Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire – May, 1879

May was the most beautiful month in the English countryside. Everyone said so. Meticulously tended gardens and sprawling, wildflower meadows alike glowed with fresh, colorful blooms. Trees stood tall, at their peak of green. Fragrant breezes blew from the budding fields into quaint and cozy villages. Neighbors seemed to be at their cheeriest, greeting each other with smiles and jovial conversation in the lanes between tiled cottages and thriving businesses.

But while everyone else was brimming with summery satisfaction, Mariah Travers bristled with unease. Every new spring ticked by as if scolding her. Each change of season and turning of the year pushed her further and further away from any hope of being her own woman, and deeper and deeper into spinsterhood. That fate wouldn’t have been so terrible on its own, but being an unmarried woman past a certain age carried frustrating consequences with it.

“Ooh, Mariah! Look over there.” Mariah’s younger sister, Victoria, squealed and grasped Mariah’s arm as the two of them passed through the center of Aylesbury on errands.

“What am I looking at?” Mariah asked. All she saw was the usual row of shops with goods displayed in the window, old Mrs. Murphy rushing the passel of farm children she taught for pennies down the street, and a trio of young men in red army uniforms chatting on the corner outside the pub.

“No, don’t look,” Victoria giggled, tugging on Mariah’s arm as one of the officers glanced up and smiled.

Mariah was tempted to roll her eyes, but Victoria was only nineteen and had recently discovered that gentlemen’s heads were easily turned by a fetching smile and a shapely figure. Mariah remembered all too well the sense of power that awakening had sparked in her, and felt far too keenly that her own power had died. Died along with Robert, God rest his soul.

“Quick.” Victoria shifted from clutching Mariah’s arm to holding her hand. “We should cross to the other side of the street so that we walk past them.”

“But MacTavish’s Books is on this side of the street,” Mariah argued.

“It doesn’t matter. We should talk to them. They’re ever so handsome.”

Victoria was already doing more than talking. Her smile grew wider by the moment as the three officers studied her, whispering amongst themselves. Mariah was quick to note that all three of them had their sights set on her sister. After the initial look, not one of them spared a glance for her.

“Victoria,” she said, a wry note to her voice, “show some propriety. Even attractive officers prefer that young ladies not display themselves as if—”

“They’re coming this way,” Victoria gasped, ignoring everything Mariah said. “Oh. Oh my.”

Victoria dropped Mariah’s hand so that she could pinch her cheeks and smooth her skirt where it hugged the curve of her hips before flaring at her knees. Mariah had her doubts about the current fashion of tight-fitting skirts—mostly because it made walking with a long, purposeful stride impossible—but seeing the way her sister used the style to show off what she shouldn’t to a group of strange men made her cheeks burn hot.

“Ladies.”

They crossed paths with the officers at the intersection, across from the pub. All three of the young men seemed eager to make Victoria’s acquaintance, grinning and bowing.

“Good afternoon,” Victoria greeted them, batting her eyelashes.

With an inward sigh, Mariah shot a look of longing past the officers to the bookstore. “Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the men with a polite nod.

“We were just speculating,” one of the officers with blond hair and a thick moustache began, “what sort of errand two such lovely young women would be on this fine afternoon.”

Victoria giggled, blushing prettily. But then, everything Victoria did was pretty. “My sister and I were on our way to the bookstore.”

“Sister?” Another of the officers with dark hair and eyes peeked at Mariah.

She knew in an instant what the man must be thinking. Victoria was youthful and fair and dressed in pink, while Mariah was gathering dust at the age of twenty-seven, brunette, and wearing purple to represent the end of a long period of mourning.

Victoria failed to see the subtle inquiry in the man’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. “This is my sister, Mariah, and I am Miss Victoria Travers.” Bold as brass, she held out her hand for the three men.

Mariah ached with embarrassment at her sister’s forwardness. They hadn’t been formally introduced to the men, and although they were on the verge of the modern eighties and not the fussy twenties, Victoria’s move was beyond the pale.

“It is a delight to meet you, Miss Victoria.” The blond officer took her hand and kissed it. “I am Col. Nigel Scott.”

“And I’m Lt. Gordon Banfield,” the dark-haired man said, taking her hand from Col. Scott.

“I’m Lt. Walter King,” the third man, smaller than the others, but stockier, took her hand last.

Col. Scott blinked and turned to Mariah. “Miss Travers.” He nodded.

Mariah fought to keep her smile in place. It shouldn’t have hurt to be placed as second-best to Victoria, but there was a time when impetuous young men like these officers had rushed to make her acquaintance as well. Robert certainly had. But Robert was gone now, and with it the bloom off her rose.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” Mariah said, taking Victoria’s hand when Lt. King let it go. “But if you will excuse us, my sister and I have quite a lot to accomplish today.”

“Mariah.” Victoria laughed, scolding in her eyes. “We couldn’t possibly be so rude as to leave these kind men mere moments after making their acquaintance.”

“Of course not,” Lt. Banfield said with a wink.

Mariah arched a brow, instantly distrusting the gentlemen’s motives. Particularly as two out of the three of them seemed more interested in Victoria’s breasts than the conversation. Papa would beat all three of them within an inch of their lives, in spite of his age, if he saw the way they were behaving.

“That may be the case,” Mariah went on. “But it is inadvisable to strike up a conversation with men to whom we have not been introduced by a trusted friend.”

“Mariah,” Victoria hissed, no longer trying to pretend she wasn’t irritated.

“Tell us who your friends are and we’ll get them to do all the formal stuff,” Lt. King said.

“Well,” Victoria began. “We’re friends with—ouch!”

Mariah tugged her sister away from the officers, more certain than ever that they were up to no good, and that Victoria didn’t have the slightest sense of danger.

“That was unspeakably rude,” Victoria hissed as Mariah rushed them along the street and into MacTavish’s Bookshop. “They were only trying to talk to us.”

Mariah sighed, glancing out the window to make sure the men hadn’t followed them. Sure enough, they crossed the street and entered the pub. She turned to Victoria. “My dear, a handsome face does not make for a handsome character.”

“Maybe not,” Victoria said, crossing her arms, “but you haven’t smiled at a single man since Robert died.” Her expression softened to concern beyond her years. “It’s not good for you.”

Guilt clenched Mariah’s gut, but she couldn’t let affection for her sister cloud the fact that Victoria was a poor judge of character. “Papa and Mama would be beside themselves if they saw you flirting with strange men in the street.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Victoria insisted. Her face instantly pinched in guilt. “Much. You hardly gave me a chance.” Mariah fixed her with a hard stare. “And besides,” Victoria went on, brimming with restless energy. “How am I supposed to meet any eligible men if you keep yanking me away from every prospect that comes through town.”

“You don’t know if they were eligible,” Mariah told her. “And you’ll have plenty of opportunities to meet suitable men through the appropriate means. You’re only nineteen.”

“You were only twenty when you got engaged to Robert,” Victoria snapped. “Oh.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, cheeks going pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mariah. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right,” Mariah sighed, moving away from the window. “I wish you all wouldn’t be so anxious about mentioning Robert around me.” She headed toward the counter near the back of the shop’s front room.

“Yes, well, it’s been five years since Robert died, but you’re still….” She gestured to Mariah’s dress.

“Purple suits me.” Mariah said with a shrug. It did, but that wasn’t the reason she continued to wear mourning for a fiancé who had died a fortnight before their wedding. It was easier for everyone in Aylesbury to see her as the grieving sweetheart beset by tragedy than to know that she was a slighted spinster whose fiancé had run off with a milkmaid, only to be struck by a speeding carriage in the middle of his flight. And for the sake of her own pride, it was less humiliating to think that every man from Aylesbury to London stayed away from her out of respect for a beloved, fallen friend than because she’d been stuck with a reputation for being frigid.

“Ah, Miss Travers, Miss Victoria.” Mr. MacTavish greeted them as they approached the counter. “What can I do for you today? I have some lovely books of devotional stories you might be interested in.”

Victoria turned up her nose and made a sound of disgust before being distracted by a stack of new, French fashion periodicals.

“I’ve been told that you have the new book of poems by the American, Walt Whitman, in stock,” Mariah said, resting her hands on the counter and smiling.

Mr. MacTavish’s smile turned from welcoming to condescending. “Now, Miss Travers. You know I can’t sell you that book.”

“What?” Mariah blinked. “Why ever not?”

He chuckled lightly, as he would to a child. “I think you know why.”

“No,” she insisted. “I do not.”

Mr. MacTavish sighed. “The poetry of Mr. Whitman isn’t appropriate for ladies such as yourself.”

“I’m sorry?” Mariah blinked rapidly, shaking her head. “You’ve never had any trouble selling me books of poems before.”

“Well, yes. There’s nothing untoward in the poetry of Matthew Arnold or Tennyson,” Mr. MacTavish explained.

“And there’s nothing untoward about Whitman either,” Mariah insisted.

Again, Mr. MacTavish chuckled as though she were an ignorant and foolish child. “I’m afraid you’ll find that you’re wrong about that assumption, Miss Travers.”

Irate prickles raced down Mariah’s back. “I’m wrong?” she asked, teeth clenched.

“You know full well that I cannot sell inappropriate reading material to unmarried women,” Mr. MacTavish said.

“My marital state has nothing to do with my ability to read and appreciate poetry, Mr. MacTavish.”

“But I would not be a responsible bookseller if I allowed such incendiary material into your hands, my dear.”

Frustration boiled through Mariah. “It’s a book, Mr. MacTavish. A single, solitary book. Surely the world will not fall apart if I read one book of poetry.”

“I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing that I put reading material of that nature into the hands of an unwed woman.”

The worst part was, he was sincere in his beliefs about what Mariah should or shouldn’t be exposed to. As much as it made her want to stomp and shout, and as much as it twisted her stomach, Mr. MacTavish honestly believed he was doing the right thing.

“Perhaps you could have your father come in and purchase the book for you,” Mr. MacTavish suggested. “I would feel right selling it to him, and if he deems it suitable to pass the book along to you, then so be it.”

“No, thank you, Mr. MacTavish,” Mariah said, amazed that steam wasn’t pouring out of her ears. “Come along, Victoria.”

“Oh, but I’d like to buy this magazine,” Victoria said, placing the periodical on the table.

“Yes, indeed, Miss Victoria.” Mr. MacTavish smiled at Victoria with an indulgent happiness that brought Mariah to the edge of tears.

It was like looking through a glass and seeing the woman she had once been. The world was wide open to the young and pretty who didn’t have a single ambition in their head beyond attracting a handsome mate. Mariah wished with all her heart that Victoria would find and secure that mate as soon as possible. Nothing was worse than the perpetual adolescence of a single woman left on the shelf. It wasn’t just books of poetry. She could hardly go anywhere without her father’s approval and a chaperone. At balls and parties, she was expected to stay seated at the edges of the room with the widows so that the younger ladies had a chance. And all because of the curse of having been born a female and having once failed at marriage.

“Come along,” she said, holding the shop’s door open for Victoria to walk through while leafing through her purchase. “If we hurry, we can still make it home while Mrs. Wentworth’s tea cakes are warm.”

“Mmm. I love it when the tea cakes are fresh from the oven,” Victoria said with a grin and a lift of her shoulders. “The butter melts divinely.”

Mariah tried to share her sister’s smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. It was a glorious thing to have no other cares than whether the butter melted at tea or not.

“It’s a shame that Mr. MacTavish wouldn’t sell you a silly book,” Victoria said when they were halfway home, walking amongst the larger houses inhabited by the more prosperous inhabitants of Aylesbury. Mariah was surprised that she’d been paying attention at the shop.

“It’s nothing,” she sighed, feeling as though, in fact, it were a very large something indeed.

“I don’t know why you care so much about books anyhow.” Victoria shrugged. “Not when there are handsome officers in town. I bet someone will throw a ball soon and they’ll be invited. Ooh! A party would be just the thing right now. Ever since seeing this illustration here, I’ve wanted to remake my green dress in this style.” She held open the page for Mariah to see.

“Ever since?” Mariah arched a weary eyebrow. “That long, eh?”

Victoria completely missed her sarcasm. She continued to chatter away about frills and flounces, skirts and bodices, and all of the things Mariah had once cared about but left by the wayside.

Her spirits were as flat as a platter by the time they reached home, which was why it came as such a surprise when her mother greeted them in the hallway with, “Mariah, your father and I would like to speak to you right away in the office.”

“Papa’s up?” Victoria asked, bursting into a smile.

Their father, Sir Edmund Travers, had been away in London, attending Parliament, and had only just returned home late the night before. As a respected member of the House of Commons, his duties to country usually came before his duties to family, so it was an unexpected treat when he was there to lavish much-craved affection on his wife and daughters.

“Yes,” their mother answered. “And we have something most exciting to talk to you about.”

“Me?” Mariah exchanged a look with Victoria.

“Yes, you, dear. Now come along.” Their mother hooked her arm through Mariah’s and tugged her away, down the hall to her father’s office.

“Tell me everything when you’re done,” Victoria whispered after them.

Mariah was too startled to reply, and before she knew it, she was standing in front of her father’s desk as her mother shut the office door.

“Mariah, my dear heart,” her father said, getting up as though he sat on a spring and coming around the desk to hug her. “My dear, sweet girl.”

“Papa.” Mariah hugged him back, soaking in every bit of the rare and wonderful hug. Suddenly, none of the frustrations of the afternoon mattered a bit. Her irritation was gone, and all she could feel was affection for her father.

“Now, Poppet,” her father said, letting go of her at last. Mariah didn’t even mind that he used the term of endearment he’d used when she was a tiny girl. “Let’s sit down and have a chat. Your mother and I have something exciting to discuss with you.”

Mariah glanced to her mother, whose hands were clutched to her heart in expectation. On top of that, she looked near tears.

“What’s going on?” Mariah asked. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Far from it.”

Rather than gesturing for her to sit in the chair in front of his desk in a businesslike manner, her father guided her to the long, leather sofa near the fireplace, his arm around her waist. Her mother came to sit on one side of her as her father sat on the other.

“I just want you to know that I’m very happy about this,” her mother said. “And your father has my full support.”

“Full support for what?” Mariah asked, half laughing, half crawling out of her skin with impatience.

Her father took a breath, then shifted to face her. “My dear, I’ve found a husband for you.”

Mariah blinked, convinced she hadn’t heard her father right. “I beg your pardon.”

“I’ve found a husband for you,” her father repeated as though the Queen had given him a medal.

Mouth open, Mariah turned to her mother. But where she’d been expecting confusion equal to her own, Mariah found only wide-eyed excitement. Her mother nodded enthusiastically and gestured to her father.

“You’ve found me a husband.” Mariah blinked. “I didn’t know I was looking for one.”

“Well, you might not have been looking,” her mother said, bearing a sudden resemblance to Victoria. “But all women need husbands. And we’ve been so concerned for you since Robert died.”

“Yes, yes. Terrible business, that.” Her father flushed and looked embarrassed.

“Besides, darling.” Her mother rested a hand on Mariah’s knee. “The life of a spinster doesn’t suit you.”

Mariah let out an undignified grunt of total agreement before she could stop herself. It was a little embarrassing to have what she knew so well pointed out to her, though. And by her mother.

“But….” She squirmed in her seat, glancing from mother to father. “How did this come about? It’s not the Middle Ages, after all. Fathers don’t simply go out and procure husbands for their daughters anymore.”

“No, of course not,” her father said, then burst into a smile. “It was a happy bit of coincidence, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, do tell the story, Edmund,” her mother said with a girlish gleam in her eyes. “It’s such a lovely story.”

“Well,” he said, “it all started about eighteen months ago—”

“Eighteen months?” Mariah shook her head. “And you’re just telling me about it now?”

“About eighteen months ago,” her father repeated, with more emphasis, “a good friend of mine, Lord Peter deVere, expressed to me his wish to remarry.”

“Oh?” Mariah searched her memory, but she couldn’t remember her father ever mentioning a Lord Peter deVere before.

“Yes,” her mother added. “His first marriage is such a tragic story.”

Mariah pressed her lips together. No doubt her father had seen her romantic past as tragic as well and felt she and Lord Peter had something in common.

Her father held up a hand to brush her mother’s interruption away. “Peter is a trusted friend, and his first wife, Anne, died without giving him an heir. I took the liberty of mentioning you, Poppet, and of putting you forth as a candidate to provide him with that heir.”

“Papa!” Mariah pressed a hand to her suddenly hot face. “Please tell me you didn’t present me to this man as breeding stock.”

“No, no.” Her father’s brow furrowed, then his eyebrows popped to his hairline. “Oh dear, no. I didn’t mean it like that at all.”

“Thank heavens.” Mariah pressed a hand to her thumping heart. She winced slightly and asked, “How did you say it?”

Her father shrugged. “Peter mentioned he needed to remarry. I said I had a daughter who would make a good wife.”

Mariah bit her lip, not sure that was much better. “And he said…what?”

“He said he’d be interested in meeting you,” her father said.

Mariah searched her memory once again, scrambling to remember if she had ever met anyone who might even remotely be the man her father was talking about. She’d had a season in London before Robert declared his intentions, but after his death, she’d stayed far away from town. She remembered quite a few young men, but her father’s friends tended to be older. He was particularly close with a group of men who had served with him in the Crimean War, but that was ages ago. All of those friends served in either the House of Commons with him or the House of Lords, and Mariah had met them so few times that she couldn’t match the bits and pieces of names she remembered to faces.

She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. “If that conversation was eighteen months ago, why am I only hearing about it now?”

“Well, er….” Her father cleared his throat. “I may have mistaken the seriousness of Peter’s intent for a while. Apparently, he warmed to the idea of marrying you right away and, uh, has had his heart set on it for all this time.”

“But you didn’t tell me?” Mariah wasn’t sure whether to be offended or to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Your father is a very busy and important man,” her mother reminded her. “He and his colleagues are engaged in a valiant struggle in Parliament to increase the rights of women throughout the country.”

It was true. Her father was well known as a champion of property and personal rights for women in Great Britain. He and his friends were hard at work writing a bill that would extend a variety of legal protections to women—married women, that was—which they currently didn’t have.

“But surely you could have found time to inform me that a man had determined to marry me, Papa,” Mariah said.

“I wasn’t aware of his level of intention,” her father defended himself, red-faced with embarrassment.

“When did you become aware of it?”

Her father hesitated, cringed, then answered, “Three days ago.”

“Three days?” Mariah nearly leapt from the sofa in alarm. “You found out three days ago that this friend of yours was serious about marrying me?”

“Yes.” At least her father had the good sense to look sheepish. “The timing was my oversight entirely. But that doesn’t mean I don’t approve of the match. On the contrary. Peter is as fine a man as any woman could hope to marry.”

“He is,” her mother agreed. “I’ve met him. He’s a kind and generous soul.”

“But I don’t know him,” Mariah argued.

“Precious few women truly know their husbands before they are married,” her father blustered on.

Mariah could have argued with him. Times had changed from when he and her mother were young, after all. But before she could form an argument, her mother blurted. “He’s an earl, Mariah. The Earl of Dunsford. You would be a countess.” She beamed with glee.

Mariah was speechless. She’d never been the sort to hunger for things like titles and wealth. All she needed to survive in life was a modest home and the freedom to read what she wanted to without being treated like a child. But to suddenly be offered the title and life of a countess? It didn’t seem real.

“Peter has a lovely estate in Cornwall,” her father explained. “Part of the property is on the English Channel, but the majority of it is inland. The deVere family have made their fortune through mining these last few generations. And Starcross Castle is listed as one of Southwestern England’s most beautiful manor houses.

“Starcross…Castle?” Her last word came out as a squeak.

“I can picture you as the mistress of a castle,” her mother said, clasping her hands to her heart.

Mariah’s brain felt as though it were working through molasses. It was utterly impossible that an earl would appear out of nowhere, wanting to marry her and make her mistress of a castle by the sea. Her, poor Mariah Travers, forgotten and rejected, and on the verge of permanent spinsterhood. The notion of being pursued by a wealthy earl was ridiculous.

“When—” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat and started again. “When will I have a chance to meet Lord Peter?”

“Ah. Well.” Her father shifted and tugged at his collar. “The thing is, he’s coming tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Mariah’s eyes went wide.

“Yes, and he’s under the impression that the two of you will be married this Friday.”

“This Friday?” Mariah could only gape for a moment before asking, “Why is he under that impression?”

“Because that’s what I told him,” her father confessed with a sigh, his posture slipping. “But if you don’t want to marry him, I can call the whole thing off and send him on his way.”

“But darling.” Her mother grasped her arm, looking at her seriously. “You won’t get another offer of marriage after this.”

The room went silent. Mariah licked her lips, staring at her mother. The instinct to contradict her made a weak attempt to assert itself, but quickly withered. Her mother was right. At her age, it was unlikely enough that she would receive another proposal. But considering that almost everyone of their acquaintance knew she hadn’t been good enough to keep Robert interested, the choice before her wasn’t much of a choice at all. She could either marry this friend of her father’s, whom she didn’t know, or she could continue with her life of perpetual childhood, never fully admitted to adult society. It was a choice between freedom and the unknown or a lifetime of sameness.

“All right,” she said, her voice barely more than a wisp.

“All right?” her mother asked.

Mariah glanced between her mother and her father. “I’ll marry your friend, Papa,” she said. “I’ll marry him Friday.”

“Excellent, Poppet.” Her father let out a loud breath of relief and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow. “You had me worried for a moment there. I don’t know what I would have told Peter if you’d said no.”

“You won’t have to tell him anything but yes, yes, yes,” her mother said, giggling with joy. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she sighed. “My daughter, a countess. And this means that you will be able to introduce Victoria to suitable, titled gentlemen as well.”

“One thing at a time, Mama,” Mariah said, cracking a smile at last and resting a hand on her mother’s knee.

She probably would have an opportunity, as a countess, to introduce Victoria to a better class of men than she currently seemed drawn to. And it would be a formidable challenge to administrate a castle, as would be her duty. And providing Lord Peter with an heir? Well, she would worry about that particular duty when she had to, and not a second sooner.