protected her, kept her that sweet innocent he adored so much.
Malcolm shook his head and sighed. She would have to learn of the real world soon enough; everyone was forced to it sooner or later.
He took off his muddy old boots and left them with the basket of fish near the door. Despite his own efforts, he could see all the signs of neglect on the cottage. The peeling paint, the loose shutters, the tangled garden.
When his mother had been alive, it had always been bright and clean and welcoming. How Malcolm tried his best to keep it up, to keep his father from being evicted by the Duke. It was the only way Malcolm could escape, if his father was all right. The only way he could take the apprenticeship he had been promised as a draper’s assistant in the city. He could be more than a farmer, if he worked hard there. Could win Mairie’s hand at last. Only if his father could recover.
Mairie. Some of the glow from his afternoon with her faded as he looked up at the loose tiles on the roof. Her father would never give her to a poor crofter’s son; she would never so give herself. And Malcolm wanted more for himself, as well. The vicar who had been teaching him for years said he was smart and quick, and could build his own business if he wanted. Maybe one day he and Mairie could make something together. They both had their own interests at heart, the interests of moving forward in the world, which was all that really mattered in a relationship.
He thought of that morning, fishing with Lady Alexandra, so quiet and sweet and clean. He wanted to build a life like that, a life where everything could be fine and good. A life just like her. He knew he shouldn’t think that way; Mairie was more appropriate for him, was within his reach, only just. Someone like Alexandra, never. The terrible ending to their fishing meeting showed him that so clearly.
He pushed open the front door, loose on its hinges. Inside the small room, it smelled of smoke and mildew, of old whisky. When his mother was there, the floor was always swept, the furniture dusted, the air smelling of fresh herbs. He remembered when his father would come home in the evening, the way he would catch his mother up in his arms and kiss her until she laughed.
His parents had loved each other so much. Too much. His father had lost his way without her. Malcolm vowed never to love anyone like that, never to lose so much. He would never be helpless like that, never live his parents’ mistakes.
‘Pa?’ he called. There was no answer.
He found his father up in the loft, sprawled across his bed. Still wearing yesterday’s stained clothes, reeking of cheap whisky, his skin greyish and clammy, his jaw unshaven. An empty bottle had fallen to the dusty floor.
None of that was unusual any more. What was strange was the crumpled paper that lay next to the bottle. Malcolm scooped it up and read it quickly, anger burning higher and higher inside of him.
It was an eviction notice. Signed by the Duke of Waverton.
Malcolm remembered the sting of going last week to see the Duke, his hat in hand, to beg for time for his father. Time to gather the rent money. The Duke had only watched him, stony-faced, and said he would do what he could, but he could not help those who would not help themselves for very long.
Now, he had tossed Malcolm’s father out. Now, at their family’s most vulnerable moment.
One day, Malcolm vowed as he tucked the blankets around his father, the shoe would be on the other foot and the Duke would beg him for help. And Malcolm would never give it.
* * *
Near the gate that led to one of the tenants’ farms, Alex was surprised to see a glimpse of bright red against the grey-green of the fields. She looked closer and saw it was Mairie McGregor, the daughter of one of the shopkeepers in the village, perched on the gate. Alex always rather envied Mairie, for her beautiful, long dark hair and velvety-brown eyes, so different from Alex’s own pale looks.
Today, Mairie’s black hair fell free down her back and she wore a bright blue skirt and red shawl, looped loosely around her shoulders. And she was not alone. A man was beside her, leaning on the gate as he gazed up at her, their hands entwined. Their heads were bent together as they spoke together intently, seriously. Mairie tenderly touched his cheek and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.
It was Malcolm. Malcolm kissing Mairie McGregor.
Shocked, Alex tried to step back, to hide, even though she knew they could not see her. They were obviously much too wrapped up in each other to see anything else. And she felt the sinking, cold ice of disappointment.
Mairie jumped down from the gate and walked away, tossing a strangely angry look back at Malcolm as she left.
Impulsively, Alex called out to Malcolm as he started to follow Mairie.
‘Malcolm!’ she called. ‘Please, just a moment.’
He glanced back at her, but his expression was anything but welcoming. She had never seen him look so cold, so hard, so—so much older. ‘We can’t be seen together, my lady. You’ve already got me in enough trouble.’
‘I—I didn’t mean to, please believe me,’ she said, desperate. ‘I am ever so sorry. I didn’t think my father would see and—’
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. His Grace has done his worst by my family. Now I have to make my own way. And you have to make yours.’
Alex was baffled. ‘What has he done? I can go to him, explain…’ But even she knew her father would never listen. Never care.
‘Just take of yourself now, Lady Alexandra. That’s all any of us can do.’ For just a flashing instant, his hardness seemed to melt. He took her hand in his and squeezed it, holding on to it for one precious moment. ‘Never let them change you, no matter what.’
‘Malcolm!’ Mairie called and that hard mask came over him again. He gave Alex a bow and left her standing there alone in the middle of the road.
Alex tightened her hand over the feeling of his touch and shivered. She knew then she would never see him again.
Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies—spring 1888
‘Alex! Alex, are you awake? Let us in, quickly, before we’re caught.’
Lady Alexandra Mannerly wasn’t asleep, despite the fact that it was hours past the decreed lights out. She was huddled under her blankets, reading—no, devouring—The Ghosts of Wakefield Forest, a forbidden novel loaned to her by her friend Emily Fortescue, who had smuggled it back from London. Em, whose father was distinctly unstrict, quite unlike Alex’s father, the Duke of Waverton. He insisted Alex be the perfect ducal daughter at all times, which didn’t include reading scandalous romantic novels.
But her parents couldn’t spy on her at Miss Grantley’s at every moment. And Alex had friends who knew how to get around almost every rule without getting into trouble. She herself could never have been so brave before coming to school. She hated trouble, because trouble brought attention and attention made her heart race, her mind freeze, her tongue tie. Made her want to run away.
So being a duke’s daughter was rarely fun at all. And it would surely get worse next year, when she made her debut at a grand ball at Waverton House on Green Park and began the search for a high-ranking husband. But not yet. Not quite yet.
‘Alex! Are you there? We see your light!’
Alex tossed back the bedclothes and hurried to the door, her bare feet cold on the wooden floor. Her best friends, Emily Fortescue and Diana Martin, were waiting there, wrapped in their dressing gowns, dragging an enormous hamper between them. Giggling, they raced inside before Miss Merrill, the hall governess, could catch them. If they were found sneaking out together again, they would be in real trouble.
Yet Alex didn’t seem to mind trouble so much when it was brought