Chapter One
Isadora
For six weeks, Isadora Childs had braved the woes of the open sea. Her disposition had been compromised in every which way she could imagine, from sickness to hunger and even enduring harassment by the single men on the voyage. She was an unaccompanied woman and seen to some as free game.
If she was feeling poorly at the end of the journey, Isadora could not bear to imagine what the people of steerage were meant to endure but she cast the dismal thought aside when S.S. Luciana banked at New York and she managed to stumble to the docks where she was moved along with the other second-class travelers.
Through her peripheral vision, she saw the poorer class, all much worse for wear than she and seemingly half the numbers she recalled when they had departed from England what seemed like a lifetime ago.
Have that many perished in six weeks or have they exited through another dock?
She loathed that she immediately imagined they had died. Certainly, Isadora had changed on that voyage across the Atlantic, partially by choice but mostly by necessity of survival. The echo of the men she had left behind in England still rang achingly through her mind as though they still whispered in her ears all this time later.
I am Isadora Childs. I will marry Desmond Waters and do as a proper wife should.
It was difficult for Isadora to know which of the men haunting her thoughts scared her the most. Each terrified her in their own way and she had hoped that the journey separating her from them would provide her some comfort, but she knew she fooled no one with such a childish hope.
There was no escape for Isadora, no redemption for the life she had been forced to lead.
“Papers, miss?”
She slowly lifted her head toward the officer who spoke to her. He had appeared so suddenly, she was almost stunned by his appearance.
“My what?” she asked dumbly.
“Your papers.” He did not look to be in good humor and when Isadora looked at him in confusion, his mouth turned further down into a frown of anger.
“You cannot simply arrive here without papers. You will be detained, questioned, deported.”
His words filled her with fear but instead of answering, she could only stare at him, open-mouthed.
“My word, are you daft?” he yelled. “Can you speak English?”
“That will do.”
A man stepped from the thinning crowds, joining them. He was too well-dressed to have been among the second class, but Isadora did not consider he had been on the ship. He did not carry with him the same sickly pallor as the other weary travelers although his skin did seem to be touched by jaundice.
“This does not concern you, sir,” the officer grumbled but he did seem taken aback by the wealthy man’s appearance.
“It does when this is my daughter,” the man retorted haughtily. “Here are her documents.”
A page was thrust before the agent, who scanned it wearily before looking again to Isadora.
“You are this man’s daughter?” he demanded through narrowed eyes. Isadora had never before seen the stranger in her two and twenty years but she dared not protest. She had long ago learned to play along with the role in which she was cast.
A mere thespian, Isadora thought. That is what I am.
It was much easier for her to think herself an actress than what she truly was.
“Miss? Is your name Isadora Childs?” the officer asked, his face twisted in disbelief. She found her voice under the scrutiny of the stranger who peered at her with cold, yellow eyes and she nodded quickly, darting her own gaze away.
“It is.”
“Have you been checked for lice?”
“Yes.” She had not but the idea of spending one more moment in the horde of people being poked or prodded was all she could endure. Thankfully, there was little investigation into the matter.
“Off with you, then.”
He waved her away, turning to his checklist and searching for her name to cross from the roster.
“Come along, daughter.” Her arm was taken as he reached for her trunk with the other and she found herself led from the docks and away from the suspicious officer. She did not fight. Isadora knew such resistance would be futile. Her days of revolting were long since passed and she had the many scars to prove it.
“You are much comelier than I expected,” the man purporting to be her father declared, eyeing her through his peripheral vision. “Mr. Waters will be happy.”
His words did not ring with conviction, but again, Isadora made no comment on the matter. What difference could it possibly make if Mr. Waters found her comely or not? It did not change her position in the least.
“Have you nothing to say?” he barked. “I would have hoped you came equipped with better manners than a feral hound or at least a vapid expression or two.”
Isadora bristled at the comment but she cast him a tight smile.
“I am happy to be here, sir.”
He snorted and pulled her toward a waiting carriage, the coachman waiting to permit them entry.
“You may change your mind on that matter,” he laughed without much mirth. “I am Isaac Jones. You may call me Mr. Jones.”
“Yes, Mr. Jones.”
She slid inside the coach, gathering her long skirts in a dirty, gloved hand. She welcomed the dimness inside the cab, her heartrate elevated, but Isadora willed herself to be still. She did not wish for Mr. Jones to take note of her nervousness. There was far too much at stake now, from all angles.
“Are you able to read and write?” The question surprised her.
“Yes, of course,” she replied slowly, wondering precisely how much Mr. Waters knew of her. “It is how Mr. George Waters found me, I believe.”
Mr. Jones scoffed lightly.
“I haven’t a clue what occurs across the pond.”
Is there bitterness in his tone?
She wondered if perhaps Mr. Jones might be an ally to her if Mr. Desmond Waters proved not to be the gentleman his father claimed him to be.
“Mr. Waters has a large property, rife with forests and fields,” Mr. Jones told her. “The estate is grand but the household does not boast many servants.”
“Why not?” Isadora asked before she could stop herself. The carriage began to move and shadows crossed over Mr. Jones’ amber-tinged face, casting an eerie glow about him.
“There are reasons,” he replied evasively. Isadora felt a shudder of worry but she did not comment.
“What is the nature of his work?” Isadora asked instead. “I understand he is a man with many means.”
“You will not starve if that is what concerns you,” he spat back and Isadora clamped her mouth closed but not without shooting him a baleful look.
“You will learn all you need to learn in due time,” Mr. Jones growled and Isadora realized she had already asked too much. “You need not pepper me nor Mr. Waters with questions.”
Remember your place, she told herself. You have no cause to ask questions. You must keep your mouth shut and your ears open.
It was a mantra which had served her quite well over the past years, possibly saved her life.
“It will be several hours before we arrive at Darkbrook.”
“Darkbrook?” she echoed. “That is the name of the estate?”
Mr. Jones looked at her through narrowed eyes.
“You did not know the name of the house in which you were to live?”
She looked away.
“I did not,” she fibbed. Mr. Jones said nothing but Isadora feared he was weighing her with caution.
You must be careful! she thought worriedly. You will end this before it begins. You are fatigued from the journey and ask too much. Close your lips before you are raked over with suspicious eyes.
Another shiver slid through her body as she considered the repercussions of such a thing.
“I will rest. I suggest you do the same,” Mr. Jones told her, turning his head away and resting his stovepipe hat upon his chest. He closed his eyes purposefully, indicating that he was no longer available for conversation and she had little choice but to peer out into the fading light of the day.
New York bustled by as the coach and six moved seamlessly through the streets but Isadora barely noticed the charged excitement of the new world. Any elation she should have felt about landing in the promised land was diminished by uncertainty and plagued by worry. She slipped her gloves from her fingers and studied her long fingers. Her hands were trembling and she quickly clasped them together, lest Mr. Jones see her nervousness.
Soon, the constant movement of the horses plowing onward up the state lulled her into a trancelike lethargy and Isadora’s dark eyes grew heavy with exhaustion.
The sleep she had fought took her in a short time but no sooner did her lids seal than the night terrors began.
~ ~ ~
“You will do as you are told!”
“There is nowhere else for you to be!”
“Where will you run?”
The voices mocked her as she clawed through the darkness, a compilation of men hissing in her ear. She froze at the edge of the clearing, peering back toward the lights she had left behind, her heart thundering in her chest.
Quiet! she warned herself. They will hear you.
It was impossible, of course. They were all too far away, consumed by their food and drink. They could not possibly see her sneaking away in the dark and yet, she could not help but feel there were eyes on her.
She touched the pouch at her side, the outline of coins ridging over her fingertips.
You must continue to move before they know you are gone.
Yet she remained frozen in place, the voices still in her ear, taunting, mocking, reminding her that there was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be.
You will start over somewhere that no one knows you, a hopeful voice called in her ear. It matters not what Milo says. It matters not what Theo thinks. You are much stronger than you believe.
Yet she could not move.
Go. Run!
Instead, she gathered her cloak and turned back toward the lights, her heart heavy and her spirit destroyed. They had broken her beyond redemption.
No matter how she tried to convince herself otherwise, she was a prisoner. As she moved back toward the people she had left behind, a booming laugh caused her to turn in shock.
“I knew you were incapable of any real strength,” Milo howled, stepping from behind the tree. “You belong to me.”
“Y-you followed me!” she gasped and his thin smile faded into a grimace of anger.
“I own you,” he hissed, seizing her arm violently. “You will make no moves unless I dictate them.”
She squealed in pain but Milo’s fingers only intensified around her.
“You cannot run, girl. How many times must I tell you?”
He dragged her through the clearing, his fingers like a vice against her delicate skin.
“You are becoming more trouble than you are worth.” His tone was raspy and filled her with terror. “I think the time has come to send you away.”
“No!” she cried. “I—forgive me, Milo! I was not running! I was…”
She thought helplessly for an explanation.
“Going on a constitution perhaps?” Milo taunted her. “Taking in some air? Shut your mouth and do not lie to me.”
“No!” she begged him again. “Please, do not punish me.”
He paused and yanked her toward him, his face inches from hers.
“You have not known punishment yet, but you will.”
She gasped but when her eyes opened, she realized she was no longer in England, standing in that cold field in the grips of a madman.
“Are you unwell?” Mr. Jones demanded, sniffing slightly in disgust. Clara wondered what she had done or said in the midst of her nightmare and again was consumed with guilt and worry. She could control how much she spoke, how loudly, how she dressed or acted, but she could not control what was said in her sleep.
Unless I remain awake, she thought sleepily, drifting back asleep.
“Miss Childs!” Mr. Jones snapped. “Have you been imbibing on the ship?”
She started again, her bleary eyes darting toward the man across the way.
You are in America now. Milo is not here. You are as safe as you have ever been.
“No,” she replied quietly. “I am well.”
She straightened herself to peer out the dusty window. Night had fallen as she slept. The moon was a day past its fullness and cast a strange glow around the countryside.
“We will be arriving at Darkbrook shortly,” Mr. Jones told her coldly. “You may wish to keep your eyes open and your mouth closed.”
Isadora did not speak, the warning clear; she was to be seen and not heard.
It does not matter what waits for me there, she told herself firmly. It cannot be worse than what I left behind.