms around my middle. I hadn’t wanted to admit to myself the true reason for my melancholy mood
that morning, but hearing the disappointment in my voice made clear what I’d already suspected: I longed to connect with
Alexander as easily as I already had with Benjamin. My only solace in them passing on my invitation was the letter from Alex
asking if I wouldn’t mind spending time with Jane—him believing that Jane could use a little more courage in her dealings
with...everything. I had no idea what I could possibly do with Jane that she would not disdain, but I did mean to think on it.
Benjamin sat beside me, his long legs reaching much farther than mine. “I can’t tell you how I miss this, missed you.”
I took a rock and tossed it into the ocean. “Perhaps we are both like that rock...back where we belong.”
“I wonder if I belong anywhere at all, though if I did, it would be in Flamborough Head. With you⁠—”
“And Alex... I know. I feel just the same.” I paused, glancing over his uniform and sack at his side. I absentmindedly licked
my lips. I must have worked up an appetite from my ride that morning, and the bread and cheese I had packed suddenly seemed
insufficient for my taste. “When did you arrive, and what is in that sack?”
“Yesterday evening. I left London almost directly after receiving your letter.” He held out the fabric sack and sighed,
laughing gently. “I cannot tell whether you are more excited to see me or the sweets that I have brought for you.”
I tilted my head back and forth for a long moment, adding a contemplative hum.
He shook his head, placing the sack on his other side. “I take it back. I don’t think I shall share these sweets with you at
all.”
“At all? You know I am teasing. You are far better than sweets…” My stomach grumbled, as if on cue, and we both
laughed.
“Your stomach betrays the truth.” He began to remove his boots. “Suppose we race for the knapsack? Whoever wins may
claim the marzipan and caramels?”
I lifted a brow and placed a hand at my hip. “A race without your shoes? Also, your legs are near twice the length of mine.
I am fast—I’m glad you remember that—but I cannot agree, for my pride cannot endure losing both a race and the sweets I so
desire.”
He chuckled, removing his overcoat. “I’m not suggesting a footrace. A swim?”
My mouth dropped open. “Oh.”
He nodded. “Or, are you too old and grown up for such a thing?”
The ocean was calm, but the late August day was cooler than most, and a six-mile horse ride home in drenched clothes did
not seem enjoyable. Yet, his challenge and the familiar friendship felt too much of a draw to resist. “Close your eyes. I shall at
least remove my breeches from beneath my dress.”
“Then you’re still making a habit of riding split saddle?” He inhaled slowly. “I am so glad you have not become changed
by London.”
After he turned and I removed my trousers from beneath my dress, we acted our parts as children, diving into the ocean and
swimming. Horror struck me when I realized the navy had transformed Benjamin into quite the swimmer, and I actually had to
exert myself in order to claim the prize.
However, there could be no mistake; I was victorious in my fight for marzipan. Napoleon himself couldn’t have succeeded
as well as I when sweets were on the line.

“Goodness. Go bathe this instant. Charlotte, you smell worse than a changing young man.” Mother took only one look at me
before coughing in the other direction. She stood over the garden beds, watching as Mr. and Mrs. Randal harvested some of the
vegetables for Mrs. Laurent’s meal. “Mr. Randal, take Brash to the stables. I cannot stand to think of Charlotte doing a single
thing until she is clean.”
I paused at the back gate. My skirt was quite dried from the six-mile return ride, and my hair had clumped into a dry crisp
at the back of my neck. Seawater had that effect, though it had been a year since I had experienced it. “I took a short swim,
when Ben insisted on a race.”
“Benjamin?” Mother’s eyes widened, and she sighed before smiling. “My, I had no idea of his being back so quickly. Tell
me, my dear, is he much changed?”
Ben...changed? I shrugged, trying to recall any details that might satisfy my mother. “He is tanned, as expected after living
aboard a ship.”
“No, no. I’m asking substantial changes—did he look as handsome as most navy captains? Perhaps something dignified in
his person, in his presence?” She rubbed her hands together and came to me, taking me by the hand. Somehow, she’d already
forgotten my stench. “What of his eyes and his stature?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I suppose he grew a little taller.”
“Taller?” She dropped my hand and stared at me. “That is all you can recall? Go bathe immediately.”
Never had my mother seemed more disappointed in me. Not when I’d scaled the Hosmer ruin wall nor jumped into the
ocean for Miles’s cravat, and certainly not when I’d returned from a fishing ride in a condition unacceptable for a lady of
London. I scratched at my head the entire time I trekked to the house, trying to make sense of it.

Dear Charlotte,
Your poetry astounds me. To describe the cliffs as high and water deep—however are you not regarded in
the same pool of talent as Lord Byron? In truth, I do fear for England, for as William Blake explains: Poetry
fettered, fetters the human race. Nations are destroyed or flourish in proportion as their poetry, painting, and
music are destroyed or flourish. I would send you a book of poetry, that you may flourish, but I am not foolish
enough to believe you will read it.
Do consider London, little sister. Mama may try to marry you off, as she will do wherever you are, but at
least if you come to London, Isabelle, you, and I will be reunited. Also, Samuel insists you visit again. He longs
for his Aunt Lottie.
Juliet
 10
ALEXANDER

I fbutI hadn’t known Benjamin was in the Navy, I would not have recognized him. Tall. Skin leathered from the sun and sea air,
his smile was the same as from my youth. HIs uniform cut sharply against his figure and he crushed my body in a hug.
“Sir Alexander!” He laughed and clapped my back as he stepped away. “Sod it all...whoever thought you could make
something of yourself.”
“I could say the same,” I said back, feeling my mouth pull into a smile, although the same feeling of competition arose
within me, straightening my shoulders, even knowing he would still be at least an inch taller.
“Will you not invite me in?” he asked.
“Yes!” I gestured toward the parlor. “Of course. My wards are here and would most like…” I trailed off as I saw their
young faces peering over their needlework, their wide eyes fixed on Ben.
Even Miss Butler’s attention had strayed from her book as she peered toward the newly arrived officer.
A wicked tremor of jealousy wrapped around my very being as I followed him into the parlor.
“Lieutenant, Benjamin Turner.” I gestured toward Jane. “Miss Marchand and Miss Rebecca.”
He took each of their hands in turn, and even Jane’s cheeks flushed at his touch. Benjamin was the exact opposite of
someone who would suit the quietness of Jane.
I could and would never approve such a match, not unless Benjamin was much changed, and his forward manner toward
both young ladies said he had not.
“And their companion, Miss Butler.”
His gaze immediately went to Miss Butler, who he gave the same attention as my wards.
“Won’t you sit.” Jane gestured to the chair directly across from herself.
I nearly leapt forward to take the seat, but refrained, waiting for our guest to sit. I could think of nothing but how Benjamin
had always insisted on the very few endeavors he could best me at for competition, how Isabelle mentioned him as a match for
Charlotte, how every young woman’s eye in the room was trained upon Benjamin’s face.
There was a strength to him that was evident in each movement, and for all of my walking and riding, I knew I could never
compete in a feat of strength with a naval officer.
A feat of strength?
We were no longer twelve-year-old boys vying for the same young woman’s attention.
No, we were now men, vying for the same thing, even when I knew attempting to court her would never do her the service
she deserved.
Our routine in Bridlington suddenly felt stifling rather than freeing. There was no good ending for me in this place. There
would be in London, and back home at the Marchand Estate.
My mind had wandered so far that I did not realize Benjamin was speaking of us swimming without clothing for most of our
youth until Rebecca’s voice, cut through my thoughts.
“Is he honest?” Rebecca giggled. “Did you sincerely strip off all your clothes to go sea bathing?”
I swallowed. “We were young.”
“Oh.” Jane covered both cheeks with her hands. “I cannot imagine being so brave.”
Benjamin’s brows waggled. “There are plenty of men who prefer sea bathing without clothing.”
“Ben, whatever words are about to escape your tongue,” I warned, “please withhold them.”
He laughed in response. “Surely they should know of your youthful escapades!”
“Surely not…” I caught Oliver Cromwell crawling along the floor from the corner of my eye.
Benjamin currently sat in the furry beast’s favorite chair. Mr. Cromwell had quite taken over the house since his arrival.
Rebecca’s hand went to her mouth, but I gave her a short smile and subtle shake of my head, nearly breaking her into
laughter.
“You liked that story?” Benjamin grinned at her. “I could tell you many tales about the man sitting next to me.”
Oliver Cromwell’s ears had laid back on his head as he continued to creep forward, his thick fur wild and full, making him
appear giant.
Jane shook her head. “I think I would prefer to know him as he is now. Simply coming to this place has given me insight
enough.”
“There was one afternoon when we borrowed a sailboat from...I’m not sure who...and poor Alexander whined the whole
time that it was not proper for us to⁠—”
A loud yowl broke the silence as Oliver Cromwell leapt into the chair now reserved mostly for him, and the highest shriek
escaped Benjamin’s lips. His wail filled the room and rattled the windows.
Laughter spilled from my lips as Oliver Cromwell’s claws sank into the thick wool of Benjamin’s coat.
“What the devil!” Benjamin leapt to his feet, sending Oliver Cromwell flying.
Rebecca reached out to catch the wretched beast, but laughter had drenched my ability to move from my seat.
“It is just a cat,” I teased.
Ben brushed off the front of his coat. “That creature is the largest cat I have ever laid eyes on.”
Even Jane’s mouth was pulled tight as if to hide her smile.
“You were afraid,” I said. “Admit it.”
Benjamin’s expression grew somber as he sat back in the chair, and then a corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “I
believe that creature would instill fear into any human with any intelligence.”
“He is such a dear,” Rebecca said as she placated Oliver Cromwell by stroking his thick fur.
“That cat is the devil himself,” Ben said with a laugh. “You must be a brave and fearless soul to have brought him under
your care.”
Rebecca’s cheeks turned scarlet, and I found my teeth grinding together.
Only Benjamin could turn what should have been a humiliating incident into a moment that would make Rebecca proud.
He was being much too forward—though, Benjamin would have no idea, being on a ship for so many years.
There was simply no winning where he was concerned. Not with my position. Not with his.
“Will you lovely ladies be coming to the festival?” he asked. “I would love to dance with each of you.”
“Miss Rebecca is not yet out,” I explained. “However, she will be present for the festival. She won’t be staying for the
ball.”
“Surely there is some room in that.” His brows pinched in confusion as his gaze drifted between us. “We are not in London,
after all.”
“Surely you cannot wish for her to so fully tarnish her reputation before having a chance,” I snapped back.
Ben sighed. “I do not understand these conventions.”
“And you have laws and regulations within the navy,” Jane began, “which may not make sense to those of us with no
experience in that world.”
Ben unleashed his smile on Jane, and as proud as I was of her speaking her mind, I did wish that it hadn’t been for the
benefit of Ben.
“The young lady makes a fair point,” Ben said. “I concede.”
“Have you seen...Miss Kinsley?” I had changed from Charlotte to Miss Kinsley in my mind a dozen times before settling on
Miss Kinsley, which I had chosen to attempt to sway Benjamin to be more appropriate, but the incredulous look on his face
said that I had chosen wrong.
“Charlotte?” he teased. “Please say that you have not turned into such a fop that you cannot use the name given to her?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Benjamin continued, silencing me.
“She is still a fast swimmer.” He winked.
My hands tightened around the arms of the chair before I stole a long breath and released it, attempting what I hoped would
be a pleasant smile. “I have no doubt as to her abilities.”
“You’ve changed, Alex,” Ben said as he studied me.
“I grew into my age and duties,” I said dryly.
“Highly overrated, that.” Ben sat a little taller. “There is far too much seriousness in the world for me to be adding to it.”
Jane’s smile flattened, but Rebecca grinned over the back of her beastly cat, which she clutched to her chest.
“And how are your brothers?” I asked, begging for a change of topic.
“Oh, Timmy is nearly sixteen, and John is interviewing to go into service.” Benjamin groaned. “He wants the dust of
Bridlington off his boots—that’s how he phrased it to me. I will never understand wishing to spend your life in the service of
another.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than Mr. Kettles paused in the doorway.
“Being in service is far more than fetching items for another,” I said. “They are the persons who listen to their masters, who
help problem-solve matters of business. You cannot ever underestimate the importance and influence of good men of service.”
Kettles swallowed, glancing from me to Ben and back to me.
“We are quite settled, Mr. Kettles,” I told him. “Thank you.”
 “Mr. Kettles?” Benjamin asked.
“Yessir?”
“Do you have aspirations to become a head of household? Wonder if someone you meet while in the service of my friend
here could give you a position in an office or…”
“I am very happy to do my duty to Sir Alexander,” Mr. Kettles said evenly.
“Ben,” I warned. “Please be nice to the staff. Mr. Kettles is not simply my valet, but he has helped me draft letters and
worked directly with my man of business. He is indispensable.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Kettles bowed. “If you are not in need of me.”
“Go fishing, or take some time Kettles,” I told him. “I shall see you this evening.”
“I suppose he helps you dress?” Ben snorted. “How life has changed.”
At Eton, the young men were appalled that I had dressed myself before coming to the school. And now here, at home, with
Ben, I felt ridiculous for the opposite of what I had felt ridiculous for then.
An ache settled within my heart. As often as I felt I didn’t quite belong in London and within polite and titled society, I was
also beginning to wonder if any part of me still belonged in the very town I’d grown up in.
 11
CHARLO E

“L ieutenant Turner sounds lovely indeed,” Isabelle said from across my seat in the carriage, “but I fear Ben will never
grow into such a name. Tell me, Charlotte, was your friend much changed?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Mother beat me to a response. “Do not question your sister on such things. She can
hardly be counted on to relay any news of consequence. We shall have to make our own judgments at the festival. Hm.”
I locked eyes with Simon and shook my head. “Yes, please do make your own judgment. Even if I had given a better report,
I doubt you would agree with any of my assessments.”
Mother nodded. “Yes, quite right, dear Charlotte.”
On rare occasions, she surprised me. Recent events, such as my climbing Mr. Harding’s ruins, swimming in the ocean with
Benjamin, and my ignoring Mother’s efforts to persuade me to return to London for a third season, had seemed to vex her. And,
Mother once vexed, was not easily consoled. Yet, for the entirety of our ride in the Windham carriage, Mother had offered
smiles and sighs in my direction. Even when discussing my shortcomings that afternoon, she had done so with a tone of
endearment.
When she winked at me above her silk fan, I parted my mouth in question. “What ever is it? You’ve not scolded me once
today.”
She inhaled slowly. “You look pretty enough to catch a husband.”
I pushed back into the carriage cushion and groaned. “And suddenly I am an acceptable daughter—because Isabelle’s maid
has fashioned my hair into something pretty?”
“Precisely,” Simon said with a smirk. Humor flashed across his gaze. “I remember when I realized Isabelle was pretty
enough to catch my attention. Imagine otherwise. Her wit and intellect, her kindness and ease, would have meant nothing in the
end. Absolutely nothing.”
Mother laughed, swatting her closed fan against Simon’s leg. “You mark my words, Simon. Remembered or not, beauty is
the hook before the reel.”
I bit my tongue. I did not like comparing my favorite pastime to tricking a man into marrying me.
“See, Charlotte. Even I can speak in ways you can relate. Fishing—did you catch that?” Mother laughed, lifting her chin
higher. “Juliet is not the only one gifted with words.”
The carriage slowed to a crawl as we turned on the road leading into town. The road began at the beach and harbor,
stretching through town, and the entirety of it was decorated with ribbons and flowers. Produce, baked goods, cider, and
handmade gifts were only the smallest part; games and entertainment were just as plentiful. The day was quickly turning to
evening, and the street in front of the courthouse was being made into a dancefloor.
Isabelle sighed. “I am sorry for keeping everyone from arriving sooner. Felicity had a horrible fit when she found out we
did not mean to bring her. We might have enjoyed more of the games if I had not been delayed.”
Mother flapped a hand in the air. “Nonsense. I’d rather skip those things altogether. The ball is why I come. I do hope your
father makes it back from his house call in time.”
Bridlington was once a fishing village with hardly anything to boast besides the cliffs and beaches. But since my childhood,
Flamborough Head had grown significantly. First, Mr. Harding had purchased the abbey, then Isabelle and Simon took up
Whitingham Hall, and now, Alexander and his wards graced the festival with the likes of Lieutenant Benjamin Turner—the
navy’s newest young hero, a man about to be made into a captain in record time.
Titles, wealth, and notoriety had come to my town, all within the span of five years. Did nothing remain the same? Not even
the trees refused to stay their height.
The driver pulled to the line of other carriages, and Simon was quick to assist Mother, Isabelle, and me from the carriage.
“I don’t imagine London has seen the likes of such a scene.”
“Oh, but you have visited Bath,” Mother began, speaking much too quickly, “and Sydney Gardens has much more by way of
entertainment and society and⁠—”
“Mama, Simon prefers Bridlington to any other place. Neither London nor Bath can replicate a scene as lovely as this.”
Another random document with
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 notice that the said Thomas hath the same to sell from sixteen to fifty
shillings the pound.”

If the article had possessed but a tithe of the virtues and excellencies
accorded to it by the celebrated Garway it must have been
recognized at the time as the coming boon to man.
Up to 1660 no mention is made of Tea in the English statute books,
although it is cited in an act of the first parliament of the Restoration
of the same year, which imposed a tax of “eightpence on every
gallon made and sold, to be paid by the maker thereof.” This was
subsequently increased to five shillings per pound in the Leaf, which
at the time was stated to be “no small prejudice to the article, as well
as an inconvenience to the drinker.” Ever since that year the duty on
Tea has been one of the hereditary customs of the Crown, though
Parliament has at sundry times, by different acts, fixed divers duties
upon it.
Pepys alludes to Tea in his Diary, under date of September 25, 1661,
the entry reading: “I did send for a cup of Tee, a China drink, of
which I never drank before”; and again, in 1667, he further mentions
it. “Home, and there find my wife making of Tee, a drink which Mr.
Pelling, the Potticary, says is good for her cold.” But that it still must
have continued rare, is very evident, as in 1664, it is recorded that
the East India Company made the king what was then considered “a
brilliant present of 2 lbs. of Tea, costing forty shillings,” and two years
later another present of 22 lbs., both parcels being purchased on the
Continent for the purpose.
It was not until 1668 that the East India Company is credited with the
direct importation of Tea into England, which, although chartered in
1600, for the first time considered Tea worthy their attention as an
article of trade. The order sent to their agents in that year was: “for
100 lbs. of the best Tey they could procure to the amount of £25
sterling.” Their instructions must, however, have been considerably
exceeded, as the quantity received was 4,713 lbs., a supply which
seems to have “glutted the market” for several years after. Up to this
time no alarm had been excited that the use of Tea was putting in
peril the stalwarthood of the British race. But in the very year of this
large importation we find Saville writing to his uncle Coventry, in
sharp reproof of certain friends of his “who call for Tea, instead of
pipes and wine,” stigmatizing its use as “a base, unworthy Indian
practice,” and adding, with an audible sigh, “the truth is, all nations
are getting so wicked as to have some of those filthy customs.”
Whether from sympathy of the public with these indignant
reprehensions or other causes, the whole recorded imports for the
six following years amounted to only 410 lbs., the quantities imported
continuing small and consisting exclusively of the finer sorts for
several years thereafter.
The first considerable shipment of tea reached London about 1695,
from which year the imports steadily and rapidly increased until the
end of the seventeenth century, when the annual importations
averaged 20,000 pounds. In 1703 orders were sent from England to
China for 85,000 pounds of Green Tea and 25,000 pounds of Black,
the average price at this period ranging from 16 to 20 shillings ($4 to
$5) per pound. The Company’s official account of their trade did not
commence before 1725, but according to Milburn’s “Oriental
Commerce” the consumption in the year 1711 had increased to
upwards of 142 million pounds, in 1711 to 121 millions, and in 1720
to 238 million pounds. Since which time there has been nothing in
the history of commerce so remarkable as the growth and
development of the trade in Tea, becoming, as it has, one of the
most important articles of foreign production consumed.
For above a century and a half the sole object of the English East
India Company’s trade with China was to furnish Tea for
consumption in England, the Company during that period enjoying a
monopoly of the Tea trade to the exclusion of all other parties. They
were bound, however, “to send orders for Tea from time to time,
provide ships for its transportation, and always to keep at least one
year’s supply in their warehouses,” being also compelled to “bring all
Teas to London, and there offer them at public sale quarterly, and to
dispose of them at one penny per pound advance on the gross cost
of importation, the price being determined by adding their prime cost
in China to the expenses of freight, insurance, interest on capital
invested, and other charges.” But in December, 1680, Thomas Eagle
of the “King’s Head,” a noted coffee-house in St. James, inserted in
the London Gazette the following advertisement, which shows that
Tea continued to be imported independently of the East India
Company: “These are to give notice to persons of quality that a small
parcel of most excellent Tea has, by accident, fallen into the hands of
a private person to be sold. But that none may be disappointed, the
lowest price is 30 shillings in the pound, and not any to be sold under
a pound in weight.” The persons of quality were also requested to
bring a convenient box with them to hold it.
The East India Company enjoyed a monopoly of the trade in Tea up
to 1834, when, owing to the methods of calculation adopted by the
Company, and the heavier expenses which always attend every
department of a trade monopoly, the prices were greatly enhanced.
Much dissatisfaction prevailing with its management, this system of
importing Teas was abolished, the Company being deprived of its
exclusive privileges, and the Tea trade thrown open to all.
In all probability Tea first reached America from England, which
country began to export in 1711, but it is claimed to have been
previously introduced by some Dutch smugglers, no definite date
being given. The first American ship sailed for China in 1784, two
more vessels being dispatched the following year, bringing back
880,000 pounds of Tea. During 1786-87, five other ships brought to
the United States over 1,000,000 pounds. In 1844, the “Howqua”
and “Montauk” were built expressly for the Tea trade, being the first
of the class of vessels known as “Clippers,” in which speed was
sought at the expense of carrying capacity, and by which the
average passage was reduced from twenty to thirty days for the
round trip. The trade in tea was entirely transacted at Canton until
1842, when the ports of Shanghai, Amoy and Foochow were opened
by the treaty of Nankin, the China tea trade being mainly conducted
at the latter ports. As late as 1850, all vessels trading in tea carried
considerable armament, a necessary precaution against the pirates
who swarmed in the China seas during the first half of the last
century.
The progress of this famous plant has been something like the
progress of Truth, suspected at first, though very palatable to those
who had the courage to taste it, resisted as it encroached, and
abused as its use spread, but establishing its triumph at last in
cheering the world, from palace to cottage, by the resistless effect of
time and its own virtues only; becoming a beverage appreciated by
all, as well as an agent of progress and civilization.

TEA
AND

AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE.
Although Tea may be claimed to be in all its associations eminently
peaceful, growing as it does on the hill-sides of one of the most
peaceful countries in the world, coming to us through the peace-
promoting ways of commerce, until it reaches its ultimate destination,
that centre of peace—the family table—and like peaceful sleep,
“knitting up the raveled sleeve of care,” yet it has been the occasion
of several wars and political problems, the latest of which is the
precipitation of the great Chinese exodus, which at present threatens
such vital results, not only to our own country, but possibly to the
world at large.
It was destined—as in all social and political affairs, the greatest and
most important events are curiously linked with the smallest and
most insignificant—to be the final crisis of the American
Revolutionary movement. Think of it! The birth of the greatest nation
of all time due to a three-penny tax on tea! It was the article chosen
above all others to emphasize the principles that “all men are born
free and equal,” and that “taxation without representation is tyranny,”
and for the establishment of which principles a war was fought, that
when judged by the law of results, proves to have been the most
important and fruitful recorded on history’s pages. Who, in looking
back over the long range of events conserving to create our now
great country, can fail to have his attention attracted to what has
been termed, with a characteristic touch of American humor, “The
Boston Tea Party of 1773”? Who could have then predicted the
marvelous change that a single century of free government would
have wrought? Who could have dreamed that Tea would have
proved such an important factor in such a grand result? What a
lesson to despotic governments! A dreary November evening; a pier
crowded with excited citizens; a few ships in the harbor bearing a
hated cargo—hated not of itself, but for the principles involved; on
the decks a mere handful of young men—a few leaders in Israel—
urged on by the fiery prescience of genius, constituting themselves
an advance guard to lead the people from out the labyrinth of
Remonstrance into the wilderness of Revolution.
It is true that previously other questions had been factors in the
dispute, but a cursory glance at the history of the time will show that
heated debates had been followed by periods of rest, and acts of
violence by renewed loyalty. The “Navigation laws” had caused much
indignation and many protests, but no violence to mention. As early
as 1768 the famous “Stamp Act” was passed and repealed. The
period intervening between its passage and repeal gave opportunity
for public opinion to crystallize and shape itself. It sifted out of the
people a modern Demosthenes, gifted with the divine power of
draping the graceful garment of language round the firm body of an
IDEA! George III. would not profit by the example of Cæsar or of
Charles, and while North had avowed his willingness to repeal the
tax on all other articles, he promised the king that “he would maintain
this one tax on Tea to prove to the Colonists his right to tax.”
The trade in Tea at this time was a monopoly of the English East
India Company, which just then had acquired an immense political
prestige, but lost heavily by the closing of the American market, the
Company’s warehouses in London remaining full of it, causing their
revenue to decline. North was induced to offer them a measure of
relief by releasing from taxation in England the Tea intended for
America, but he still persisted in maintaining the duty of threepence
to be paid in American ports, and on the 10th of May this farcical
scheme of fiscal readjustment became a law. The Company
obtained a license for the free-duty exportation of their Tea to
America in disregard of the advice of those who knew that the
Colonists would not receive it. Four ships laden with Tea were
despatched to the ports of Boston, New York, Philadelphia and
Charleston. The Colonists prepared for their expected arrival, public
meetings being held in Philadelphia and Boston, at which it was
resolved that the Tea should be sent back to England, and so
notified the Company’s agents at these ports. The Boston
consignees refused to comply with the popular demand, all
persuasion failing to move them. The matter was then referred to the
Committees, who immediately resolved to use force where reason
was not heeded. When the vessels arrived, a meeting was held in
the Old South Church, at which it was resolved, “come what will, the
Tea should not be landed or the duty paid.” Another appeal was
made to the Governor, which was also denied! Upon this
announcement Samuel Adams arose, saying, “This meeting can do
nothing more to save the country.” The utterance of these words was
a preconcerted signal; the response, an Indian war-whoop from the
crowd outside. A band of young men, not over fifty, disguised as, and
styling themselves, “Mohawks,” rushed down to the wharf where the
vessels lay; the ships were boarded, the Tea chests broken open
and emptied into the river. From the moment that the first Tea-leaf
touched the water the whole atmosphere surrounding the issues
involved changed! In that instant, with the rapidity of thought, the
Colonies vanished and America arose!
When the news of these proceedings reached England, it provoked
a storm of anger, not only among the adherents of the government,
but also among the mercantile and manufacturing classes, they
having suffered heavy losses by the stoppage of trade with America.
The commercial importance and parliamentary influence of the East
India Company swelled the outcry of indignation against which they
termed the outrage of destroying its property. All united in the resolve
to punish the conduct of Boston for its rejection of the least onerous
one of an import duty on tea. What followed has been told in song
and story—Lexington and Concord, Bunker Hill, Valley Forge and
Yorktown. A new nation sprang into existence, taking its stand upon
the pedestal of “EQUAL RIGHTS FOR ALL,” under a new government “OF
THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE.”
 CHAPTER II.

GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION.

Besides the character of the different varieties of tea and other

information connected with the plant and its product, we have to
notice the different parts of the world in which it is now or may be
grown in the future, as many practical questions of considerable
importance are dependent on the subject.
For upwards of two centuries and a half the world’s supply of tea
was furnished exclusively by China, and it was not until well into the
middle of the nineteenth century that China and Japan were the only
two tea-producing countries in the world, their product reaching the
western markets through the narrowest channels and under the most
oppressive restrictions. Its cultivation however, has in that time been
extended to other countries, most notably into Java, India and
Ceylon.
Tea is more or less cultivated for local consumption in all the
provinces of China, except the extreme northern. But to what exact
degree of latitude it is difficult to be precise, as we are without
definite information from those regions, and the vast empire of China
not being sufficiently explored by botanists to warrant the assertion
that the plant is not to be found in other parts of the country, at least
in a wild state. So far, however, it has not been discovered there,
except in a state of cultivation, or as having evidently escaped from
cultivation on roadsides or other out-of-the-way places.
We know that it is cultivated in Tonquin and Yunnan, but only to a
limited extent, the product of these provinces being also of a very
inferior quality. It is grown in Cochin-China and the mountain ranges
of Ava, but only for local consumption, and that, while it is indigenous
to the mountains, separating China from Burmah, it is not cultivated
there for either export or profit, and although claimed by some
authorities to be grown all over the Chinese empire, its cultivation for
commercial purposes is confined to the region lying between the
24th and 35th degrees of north latitude, the climate between these
parallels varying to a considerable extent, being much warmer in the
southern than in the northern provinces. The districts in which it is
chiefly cultivated, however, and from which it is principally exported,
are embraced in the southwestern provinces of Che-kiang, Fo-kien,
Kiang-see, Kiang-nan, Gan-hwuy Kwang-tung, some little being also
produced for export in the western province of Sze-chuan.
It is cultivated for commercial purposes all over the Japanese
islands, from Kiusiu, in the south, to Niphon, in the extreme north,
but the zone found most favorable to its most profitable production in
these islands is that lying between the 30th and 35th degrees, more
especially in the coast provinces of the interior sea. It is also grown
to some extent in Corea, from which country—although claimed by
some to be the original country of tea—none is ever exported.
In the year 1826 some tea seeds were sent from Japan to Java and
planted as an experiment in the residency of Buitenzorg, where they
were found to succeed so well that tea-culture was immediately
commenced on an extensive scale in the adjoining residencies of
Cheribon, Preanger and Krawang, the number of tea trees in the
former district amounting to over 50,000 in 1833. The several other
districts of the island to which it had been extended, now containing
upwards of 20,000,000 trees from which over 20,000,000 pounds of
prepared tea are annually delivered to commerce, tea-culture
forming one of the chief industries of the island at the present day.
A species of the tea plant has been found growing in a truly wild
state in the mountain ranges of Hindostan, particularly on those
bordering on the Chinese province of Yunnan, from which fact it is
claimed by some writers as probable that these mountains are the
original home of tea. Recent explorations also show that the tea
plant is to be found growing wild in the forests of Assam, Sylhet and
the Himalaya hills, as well as over the great range of mountains
extending thence through China to the Yang-tse river. At an early
period the British East India Company, as the principal trade
intermediary between China and Europe, became deeply interested
in the question of tea cultivation in their eastern possessions, but
without much success until in 1840, when the Assam Tea Company
was formed, from which year the successful cultivation of tea in India
has been carried on, the tea districts of that country including at the
present time, in the order of their priority, Assam, Dehradun,
Kumaon, Darjeeling, Cachar, Kangra, Hazarila, Chittagong, Burmah,
Neilgherry and Travancore.
Various efforts were made to introduce tea-culture into Ceylon, under
both Dutch and British rule, no permanent success being attained
until about 1876, when the disastrous effects of the coffee-leaf
disease induced the planters to give more serious attention to tea.
Since that period tea cultivation has developed there with marvelous
rapidity, having every prospect at the present time of taking first rank
among Ceylon productions.
Dr. Abel highly recommends the Cape of Good Hope as furnishing a
fitting soil and climate for the beneficial production of tea, stating that
“there is nothing improbable in a plant that is so widely diffused from
north to south being grown there.” Tea of average quality being now
shipped from Natal to the London market.
Besides Java, India and Ceylon, where tea culture has been
introduced and profitably demonstrated, numerous attempts have
and are being made to colonize the plant in other countries than
these of the East, but beyond the countries above enumerated, the
industry has so far never taken root, for while the cultivated varieties
of the tea-plant are comparatively hardy, possessing an adaptability
to climate excelled alone among plants only by that of wheat, the
limits of actual tea cultivation extend from the 39th degree of north
latitude in Japan, through the tropics to Java, Ceylon, India and
China, and while it will live in the open air in many of the countries
into which it has been introduced and withstand some amount of
frost when it receives sufficient summer heat to harden its root, but
comparatively few of those regions are suited for practical tea-
growing.
As far back as 1872, some tea plants were sent from China to the
Kew gardens in England, for the purpose of testing the possibility of
its growth in that country. The attempt, however, ended in failure, the
seeds never germinating, later efforts under more careful training
meeting with the same fate. Considerable success attended its
introduction into the islands of Bourbon and Mauritius, in 1844, the
tea produced being pronounced as “excellent in flavor, but lacking in
that strength and aroma so characteristic of the Chinese variety.”
Its cultivation has been recently attempted in the Philippines by the
Spanish, in Sumatra and Borneo by the Dutch, and by the French in
Cochin-China, nearly all of which experiments so far proving failures,
the only success reported being from the latter country, where the
soil is good and moisture equable. Tea plantations have also been
lately opened up in Malay, Singapore, and other of the Straits
settlements by the English; some teas of fair quality, but insufficient
quantity, having already produced in many of them. Its cultivation
forms one of the industries of the Fiji islands at the present time; the
soil and climate of the latter being found eminently adapted to its
successful propagation, land and labor, the chief difficulties in other
countries, being particularly available there. Extraordinary efforts are
now also being made to introduce the plant into the warmer parts of
Australia.
Some ten years ago specimens of the Chinese tea-plant were
introduced into the Azores, where they soon became acclimated,
expert Chinese tea-makers being sent there specially a few years
later to teach the natives how to manipulate the leaves. The industry
has made such rapid progress there that regular shipments of
“Madeira tea” are now being made to the London market, where it is
affirmed that in strength and flavor it closely approaches that of
China tea. But while it has been found to flourish luxuriantly on the
hilly parts of St. Helena, the quantity and quality are insufficient to
justify its cultivation for either profit or export on that island.
The Economic Society of St. Petersburg warmly advocates its
cultivation in the Caucasus, while French and German naturalists
declare that there is no region more suitable for the profitable
cultivation of tea than the shores of the Black Sea, the climate being
warm, moist and equable, and tea of more than average quality have
already been produced between Batoum and Kiel, samples of which
were exhibited at the exhibition recently held in Tiflis, the report on
which was so encouraging that the society ventures the opinion “that
in time Russia may compete with China and India in supplying the
Western nations with tea.” Efforts are also being made to introduce it
into southern Italy, but while the soil and climate of those countries
may be found admirably adapted for the purpose, there is no skilled
labor to prepare it properly.
The cultivation of tea was attempted in the warmer parts of Brazil in
1850, some tea of very fair quality being produced in the vicinity of
Rio Janeiro, and while the plant was found to flourish exceedingly
well in the adjoining province of Sao Paolo, the tea when prepared
for use was found to be entirely too bitter and astringent for practical
purposes. The lack of skilled labor and high cost of manufacture
preventing its cultivation for profit, it was inferred that with everything
else in its favor, tea as produced in Brazil would never be able to
compete with that of China even for home consumption.
Some few years since plantations were opened for the cultivation of
tea in Mexico, Guatemala, and in some of the West India islands, but
to the present no reports favorable or otherwise, have been received
regarding its progress in these countries. Still, in the face of all
drawbacks, with the example of the many failures and final success
achieved in India and Ceylon, much may yet be accomplished in
Brazil and other South American countries by intelligent cultivation,
modern machinery and perseverance in solving the problem of
growing at least their own tea.
With regard to the efforts to introduce the tea-plant into the United
States, the earliest notice which comes under observation is that
contained in the Southern Agriculturist, published in 1828, and in
which it is stated that “the tea-tree grows perfectly in the open air
near Charleston, where it has been raised for the past fifteen years,
in the nursery of M. Noisette. But as imported from China it would
cost too much to prepare for commercial use.” Another historical
effort was that made in 1848, by Dr. James Smith, at Greenville, S.
C., but although commenced with great enthusiasm the plantation
never was increased to any appreciable extent. Neither was it
brought to a condition, as far as can be ascertained, to warrant the
formation of any reliable opinion as to the practicability of tea-culture
in this country as an industry. Nevertheless, the circumstances of its
failure are quoted as a proof that tea cannot be produced for
commercial purposes or even for home consumption in this country.
While the truth is that as a test for the purposes named, the attempt
was of no value whatever, and never was so considered by those
conversant with its cultivation or management.
But while the plant barely survives the winter north of Washington, it
has been found to thrive successfully a little south of that district. It
bears fruit abundantly on the Pacific coast, where the soil and
climate are especially favorable to the growth of broad-leaved
evergreens, both native and exotic, and will flourish much further
north there than in the Eastern states.
Still the progress of these efforts to grow tea in other countries than
China, Japan and India, must necessarily prove interesting as being
calculated to make the world more independent of these countries
for its supplies. Yet it is an established fact that the finest varieties of
tea are best cultivated in the warmer latitudes and on sites most
exposed to air and sunshine.
 CHAPTER III.

B O TA N I C A L C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S A N D F O R M .

There are few subjects in the vegetable kingdom that have attracted
such a large share of public notice as the tea plant. Much error for a
long time existed regarding its botanical classification, owing to the
jealousy of the Chinese government preventing foreigners from
visiting the districts where tea was cultivated; while the information
derived from the Chinese merchants at the shipping ports, scanty as
it was, could not be depended on with any certainty. So that before
proceeding to discuss the question of the species which yield the
teas of commerce it may be well to notice those which are usually
described as distinct varieties in systematic works.
Tea is differently named in the various provinces of China where it is
grown. In some it is called Tcha or Cha, in others Tha or Thea, in
Canton Tscha, and finally Tia by the inhabitants of Fo-kien, from
whom the first cargoes are said to have been obtained, and so
pronounced in their patois as to give rise to the European name Tea.
By botanists it is termed Thea, this last name being adopted by
Linnæus for the sake of its Greek orthography, being exactly that of
Oex—a goddess—a coincidence doubtless quite acceptable to those
who use and enjoy the beverage as it deserves.
The species of the genus Thea are few in number, some botanists
being of opinion that even these are of a single kind—Camillia—and
is by them classed as Thea-Camillia. Others asserting that no
relation whatever exists between these two plants, maintaining that
the Thea and Camillia are widely different and of a distinct species.
Yet, though the Camillia bears the same name among the Chinese
as Thea and possesses many of its structural characteristics,
distinctions are made between them by many eminent botanists,
who hold that they differ widely and materially and are mostly agreed
in the statement that the true Tea-plant is distinguished from the
Camillia in having longer, narrower, thinner, more serrated and less
shiny leaves, and that a marked difference is also noticeable in the
form and contents of the fruit or pod.
Davis argues that they constitute two genera, closely allied but yet
different, the distinctions consisting principally in the fruit or seed.
The seed-vessel of the Thea being a three-lobed capsule, with the
lobes strongly marked, each the size of a currant, containing only a
single round seed, the lobes bursting vertically in the middle when
ripe, exposing the seed. The capsule of the Camillia is triangular in
shape, much larger in size, and though three-celled is but single-
seeded. Bentham and Hooker, who have thoroughly revised the
“genera plantatum,” say they can find no good reason by which they
can separate the Tea-plant as a genus distinct from the Camillia, and
so class it as Thea-Camillia. While Cambesedes contends that they
are widely separated by several intervening genera, the difference
being entirely in the form of the fruit or pod; and Griffin, who is well
qualified to form a correct opinion, states that, from an examination
of the India Tea-plant and two species of the Camillia taken from the
Kyosa hills, he found no difference whatever. The dehiscence in both
plants is of the same nature, the only noticeable difference really
existing being of a simply specific value. The fruit of the Tea-shrub is
three-celled and three-seeded while that of the Camillia is triangular
in form and single-seeded only.
Linnæus, while recognizing the Tea-plant as belonging to the same
family as the Camillia, Latinizes its Chinese name, classing it as
Thea Sinensis, and dividing it into two species—Thea Viridis and
Thea Bohea; DeCandolle, while indorsing Linnæus’ classification,
adds that “in the eighteenth century when the shrub which produces
tea was little known Linnæus named the genus Thea Sinensis, but
later judged it better to distinguish two species which he believed at
the time to correspond with the distinctions existing between the
Green and Black teas of commerce.” The latest works on botany,
also, make Thea a distinct genus—Thea Sinensis—divided into two
species—Thea Viridis and Thea Bohea—these botanical terms
having no specific relation to the varieties known to commerce as
Green and Black teas. It having also been proven that there is but
one species comprehending both varieties, the difference in color
and character being due to a variation in the soil, climate, as well as
to different methods of cultivation and curing, from either or both of
which Green or Black tea may be prepared at will according to the
process of manufacture.
 Thea Sinensis.
(Chinese Tea Plant.)

In a wild state is large and bushy, ranging in height from ten to fifteen
feet, often assuming the proportions of a small tree. While in a state
of cultivation its growth is limited by frequent prunings to from three
to five feet, forming a polyandrous, shrub evergreen with bushy stem
and numerous leafy branches. The leaves are alternate, large,
elliptical and obtusely serrated, varied and placed in smooth short-
channeled foot-stalks, the calyx being small, and divided into five
segments. The flowers are white, axilary and slightly fragrant, often
three together in separate pedicils, the corolla having from five to
nine petals, cohering at the base with filaments numerous and
inverted at the base of the corolla. The anthers are large, yellow and
tre-foil, the capsule three-celled and three-seeded; and like all other
plants in a state of cultivation, it has produced marked varieties, two
of which Thea Viridis and Thea Bohea are critically described as
distinct species, distinguished from each other in size, color, form
and texture of the leaves, as well as other peculiarities.
 a—Gunpowder. b—Young Hyson. c—Imperial. d—Hyson. e—
Twankay.

Thea Viridis,

(Green Tea Plant),

Is a large, hardy, strong-growing shrub, with spreading branches and

leaves one to two inches long, thin, weavy and almost
membraneous, broadly lanceolate, but irregularly serrated and light-
green in color. The flowers are large, white, solitary and mostly
confined to the upper axil, having five sepals and seven petals, the
fruit or pod being purple, nodding and three-seeded. It thrives
without protection in the open air during winter, and is undoubtedly
the species yielding the bulk of the Green teas of commerce.
a—Firsts. b—Seconds. c—Thirds. d—Fourths.

Thea Bohea,

(Black Tea Plant),