Chapter One

Baggage

The Bellas came in hot and gushing over an invitation to the Wilkinson’s ball. The Wilkinsons gave this party every year, on the exact same day, and the Bellas were always invited, so it should’ve come as no great surprise to them.

“Sisters, what’s got your knickers all in a bunch?” I asked, as blunt as a medieval axe. The maid halted her dusting for a moment to throw me dirty looks. Isabella, the romantic, simply clutched the parchment and sighed. Arabella, the talkative one, launched into a thorough explanation, and by thorough, I mean she told me more than I really wished to know.

“The Wilkinsons’ ball will be the social highlight of the season! It won’t be nearly so drab as last year, because…well, just guess whose names are on the guest list!” I rolled my eyes in disgust, but decided to play along.

“Why, I have no idea; not even an inkling. Who is it, Arab? Do tell.” The twins exchanged squint-eyed glances, accompanied by a bout of girlish giggles: their specialty. Then they leaned in around me; trapping me in their snare of gossip and fluff. Arabella whispered a name into my left ear, while Isabella whispered another into my right.

“Brian Wentworth and Edward Dubrow? Who in hell are they? I’ve never heard of them!” Arabella shook her head and tisked.

“That’s because, Little Sister, you haven’t heard of anyone! It’s a pity you don’t get out that much. Izzy and I are always offering to take you with us, but you never seem to want to go. Tell me, Blythe, why is that?” Why must houses be built with parlors? Why are the sky blue and the grass green? Why? Because, that’s why.

“I’d be happy to go out with you two someday. Just as soon as I change my name to Rubella and buy a new dress.” The twins gawked at me with wide, honey-colored eyes, like a couple of dazed flamingoes at the London Zoo.

“So you want to go…dress shopping?” I shoved the heel of my hand into my forehead. Why must perfect humor be wasted on the ill-informed?

I gathered the hem of my skirt and flurried out of the room. I needed a breath of fresh wit. I needed my father.

–

At one point I thought, as long as the people around me were happy, I could be happy, too. What a fool of a child I was.

I loved my father to death, and he cherished me like the first robin of spring, but when Mother died of consumption, our world was broken. Not fully broken, mind – we were two strong spirits who still had each other to cling to – but like a mirror dinted at the center, so that the cracks form a cobweb all around. I knew we could never repair the cracks, but we could prevent them from creeping further.

The best preventative medicine was happiness; Father’s happiness. I learned to stow my own dreams away for a time; anything to keep his hands off that pistol in his bedside drawer. Eventually he met someone. She was a rich someone, a lady, with her own estate. It was not love this time around, but it was a way to start over, and that’s all we hoped for. Lady Derringer had three children from a previous marriage: twin daughters, just a year older than me, and a quiet little son named Peter. Father and I tried to be optimistic about it. He pitched them to me as a gang of new playmates, but I didn’t buy it for a second. Both he and I knew what they really were: unwanted and unwieldy baggage.

It was clear from the start that I would not get on well with the other children; we were simply too different from one another. The twins were the girliest girls I ever had the misfortune to meet. Now, I was no tomboy, but I would never shriek at the sight of anything; not a snake, or a spider, or a mouse. Shrieking was beneath my dignity.

As for the boy, he was too young and too timid for my tastes. Also, he soon developed a boyish fondness for me, and blushed like a cherry whenever I entered the room. Normally I would have been flattered, but since he was my stepbrother, I was only annoyed. Why do pretty girls get all the attention? The Bellas were but thirteen years old then and already had lads forming queues at their door. I'm sure being blonde, curly, and clueless had at least something to do with it.

It was torture, having to compare myself to them every time I looked in a mirror. Before moving to Derringer Manor, all I had was my parents’ rosy praise by which to judge my looks. I knew I was plain; my hair was the color of dirt and hung limp and straight down my back. My green eyes, which I had always considered my loveliest feature, no longer seemed as green: more of a drab olive, really. My eyebrows were too bushy and my forehead was too wide, and don’t even get me started on my nose!

How much I yearned for the good old days, when I still held a scrap of self-worth. Instead I became Blythe Porter: perversion of a modern Cinderella.

–

I found him in the study, with his materials sprawled out before him: paper, pens, ink. Father was a writer by trade; he used to work for the newspaper when we lived in the city and needed the money, but country papers were little more than gossip on print, and the Lady covered all of our expenses. He still went at it, though, every day. He told me it helped keep the brain alive, and the hand busy; he told me that wealth was no excuse for laziness; he told me to never lose sight of what I loved.

Father was hunched over his desk: the old, marred-up one from our London flat that he felt comfortable at and couldn’t write without. He hadn’t noticed my entrance, or if he had, he made no sign of it. Odd; the curtains were not yet drawn. The midmorning sun which peeked through the slits gave the room a shady luminance, but it was a dreary scene nonetheless. Like everything at Derringer Manor, if you wanted something done, you had to do it yourself. Or call on a maid, of course, but I had no desire to become like my stepfamily.

“Let there be light!” I sang, pulling back the heavy, crimson fabric. Father jumped from the desk with his arms over his face, tipping a chair in the process.

“My eyes! Oh, that’s bright! Goddamnit, child!” I let the curtain fall back into place, barely hiding a snicker. He reluctantly lowered his shield. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“It’s too dark in here, Papa. If you can’t stand the sunlight, then at least turn up a lamp!” I had my hands stuck to my hips without realizing it, and I spoke in a firm, motherly tone. I supposed, being the only female left of my breed, I must play a dual role: that of a daughter and a mother. When I noticed the dark rings around his eyes, my motherly worry kicked in. “Have you been up all night?” I demanded. He scratched at the stubble lining his jaw, and his eyes wandered every which way before focusing on mine.

“Yes, Blythe. I’ve been very busy with my writing lately.” I cocked my head and stared at him sideways. For once, he had me confused.

“But you don’t work for anyone. There’s no deadline. How could you be busier than usual?” His clumsy features managed a grin; sky-blue eyes twinkling with delight. He took a long stride forward and saddled me into his arm.

“Do you know about inspiration, Blythe?”

“I know that every artist –”

“And writer!” he interjected with a wink.

“And writer seeks it.”

“And how often does it come along?” I pretended to count on my fingers – temples straining with calculations. Father was amused; I had achieved my goal. “The answer, my silly little bird, is not too often. I have to grab a hold of that comet as it passes. Inspiration will carry me far, but if I let go too soon…”

“You’ll end up in a slump,” I finished. (Father always ranted about his impassable writer’s block.)

“Exactly! So now you see why I stay up late.” He talked with his hands when excited, and his head bobbed up and down like a marionette’s. “Sometimes I can’t fall asleep for days!” I frowned a motherly frown.

“I’ve heard a lot of crazy things in this house, but I’ve never heard a person speak with such joyous tone about his insomnia.” The old man smiled sheepishly.

“You call it insomnia, but I call it a blessing!”

“Call it whatever you like,” I said. “But it’s still bad for your health. And when was the last time you shaved? You look like a chimpanzee!” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“I know, dear, I know. I’ll try to take better care of myself, for your sake, at least.”

“That’s good.” We stared at each other for a moment, before breaking into laughter and hugs.

“Since when did you get so serious, Blythe?” Since Mother died, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I laced my fingers and examined the floor.

“It’s been great talking with you, Papa. Sorry for interrupting the creative flow.”

“No need for apologies! I enjoy spending time with my favorite daughter; you know that!”

“Yes, well…I’d better check up on the Bellas. Who knows where their stupidity’s gotten them by now…”

“As long as they don’t burn the house down, I think we’ll be safe. Goodbye, dear.”

“Goodbye, Papa. Love you.”