Prologue

At a mere eight years old, Lucy Beaumont did not know much about life, but she knew one thing was certain: her dislike for graveyards. The dreary weather suits the somber mood of the cemetery, Lucy thought as she followed her father to the place where the crowd had started to gather.

She could still vividly remember the last time she had in such a place. It had been a little over a year ago, to say goodbye to mama.

Tears formed in Lucy’s eyes at the thought of her mother, but she quickly wiped them away for fear of her father noticing. Papa did not like it when she cried. Especially when she cried about her. He was not aware of the fact that Lucy had heard his cruel words after her death. She had snuck down to the kitchen for a glass of water but her papa was there with one of the servants so Lucy remained hidden.

He had called her mother selfish and stupid and had also demanded that Lucy never cry about her. He had vowed never to waste a single tear on her and had said that his household should do the same.

It was a lot for a seven-year-old to take in, but her mama had taught Lucy from a very young age to always listen to her papa. So Lucy walked back upstairs and dried her tears. If papa did not want her to cry, she would refrain from crying. That night, Lucy had whispered to whoever was listening, her mother perhaps, that she was sorry for not crying but she was afraid that her father would get angry if she did not comply.

The people at this funeral, Lucy thought now, had clearly made no such promises. People stood with handkerchiefs pressed against their noses, and here and there someone sniffed. Lucy was relieved when papa let go of her hand. She knew that he would not notice her wandering off – he’d only look for her once it was time to leave. As such, Lucy quietly moved to the back of the crowd where she had a good view of the whole group.

She did not know who William Lockhart was but judging by the number of people at his funeral he must have been quite popular. There were nowhere near this many people at her mother’s funeral. It had only been her, her father and a few of their servants. Not even her mother’s parents were there. Lucy was too afraid to ask why they had decided to not attend, but she heard the servants whispering about it afterward. According to them, her father had strictly forbidden them to stay away – both from the funeral and Lucy herself. He had vowed to protect his daughter against anything and everything because he wanted her to grow up to be a proper lady.

Lucy was angry about his choice, even though she was far too young to understand the raging emotions in her heart. That day, she was not only angry at him for preventing her grandparents from seeing her but jealous about the number of people at this stranger’s funeral.

Who was this William Lockhart that deserved so many goodbyes while mama had no one? Stubborn tears formed in Lucy’s eyes again at the thought and she quickly wiped them away.

A soft sound behind her made her jump. Though Lucy’s first instinct was to run away, her curiosity won over, and she ambled in the direction of the sound.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft and nervous. Her question was followed by more sniffles, and by something that sounded a little like a sob. “Who’s there?”

She took another step forward and peeked around the bushes. And then finally, she saw him. A little boy, who was likely her own age, was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree. Sobs racked his thin body, and he had his fists pressed to his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Lucy asked.

Perhaps it was the concern in her voice or the fact that she was roughly the same age as him, but something made the boy remove his hands from his face and look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, and fresh tears pooled in their green depths.

“No… Please go away now!”

Lucy shook her head and took a step towards the boy, who still glared at her with teary eyes. “Who are you?” she said, taking another stubborn step forward and sitting down next to him. “I’m Lucy Beaumont, and you?”

He lifted his chin and put on a brave face. Lucy recognized the expression, as it was one she was used to wearing herself.

“I am Edward Lockhart,” the boy replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

He held a trembling hand out to her, and she shook it, pity building in her heart at once. “Lockhart… That means…”

Edward glanced in the direction of the mourners, and he nodded sadly.

“It’s my father’s funeral, yes.”

Anyone else might have thought him strong and tough for his delivery of the statement, but Lucy recognized his hidden feelings all too well. He was heartbroken.

“I am sorry, Edward. For… for your loss.”

They were the words she could say, words she herself had received after her mother had died, but she did not think they would help. After all, they had not helped her either.

The boy nodded quietly, and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes started to overflow. “I apologize,” he said. He was still trying to be brave, though the tremble in his voice gave him away. “You must think me very weak.”

“No!” Lucy answered quickly, and her hand found his. “Don’t be silly! Crying doesn’t make you weak. My mama… she used to say only the strongest of people allow themselves to cry. It’s good for you, she always said.”

“I just… miss them so much.” His words were a broken whisper, and Lucy held his hand a little tighter.

“I know. I miss my mama too… but she’s up in heaven, watching over me. I’m sure your parents are doing the same.”

Another smile formed on his face, this time a genuine one, and he squeezed her hand lightly. “It helps a little, but I still wish they were here… that I could see them.”

She knew exactly what he meant – she knew it far too well.

“I wish I could see my mama too, Edward… but I know that she would not want me to be sad. She’d want me to remember her, to think of the good memories, the time we spent together. She… she used to tell me stories, and they always had a happy ending. And whenever I get too sad, I think of those stories.”

A smile had formed on her own lips now as she thought about her mother. “I think of those stories when I miss her,” she continued, “and it almost feels like she is right here with me.”

“I…” Edward spoke quietly, his voice hoarse from the tears he had shed. “I used to go riding with my father. And sometimes, Mother danced with me and we’d sing songs together.”

Lucy nodded eagerly. Something inside her truly wanted this boy to feel better. “Exactly, those things… when you think of them, it’ll be like a part of them never left. But…” She smiled gently and rested her head against his shoulder. “But you can cry if you want to. Sometimes that helps too.”

Edward swallowed at this, and Lucy could feel his chest heaving with a soft sob. “Will you stay with me?” he asked. “Please? I don’t want to be alone.” Their fingers tangled together on her lap, and Edward settled his own head against hers. “You don’t have to stay. I mean… if you don’t want to… but I’d like it if you did.”

Lucy looked down at the entangled hands on her lap. Next to her, Edward’s breath had slowed. He was no longer sobbing, even though there were still tears in his voice.

“I won’t leave you alone. I promise.”

It was a promise spoken with the sincerity only a child could have – one filled with honesty and kindness, bereft of any expectation.

For an hour, the two sat with their backs against the tree, grateful to have someone with whom they could share and be with in their unhappiness.

Chapter 1

The lightning was close – far too close – and Lucy could feel an icy terror scraping at her bones. She knew this feeling all too well and there was only one person who could put her racing mind at ease when the stormy weather scared her.

“Mama?”

Lucy climbed out of her bed nervously. The floor was cold underneath her bare feet, but she hardly noticed it. She needed to see her mother, and it was this thought that kept her moving forward, scared though she was.

“Mama, where are you?”

The long, dark hallway loomed threateningly in front of her, and she froze. The dark had always terrified her, and with the raging storm outside, her fear was even worse.

The house was quiet – too quiet. She could hear the howling of the wind and the falling of the rain; she could hear nothing but the sounds of the storm. Why was the hallway so excruciatingly long? It worsened her terror, and Lucy swallowed dryly.

“Mama, please…” Though she had hoped for a loud call to leave her lips, her words had come out in a trembling whisper that disappeared into the storm. “Where are you?”

She moved forward hesitantly, step by step, until she finally reached her destination: mama and papa’s bedchambers. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob and when she finally turned it, it creaked in the silence.

Cold.

It was the first thing she registered when the door finally opened.

Icy cold.

Only once her frail body had adapted to the iciness of the room did Lucy take her time to look around.

The normally neat room was in chaos, and she looked at it with wide eyes. Then, her gaze was quickly drawn to a portrait that lay in tatters on the floor.

Lucy knew the portrait all too well. It was of her mother. Papa had commissioned it for her birthday, and the artist had done an exceptional job. Now the bright smile and azure eyes were ripped to shreds. Clothes were strewn over the floor too, and the bed’s coverings were bundled at its foot, as though someone was hurriedly looking for something.

A shiver ran through Lucy’s body, and only then did she turn towards the source of the cold: the balcony. The doors were open, and frosty rain trickled into the room.

Lucy rushed forward, eager to close the doors and stop the cold from entering the house. It was only when her hands touched the handles that she noticed it: a pair of shoes right there on the terrace.

Mama’s shoes.

Not just any shoes… her favorite shoes. She had worn them all day, and she would be very upset if the rain ruined them.

Look over the edge of the balcony.

She was not certain whether the words were whispered by the wind or whether her own mind was telling her what to do, but she moved forward without thinking.

The storm clouded her vision, so she strained her eyes to see. There was something far below. Yes, there it was. Far below the balcony in the garden, Lucy could make out a figure.

She squinted, trying to make sense of it. For a few minutes, her mind was befuddled. But when she realized, it shot through her body like a flash of lightning.

The figure wore mama’s favorite white dress, and its head bent at an impossible angle.

“Mama?” She could only whisper the word as she leaned over the balcony to see better. The figure was still, and all her doubts dissipated instantly. “Mama!” she whimpered.

***

Lucy awoke with a start, screaming, her entire body covered in sweat. She pressed a hand against her racing heart as she sat up in her bed.

The dream was always the same. She took a few deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm down, tears already pooling in her eyes. Recently, the dream had become even more frequent.

The blood in her veins turned to ice. The scream that had left her lips may have awakened her father; he despised it whenever someone disturbed his sleep. She stifled a yawn and reached for the robe that hung haphazardly over the chaise in her room.

Only one thing would help now; a cup of tea.

Anguished thoughts warred in her mind as she made her way to the kitchen. It had been ten long years since her mother’s death, but she could still picture her lying in the garden like a broken doll.

An accident, they had called it. How could her mother have been so careless as to slip and fall over the railing of the balcony? Even if that were a possibility, what would her mother have been doing out on the balcony in that awful weather?

It simply did not make sense.

Another thing that did not make sense was the torn-up portrait. No one had mentioned it, and Lucy herself was far too scared to ask her father about it. No… she had learned long ago that he did not welcome questions, so she had remained quiet about what she had seen.

Still, the portrait troubled her. Who would have gone through the trouble of shredding it into pieces, and more importantly… why? Could it have been her mother, who had grown tired of the false smile she wore in the painting?

And why had the room been in such disarray?

The silence in Lucy’s room was a far cry from the bustling activity in the kitchen when she arrived. Her maid Maria was leaning against a counter with a cup of tea in her hands.

“I made you a spot of tea already, my lady.”

Lucy took the cup with relief and shook her head at the older woman.

“Sometimes I wonder if you are a witch, Maria. How on earth did you know that I would be having a dream again?”

Maria smiled sympathetically and reached over to put a gentle hand on Lucy’s wrist. “I’m no witch, my dear lady. I just know that you have your dreams whenever a storm brews outside, so I was expecting you.”

She looked at Maria earnestly, thinking how far more at ease she felt with the staff than with her own family.

Maria kept her voice light, though the concern was still evident in her eyes. “You will never believe what I heard today. Your chambermaid is in love!”

Lucy took a delicate sip of the warm tea, her eyes wide.

“What? Katherine? With whom on earth could she be in love?”

Maria made a big show of looking at the cook conspiratorially. “With the new stable boy. Ben, I think his name is. The two cannot stop stealing furtive glances at one another.”

Lucy pressed her hand against her heart and smiled. “Oh, that is too precious! I have not met Ben yet, but I will have to make a plan to meet him now. He better not hurt Katherine, or I will have his head.”

The cook laughed jovially at this. They all knew that Lucy was far too kind to even consider having anyone’s head. She could hardly give anyone a stern talking-to.

“That is not the only gossip, my lady.” It was the cook’s gruff voice that sounded now, and Lucy looked at him curiously. “Apparently, young Abigail is expecting. Yes… they believe that the baby will be here by summer!”

Lucy clapped her hands together in excitement. “That is wonderful news! Oh, we will have to make some clothes for the baby, and perhaps a little blanket!”

The cook grinned brightly at her excitement. “Your mother would have had the very same reaction, you know. She would have thought of clothes and blankets too, without a doubt.”

Lucy’s smile faltered. Though the staff in the kitchen had managed to lighten her mood after her awful dream, she missed her mother even more on days like this. When mama was alive, the house used to bustle with activity and warmth. She was the one who introduced Lucy to the kitchen staff and other servants and made sure that she knew they ought to be treated with kindness and respect.

Mama used to laugh with them, and Lucy could still remember the joy that permeated the walls of the house for her presence. Now she hardly remembered what laughter sounded like.

“Oh, Lucy…” Maria looked at her with a tender smile. Maria had become a substitute mother for her, and she appreciated – and loved – the woman more than she could begin to explain.

“Are you excited for the start of the season?”

Lucy scoffed at the question and shook her head firmly. “No, thank you. I am not interested in any of those ridiculous events whatsoever. I have no need to look for a husband to control me.”

Maria lifted a brow at Lucy’s scathing answer, and she sighed. “I apologize, Maria,” Lucy continued. “The dream upset me. And this time of the year, father gets even more ill-tempered than usual.”

“Of course…” Maria sounded sympathetic. “Your mother’s death anniversary is coming up.”

Lucy suspected it was one of the reasons why her dreams had become more frequent. “Did he ever…” Lucy hesitated and shook her head. Surely she could not ask the question that had been weighing on her mind ever since she had been old enough to understand. Yet something in Maria’s sincere eyes made her feel safe.

“Did he what, my dear?”

Lucy sighed. “Did my father ever love mama? Because… I just remember them shouting at each other. I remember mama crying a lot and I…”

Once again, Lucy hesitated. Could she open up about the harsh realities of what she remembered, or was it better to remain quiet about it?

“I remember bruises, Maria,” Lucy said finally. “So many. And I don’t think I understood it when I was young, but somewhere along the way it started making sense and I just knew—” She exhaled sharply, avoiding Maria’s sympathetic eyes. “I just knew where they had come from, and I hated him! And a part of me still hates him because…”

“Is this why you do not favor the season?” Maria’s voice was soft and gentle, and Lucy nodded quickly.

“I decided years ago that I would never marry. I will never give away my independence and power like mother did.”

Despite sounding convincing even to her own ears, Lucy knew how awfully empty her words were. Her father had paraded her mother like a show pony, and now that she was of age it was Lucy’s turn.

He did not care that she despised the events he forced her to attend, nor did he care that she had never expressed a wish to marry. He did not care that every minute of being paraded sickened her, that she hated every second of it, that she hated him.

To her father, she was a mere object, and hatred was far too complex an emotion for her to have. She had no choice but to bear it.

Maria did not respond. She merely looked at her sympathetically. The cook, for his part, placed a plate filled with delicacies in front of her. It was his way of showing care, and Lucy appreciated it more than she could express.

She forced herself to smile as she took a cream puff and brought it to her lips.

She knew that she was beautiful and that people envied her wherever she went. She knew that many a lady in the vicinity had expressed a wish to be Lucy Beaumont.

Sadly, she also knew that all she had said about being independent was a farce. She shared her mother’s fate for she, too, was a prisoner.

Yes, she had a beautiful home and everything that money could buy, but a gilded cage was still only a cage… And if there was one thing Lucy was most certain of, it was that she did not want to be in a cage.

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