Henrietta’s index finger trailed along text, her stormy blue eyes taking in the words as quickly as her mind could absorb them. She did not notice that the single candle flickering nearby was nearly extinguished, and her irises were straining against the darkness.

The flame sputtered out, startling her. Abruptly, she sat up and looked about her bedchambers in surprise. She had done it again, losing all sense of time and space to these contraband books, which she was forced to smuggle inside her family home in Bryne.

The fire in the hearth had also sputtered down to a few smoldering embers, letting the cold creep in. Here, inclement weather snuck up the coast in the colder months, after Summer’s heyday had faded, bringing snow and bitter rain. She ought to have been looking forward to winter games and revels, but it meant only one thing to her—greater caution in reading her books by night, lest her father catch her.

Getting out of bed and crossing the room, she reached up to grasp the matches. She was about to strike one, to get the fire going again, when a loud knock came at the door.

Egad!

She rushed back and dived beneath the covers, foolishly clutching the matchbox in her hand. She didn’t care who found her with matches—it was the book she was worried about.

“Miss Oliver! Are you well?”

“Yes, yes.” Henrietta was relieved that it was only the maid.

Tapping lightly on the door, Molly’s voice quavered, “May I enter?”

“Yes.” Henrietta sighed reluctantly. There was no point in dismissing her—the abigail would only fret and likely tell her mother in the morning if Henrietta resisted.

Molly entered. With feigned cheer, Henrietta said, “You see? There is nothing of consequence happening in here.”

Molly tiptoed into the room She saw the fire had got out and was aghast that she permitted this to happen. Instantly, she rushed toward the hearth and added several logs to the fire. Henrietta held her breath hoping Molly wouldn’t seek the missing matches. To her relief, the last of the embers caught the dried wood without incident, and Henrietta sat back against the pillows.

See, Molly, nothing amiss here.

It was ridiculous, really, having to sneak about in her own home lest one of the servants betray her secrets to her father, but Henrietta could do little about it. It was Aaron Oliver’s home, he was the master, and he couldn’t have been clearer on that matter.

How could she explain to her father that that this house was not the infantry. General Oliver had very specific ideas of how not only his house should be run but also the place his daughter held in said house.

As though I am a child…

“Do you require anything else, Miss?” Molly turned her attention to Henrietta.

“That will be all, Molly.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Molly slipped toward the door, but through the shadowy light, Henrietta thought she saw the maid eye her peripherally. In her haste to return to bed, she had only half-covered the book with the coverlet. Molly had seen it.

I do not suppose I could be fortunate enough for her to have overlooked it. She knew the answer. The servants in the household were specially trained to keep an eye on Henrietta’s insubordinate acts. They would sooner tattletale on her than risk Aaron learning the truth on his own. The staff quickly learned her father was not one to have an easy demeanor. If they could find a way to circumvent his fury upon them, they had no issue nor regret handing Henrietta to him.

Henrietta did not fault them as much as she should. She wished it were not so, but she did understand why, and it made her feel very much a prisoner in her home.

“Good night, Miss.”

For a fleeting moment, Henrietta considered begging Molly not to disclose what she had seen, but she knew how such a conversation would conclude. Molly would agree to remain silent, tell Aaron anyway, thus causing Henrietta to resent her.

“Good night.” Henrietta knew she wouldn’t get much sleep tonight, and in the morning, she would be forced to deal with her father’s wrath. The door closed softly, and Henrietta turned her head toward the text which lay at her side. She considered hiding it, but seeing The Royal Society of Medicine journal, she just had to reached for it once more.

I best read it while I still have it at my fingertips. She curled her body sidewise to peruse the fascinating articles inside. If Father gets his hands upon it, it is as good as destroyed.

She hoped that would not occur. Henrietta had borrowed the copy from Dr. Ranstandt, and he had been reluctant to part with it.

“While I admire your desire to learn, Miss Oliver, I daresay your father does not share your enthusiasm on the matter. If he should learn from where you are receiving this literature—”

“He will not!” Henrietta swore. “I would never betray your confidence.”

The surgeon had relented. He didn’t know the true reason for Henrietta’s interest in his collection of pieces, and she feared, if he ever learned the truth, he would side with her father. Still, she did not wish for Aaron to destroy another item belonging to the good doctor. Henrietta dismissed the notion and focused her eyes. She vowed to hide the periodical well and return it, unscathed, to Dr. Ranstandt. She would worry more earnestly about her father in the morning.

While Henrietta didn’t recall the hour at which sleep claimed her, she did know the rather rude awakening she received as the blankets were yanked from her body.

“Up you go!” Aaron Oliver barked as his daughter stared at him with bleary eyes. “I expect you in the dining hall in no more than ten minutes.”

Without awaiting a response, he turned and stormed from her bedchambers, the Royal Society of Medicine journal in his hand.

Egad! What have I done permitting myself to fall asleep without securing the periodical?

She slowly grew aware of Molly standing nearby. Henrietta swallowed the angry words that threatened to flow from her lips. Silently, she slipped from the bed and moved toward the vanity where she reached for her hairbrush.

“Should I brush your hair, Miss?”

“I believe you have done enough, Molly. You are dismissed,” Henrietta replied impulsively. She reminded herself again that the servants were not to blame.

“I…yes, Miss Oliver.”

Molly hung her head in shame, backing away from the countertop and Henrietta sighed.

“Never mind. Here.”

She handed the silver-handled brush to the maid, and Molly hurried forward to accept it.

“Thank you, Miss,” she murmured, apparently taking the gesture as a sign of forgiveness. Henrietta did not respond, but she eyed Molly warily in the glass as the maid began to stroke at her fine, blonde hair.

“He is quite angry, is he not?” Henrietta asked.

“Yes, Miss.” Molly’s voice was barely a whisper and Henrietta heard the regret in her tone.

“Only fifty strokes,” she instructed the abigail. “I do not wish to incense him further.”

Molly nodded, brushing with more vigor and Henrietta idly wondered if she knew how to count or if she merely guessed her way through the brush strokes by habit. When the servant had finished, Henrietta’s hair gleamed like spun silk, and she moved toward the armoire for a dress she hoped would placate her father—if only slightly. After Molly secured the corset, she donned a simple garment of blue and paused to glance at herself in the mirror once more. She looked very much the proper lady her father demanded of her, the mane of dark-honey tresses pinned neatly to the sides of her elegant crown with gold combs. The strands spilled over her shoulders, cascading down her back to land gracefully about a cinched waistline. Eyes of cerulean blue shone brightly back, intelligent but shadowed, anticipating the stern discussion which awaited her in the dining hall.

“Miss, forgive me, but it has been longer than the ten minutes you were allotted.”

Henrietta had not needed to be reminded. Like Molly, she was painfully aware of the time sliding away.

“Yes.”

She turned from the glass and made her way from the bedchambers toward the staircase, measuring her breaths. She found her parents in the dining room as her father had said.

“Sit down,” he told her curtly without preamble.

Attempting in her futile way to alleviate the mounting tension inside the house, her mother chirped, “Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?”

Henrietta slipped into her place, noting with some annoyance how Seth leered at her as he held her chair. He was a troublesome employee of the household, Henrietta’s least favorite and she wished that he were not always so near. Of all the butlers, the General had over the years, Seth was the youngest, and had become his favorite. Therefore, he remained steadfastly at the General’s side, much to Henrietta’s added chagrin.

“She did not sleep at all!” the General roared. “She remained up all evening perusing material she has no business reading!”

“Father, if you—”

Aaron raised his hand and shook his head warningly.

“I will not hear it, Henrietta! I have endured too many of your promises to cease already.”

“I have never made any such promises!” she cried out indignantly although she knew he would never see it in such a way.

To his mind, I did vow to stop simply because he demanded I do so, but I will never stop! Not until I—

“Henny,” Tabitha Oliver murmured kindly, casting her irate husband a nervous look. “What have you done now?”

“I was merely reading.” Henrietta protested although she knew she did much more than read. Yet, this was hardly the opportunity to explain her dreams to her parents, not when Aaron’s face had grown unusually red with anger.

“Who is giving you this to read?” Aaron demanded to know. “I will have him run from Bryne for indulging your fanciful notions.”

“What is the harm in her reading, Aaron?” Tabitha muttered although she knew precisely why Aaron glowered. It was not a new subject in the Oliver household, but it was Tabitha’s meek attempt to keep the uneasy peace within the walls of the house.

Futile attempt, Henrietta thought with some contempt. Oh, how she wished her mother was stronger, more firm against her husband’s overbearing ways. Another one of Henrietta’s farfetched dreams was that Tabitha would one day straighten her spine and demand Aaron speak to them not as soldiers in the battlefield but as the wife and child he presumably loved.

“As if you do not know what tripe she consumes,” Aaron scoffed at his wife. “Medical journals. Science periodicals. She has impossible ideas in her head—”

“They are not impossible!” Henrietta immediately regretted the words. The look in Aaron’s eyes was terrifying. She darted her gaze away.

“Something must be done about this,” Aaron rasped, pounding his fists on the table. “I will not stand for your constant disobedience, Henrietta!”

“Forgive me, Father,” she replied automatically even though she was insincere. She only wished for the diatribe to be finished so that she might find a place to escape privately.

“Your apologies are false,” Aaron growled. Through the corner of her eye, Henrietta saw Seth nodding in agreement. She scowled at him furiously, but Seth’s eyes were fixed faithfully on Aaron.

“Father, I—”

“SILENCE!” he howled. Henrietta again dropped her eyes. It had been a long while since she had heard him so angry.

“Aaron, you need not shout.” Tabitha was wringing her hands as she always did when such situations arose. “I am certain that Henny is contrite—are you sorry, dear?”

Henrietta looked down and mumbled. “I am. Truly.”

“No,” Aaron hissed, his tone more reserved now. “That will not do, not this time.”

Henrietta felt pins pricking down her spine and she just kept staring at him, contemplating what would happen to her this time. His blue eyes were blazing with determination, and she had a terrible feeling.

“Father…what are you saying?” His silence was far worse than his raised tones. That familiar half-smile, mirthless and cold, formed over his lips.

“I daresay,” he drawled slowly. “You will find out soon enough.”

With that, he rose from his seat at the head of the table, his breakfast untouched, and stormed from the room, Seth close at his heels.

“Oh dear,” Tabitha moaned. “Why must we fight at every meal?”

“You need not fret, Mama,” Henrietta spoke softly. “All will be well soon.”

“I do hope you are right, darling. I cannot bear this endless tension hanging over us like a fog. I cannot breathe!”

“I agree,” Henrietta replied, but her mind was on the veiled threat her father had made.

He has plans for me, ones which will undoubtedly quash my dreams.

“Eat, dear,” Tabitha encouraged her gently. “You cannot endure your father’s temper on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, Mama.”

I also cannot endure Father’s temper if I am not around. Again, she prayed for the mails to arrive. She was waiting for word from numerous places, any one of them could be the key to her escape.

God willing, I will be free of Father before he doles out whatever punishment he concocts.