A forbidden love Henry swung himself up the ladder to the loft of the barn, whistling. He couldn't believe

the turn his life had taken in the past two months. At first he'd wondered if Sophie's interest in him was the temporary, childish rebellion of a bored aristocrat. But the sweet, stolen hours he'd spent with her had convinced him differently. Now Henry knew that the impossible was true. Lady Sophie Edmonton, the beautiful, fair-haired daughter of a duke, was in love with Henry Patman, a common stable hand.

Their clandestine meetings couldn't go on forever. Someone was sure to catch them sooner or later.

The most serious source of apprehension was the duke himself. True, there was little chance of the Duke of Edmonton walking in on them as they kissed behind the stables or held hands by the lake. But he was growing adamant in his demands that Sophie accept a proposal from an acceptable suitor. They both knew that the duke would never accept a poor stable boy as a son-in-law.

Henry hoped that Sophie would consent to marry him, even though it meant that she would have to give up everything else she held dear in the world. And he planned to ask her for her hand tonight.

SWEET VALLEY Saga

THE PATMANS OF SWEET VALLEY

Written by

Kate William

Created by FRANCINE PASCAL

BANTAM BOOKS

NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

To Larry and Kathy Bloom

RL 6, age 12 and up

THE PATMANS OF SWEET VALLEY A Bantam Book / January 1997

Sweet Valley High is a registered trademark of Francine Pascal.

Conceived by Francine Pascal. Produced by Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc.

33 West 17th Street New York, NY 10011.

Cover art by Bruce Emmett. All rights reserved.

Copyright 1997 by Francine Pascal.

Cover art copyright 1997 by Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval

system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property.

It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

ISBN: 0-553-57023-4

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing

Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca

Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

OPM 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

The Patmans of Sweet Valley Family Tree Paternal Line

The Patmans of Sweet Valley Family Tree

Maternal Line

1 1825. A grand estate in the English countryside.

Sophie eased off her linen stockings and folded them neatly over the slippers lying on the

soft green grass. Then Lady Sophie Edmonton, eldest daughter of the duke of Edmonton, stepped into the mud at the edge of the lake and let it squish up, cool between her toes.

Sophie laughed. "If father could see me now!" she exclaimed. It was fortunate that he couldn't. The rigid duke was unlikely to approve of his sixteen-year-old daughter parading around the family's estate in her bare feet. Even on a stifling August day, such behavior was scandalous for a young woman of her position. And Sophie planned to take off more than just her shoes and stockings.

She pulled from her collar the gold locket her mother had given her six years earlier, just before she died. Sophie nearly always wore the locket hanging from her neck on a braided chain. She fingered the single, perfect diamond set in its center. For a moment she could imagine that her mother was with her, her eyes dancing with merriment.

Sophie carefully pulled the necklace over her head and placed it inside one shoe. Her mother had kept her own impulsive side hidden from the duke. But Sophie knew she wouldn't begrudge her daughter an hour of refreshment on a muggy day

Since her mother's death, Sophie had been considered the mistress of Edmonton Hall. Usually she played the part dutifully, acting in a responsible, ladylike manner. It was her volatile younger sister, Melanie, who was apt to behave in unseemly ways.

Now the duke was trying to find his elder daughter a suitable match, and Sophie's behavior had to be completely above reproach. But just this one time she couldn't resist the lake's clear blue water.

"You won't tell Papa, will you, Lord Byron?" she asked her horse, who was tied to a tree nearby. "I wouldn't want to upset him todaynot with Charles Elliot coming to supper tonight to have a look at me."

This latest earl would be the third nobleman to call on the Edmonton family in recent weeks to see if Sophie might make him an acceptable wife. She knew it was her duty, but she hated being paraded in front of these earls and dukes like a prize horse. At least her father agreed that she herself would make the final choice. Sophie rolled her eyes. Undoubtedly she would have fewer to choose from if word got out that she was in the habit of frolicking in a lake in her undergarments.

She breathed deeply and resolved to forget her father's plans for her and just enjoy the afternoon. Except for the abominable heat, the day was perfect. The sun warmed the grasses of the green-and-gold fields. Their fragrance, like baking bread, mingled with the rich, damp smell of mud at the water's edge.

Sophie glanced around the lake. It was small and round and sky blue, rimmed with elms and chestnuts and her favorite weeping willow tree. As she'd expected, nobody was in sight. Perspiration beaded on her temples beneath the stiff brim of her bonnet. She yanked it off and laid it on the grass. Thenquickly, before her courage gave outSophie unbuttoned her linen dress and pulled it over her head. Her petticoats followed. When she was wearing only her thin muslin chemise, she waded into the sparkling water.

"I cannot believe I am doing this!" she murmured guiltily as she sank into the water up to her shoulders. But it felt so deliriously cool against her skin that she didn't care if she was behaving like a commoner. Even a duke's daughter needed a bit of a lark now and then. She was

careful to keep her head dry. Her golden blond hair was pulled into a simple chignon on the back of her head, but a few unruly tendrils had escaped during her horseback ride. She could hide her wet undergarments under her dress. But her father would be sure to notice if her hair was dripping.

Something fluttered against her bare ankle. A small carp swam by, its body waving in the clear water as it moved. Sunshine beamed on Sophie's arms. She was certain she'd be red with sunburn by nightfall. As she splashed water on her upper arms to cool them, she glanced toward the shore.

Sophie froze. A man stood under the weeping willow, partially hidden by its cascading foliage. A tall, well-built man with thick blond hair.

Sophie knew she should fear him. He was a stranger and she was practically naked in the water. But when he stepped forward, brushing a willow frond away from his handsome, chiseled face, something in the young man's blue eyes told her she had nothing to fear except her own racing heart.

"I didn't mean to startle you," the man said. He was about Sophie's age or a little older, she guessed. And his voice was as deep and rich as mahogany. "For a moment I thought you were a mermaid."

"Perhaps I am," Sophie said in a lady-of-the-manor voice, as though meeting a strange man while treading water in her undergarments was an everyday occurrence. "Have you seen any evidence to the contrary?"

The man grinned. His smile was more dazzling than the slash of sunlight reflecting on the lake's surface. "An intriguing question," he said with a naughty but good-natured twinkle in his eyes. "I haven't seen nearly enough." He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders and tugged on them thoughtfully. His head was bare. And he wore no coat or waistcoatjust a simple pair of breeches and a loose white shirt. The man nudged Sophie's slippers with, the toe of his boot. "Actually, the shoes and stockings here would tend to disprove the mermaid theory," he continued. "I don't imagine a lady with the tail of a fish would have much use for footwear."

"No, I suppose she wouldn't," Sophie agreed. "Not unless something odd were afoot." The man's admiring gaze made her feel light-headed, as if she might float like a hot-air balloon right into his arms. She reached with her toes for the lake's silty bottom until she was standing up. "I hope you're not too disappointed to learn that I'm just an ordinary woman," she said. But his remarkable blue eyes made her feel anything but ordinary.

"Ordinary?" the man scoffed. "Hardly. If you're not a mermaid, you must be a water nymph. You're far too beautiful to be an ordinary mortal."

Sophie felt her face grow warm. She had always thought of herself as reasonably pleasant to look at, but nothing more. Fifteen-year-old Melaniewith her chestnut curls, green eyes, and bow-shaped mouthwas the real beauty of the family. "You flatter me, sir," Sophie said.

"No," he said. "It was just an observationand an accurate one at that." He cocked his head, and Sophie heard a voice calling in the distance. "I'm afraid I must go," he said suddenly. "My employer beckons. Thank you for the delightful conversation. I hope we have another one soon."

"I would like that too, sir," Sophie replied. "That's the second time you've called me 'sir,' " he remarked. "I don't enjoy the sound of

that at all." He tipped his cap again. "I'm Henry Patman, at your service." Sophie smiled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Patman," she said. "I'm Sophie

Edmonton."

His eyebrows shot up. "Lady Edmonton?" No doubt, Sophie realized, he'd assumed that a woman who would disrobe in public had

to be from the lower classes. "Do you find that shocking?" she asked sharply to hide her embarrassment.

"Of course not," Henry Patman said quickly. His blue eyes met Sophie's for a long, meaningful moment. She felt a rush of joy deep

inside, and she knew that she was incredibly, irrevocably in love. She loved his easy conversation and good-natured joshing. She loved the way his black suspenders accentuated the width of his shoulders. She loved his impudent smile. And she loved the shape of his long, lean legs in their doeskin breeches as Henry Patman turned away and darted off through the willow branches.

The duke's daughter leaned back in the water, and the hair ribbons that held her bun in place loosened. Her long blond hair streamed free behind her, like the hair of a mermaid. And Sophie stretched her arms out to her sides as if to embrace the world.

* * * Sophie tucked a loose strand of damp hair under her gauze cap as she walked info the

parlor at teatime that afternoon. For a moment she clutched her mother's gold-and-diamond locket for courage. She prayed that nobody could see her wet hair beneath the cap.

"Nothing exciting ever happens around here," Melanie complained dramatically as she slumped into an overstuffed chair. "It's the same old family, the same old servants, and the same old boring books and needlework, day after day after day."

Lawrence, the girls' older brother, tousled Melanie's hair fondly. "What would you like us to doinvite the king for tea tomorrow?"

Melanie shrugged. "He's too old and fat," she said. Lucille, the maid who was setting a tea tray on the table, gasped aloud, but Melanie continued. "Too bad George doesn't have a young, handsome son who could be heir to the throne and come begging for my hand in marriage."

"You'll speak respectfully of King George as long as you're a member of this household, young lady," demanded the duke of Edmonton. The girls' father was a tall, imposing man with silver hair and iron gray eyes.

"Yes, Papa," Melanie said. The duke leaned forward to sip from his teacup, and Melanie rolled her eyes at Sophie behind his back. Sophie swallowed a giggle.

"I wouldn't worry about a lack of young handsome men coming to beg for your hand," Lawrence assured Melanie as he reached for a scone. "You're the prettiest girl in the countyand one of the wealthiest and highest born. You'll have plenty of suitors when the time arrives."

"Ha!" Melanie complained. "I can't accept gentleman callers until Sophie is spoken for. And I could be old and gray before she's betrothed at this rate."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sophie demanded. "It means you've had two perfectly good offers, but you've turned them down cold,"

Melanie reminded her. "Who are you waiting for?" "Your sister makes an excellent point, Sophie," the girls' father said, gesturing with his

teacup. "I don't intend to rush you. But you must make an acceptable marriage. It's what your mother would have wanted for you."

Melanie selected an iced pastry from a silver tray. "Sir Miles of Northampton is almost as rich as the king!" she said. "I can't believe you weren't interested when he came to call last week."

Sophie grimaced. "Sir Miles is older than Father!" "So?" Melanie asked philosophically. "Who are you to be picky?" "I am Lady Sophie Edmonton, elder daughter of the duke of Edmonton," Sophie asserted. Her father nodded approvingly. "Take care that you never forget it." "Well, this duke's daughter is getting tired of waiting her turn," Melanie countered. "You aren't even allowed to have suitors until you're sixteen," Lawrence reminded her. "So?" Melanie said. "I can still look, can't I?" "And we know you've done a great deal of looking," Lawrence shot back with a grin. "In fact," Melanie continued, "I saw Lord Worthington's son Arthur in town yesterday.

Remember Arthur from that outing to the spas a few years ago? He's all grown up now and so handsome!"

"His father's only a baron, Melanie," the duke said. "Certainly we can do better than thatespecially for a girl with your physical charms."

"True," Melanie said. "Maybe Sophie would like him, though." Sophie cast her sister a dark look. The topic of conversation was growing tiresomeand

every mention of handsome men brought Henry Patman to mind. "What are those lovely blossoms on the sideboard?" she asked, pointedly changing the subject.

"Tea roses," Melanie replied. "They're newthe first bushes arrived from China just this year. They're all the rage! The gardener has planted them all around the North Gazebo."

"What a gorgeous perfume," Sophie said absently. In her mind she was sitting beside Henry Patman in the secluded, fragrant gazebo. She wore pure white linen with a lace overskirt. He wore a cutaway coat and fitted trousers, and his hand felt strong and masculine around hers.

"Do we need more help in the garden this fall?" the duke asked his son. "Yes, we could use an extra hand," Lawrence replied. "Should I tell the gardener to hire

another man?" "Have him find somebody handsome this time!" Melanie urged, choosing a second

pastry. "Every manservant on this estate is at least forty years old. Are there no young gardeners out there?"

Both men glared at her in mock exasperation. "Have him hire an older man," the duke replied to Lawrence, with another glance at his youngest child. "What about the stables? How does old Frankie like the new fellow?"

"The new stable hand is a bit independent," Lawrence said. "But he's a hard worker, and the chap has a way with horses like I've never seen."

"A new stable hand to help old Frankie?" Melanie asked, her eyes lighting up. "What does he look like? How old is he? Is he dark or fair?"

"He looks like King George's twin, except that he's ninety-eight years old and is utterly bald," Lawrence teased.

"Lawrence!" Melanie wailed. Sophie shook her head. "Melanie, do you ever think about anything besides men?" "Certainly," Melanie said. "I think about fashionable clothes and expensive jewelry too.

After all, you have to be well dressed if you want to attract the attention of men." "Perhaps you should take a cue from your sister, Sophie," the duke suggested. "You've

done an admirable job of running the household these last few years, and we will miss your efficiency. But you're sixteen years old. It's time we arranged a match."

"Actually I was thinking that too" Sophie began.

"Good," her father interrupted. "Charles Elliot will be dining with us tonight. He's anxious to meet you."

Sophie took a deep breath. "I'm not sure that Lord Elliot is" "I know his family is new to the peerage," the duke admitted. "But his father was quite

close to the king's brother." "Priscilla Nelson-Tynes knows his sister," Melanie informed them. "She says that Elliot

Arms is the finest country house in this part of England!" "I knew Charles at Oxford," Lawrence said, grinning insolently at Sophie. "He's a

handsome chap. He might even measure up to Melanie's exacting standards." "I hope you'll do your best to show him what an attractive, capable young woman you

are," the duke said. He spoke mildly, but Sophie could hear an edge of impatience in his voice. Sophie sighed. This was not the time to tell her family about Henry Patman. "Certainly,

Papa. I shall be happy to meet the earl." "Personally I'm more interested in that new stable hand," Melanie confided in a whisper

as the girls left the parlor. "I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon near the corral to see if I can catch a glimpse of him. Want to come?"

"Do you ever give up?" Sophie asked. "Never," Melanie averred. "Come with me to the stable, and I'll show you how to flirt

with a servant. It's good practice for the noblemen. And we all know you need that." Sophie grimaced. "I have better things to do than sit outside a stable, mooning over a man

who smells like horses." Instead she planned to sit by herself in some private spot, mooning over a man with eyes

as blue as the reflected sky in a still, cool lake.

2 "Definitely the watered silk," Melanie said, nodding at the rose-colored gown Sophie was

inspecting that evening as the girls dressed for dinner. "The flowered linen is dreadfully conservative."

"You don't think the puffed sleeves are too much?" Sophie asked. "Puffed sleeves are the newest thing," Melanie assured her sister as she pulled Sophie's

corset laces tight. Sophie nodded. Melanie could be exasperating, but when it came to fashion, she was the

expert. Usually Sophie's lady's maid would help her dress. Today Melanie had insisted on taking over. For once the younger sister was ready early, dressed in an emerald gown that complemented her eyes.

"Lord Elliot has spent a lot of time at court," Melanie reminded her. "He will expect a prospective wife to dress in the latest styles."

"Perhaps the earl should be courting you instead," Sophie said. "I'm hopeless when it comes to fashion."

Melanie shrugged. "That's what dressmakers are for," she said. "But at the moment I don't think you'd notice if I dressed you in sackcloth! For a woman who could be the future bride of one of the most eligible men in the county, you don't seem very chirpy."

Sophie sighed. "Melanie, I don't want to marry Charles Elliot!" "You're hopeless about a lot more than fashion," Melanie observed. "I don't love him!" "Of course you don't love him!" Melanie exclaimed, mystified. "You've never even been

properly introduced. What do you expect?" Sophie slipped the rose-colored gown over her head. "A lot," she said, thinking of Henry

Patman's wavy blond hair and light blue eyes. "It's not as though some handsome young swain will materialize out of nowhere so that

you can fall in love," Melanie said. "The best you can do is to set your cap for someone who's rich and handsome. You'll grow to love him in time."

"I don't know, Melanie," Sophie said as her sister fastened the long row of pearl buttons that ran down the back of her bodice. "I just don't know."

In the mirror Sophie could see Melanie rolling her eyes. "Sophie, Sophie, Sophie," Melanie complained dramatically. "You wouldn't know a good catch if he did materialize out of nowhere. But speaking of handsome men, you should see the new stable hand!"

Sophie fumbled with the fashionably low neckline of her dress until her sister straightened it for her. "Honestly, Mellie!"

Melanie held a garnet necklace in front of her sister's collarbone, pursed her lips thoughtfully, and then shook her head. "No, these won't do. I don't understand how you managed to attract such a sunburn. I declare, your neck is nearly as red as these stones! Let's try my pearls on you instead."

"Can't I just wear Mama's locket, as always?" Melanie shook her head. "With a neckline this low? I hardly think so. Believe me, it must

be the pearls. Here, you can wear my matching drop earrings too." Sophie sighed. Her sister certainly was doing her best to make her attractive for Charles

Elliot. She supposed the least she could do in return was to feign interest in Melanie's latest flirtation. "So tell me about this stable hand," she said. If Melanie was talking about her own love life, she might stop advising Sophie about hers.

"Oh, Sophie!" Melanie gushed. She laid the gold locket on the dressing table and hooked the pearls around her sister's neck instead. "This man is absolutely divine! You should see how broad his shoulders are. And what gorgeous eyes!"

"Girls!" came their father's voice from just outside the door. "Are you ready? Lord Elliot is coming up the drive."

"Come in, Papa," Sophie called. "Melanie, I sincerely hope that wasn't your sister's beau I heard you discussing in such a

forward manner a moment ago," the duke cautioned. "Charles Elliot?" Melanie asked. "Certainly not. I've never even met the earl. I have no

idea how broad his shoulders are." "Such talk isn't befitting a lady of your youth and breeding," the duke reminded her. "And

it's hardly respectful toward a nobleman of his standing." Melanie tossed her chestnut curls. "Respect was the last thing on my mind," she declared.

"I was talking about the new stable hand, Henry Patman." Sophie gasped. "Dear, are you all right?" the duke asked his elder daughter. "Your face looks flushed." "It's nothing," Sophie said faintly, falling into the nearest armchair before her knees

buckled. "I got a bit of a sunburn today, that's all." "You really ought to keep your bonnet on," Melanie reminded her. "I didn't dare remove

mine while I was waiting near the stable to catch a glimpse of Henry." "Melanie!" The duke's voice rose an octave. "That's no way for a lady to behave." "Don't worry, Papa," Melanie said, dimples flashing. "Henry didn't think I was acting

boldly. I told him I was there to discuss private riding lessons. I'm sure young Henry could teach me plenty." She winked at Sophie. "You should see his gait!"

"Don't talk of him that way!" Sophie whispered, horrified that Melanie could be so crass about the man that she, Sophie, loved.

The duke's face was as red as Sophie's throat. "Your sister is right, Melanie," he said. "I will not have my daughter speaking in such familiar terms about a mere servant!"

"I can't help it if I'm lonely!" Melanie said, pouting. "You won't let me keep company with any of the young noblemen."

"You have your sister for company!" the duke thundered. "You have your girlfriends!" "Sophie's always so busy organizing the maidservants and ordering foodstuffs," Melanie

complained. "And Priscilla's on holiday with her family at the spas. Who else am I supposed to talk to? Besides, what's the harm of a few riding lessons? It's not my fault that Henry's the most perfect specimen of a man in all of Britain."

The duke controlled his voice with difficulty. "I absolutely forbid you to take private lessons from that young man!"

"But Papa" "Not another word!" the duke silenced her. "You will stay away from the stables unless

old Frankie is nearby. No daughter of mine will be seen in the company of a stable hand!" The duke turned on his heel. "See that you're both downstairs in ten minutes!" he commanded as he stamped off. His coattails flew out behind him just before he slammed the door.

Sophie, limp in the armchair, leaned back her head and stared desolately at the painted clouds on the ceiling.

"Isn't it romantic?" Melanie sang out. She twirled in place to make her full skirt balloon out around her. "Jane Austen could have written a novel about mea well-bred young lady, wildly attracted to a man of a lower class, a man my father disapproves of! It's all so exciting!"

"I don't see what's exciting about it," Sophie said in a small voice, blinking her eyes to clear the tears.

Melanie didn't notice her glumness. "You have no sense of drama," she complained. "You don't know anything about love!"

"You're not in love," Sophie reminded her wearily. But I am. "Not yet, but I could be," Melanie said, peering into the looking glass to rearrange her

curls. "Wouldn't that be romantic? In love with a stable hand! Priscilla Nelson-Tynes would faint dead away!" Melanie opened the door of the room. "Well, Lawrence says Charles Elliot is not hard to gaze upon either. And he's here. Are you coming down to meet the latest love of your life?"

"You go ahead, Mellie," Sophie told her. "I'll be right there." After Melanie bounded out of the room, Sophie rose and stood before the mirror. "I've

already met the love of my life," she said sadly. "And he's a stable hand." She clenched her fists at her sides. Something in Henry Patman's eyes made her certain

that he felt the same way about her as she did about him. She would not give him upnot for her father and certainly not for Charles Elliot, even if he was an earl. She didn't care if she had to sneak around to do it. She would see Henry again. She had to.

She unclasped the pearls from around her neck and replaced them with her mother's gold locket. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and ran downstairs to act the part of a duke's proper daughter.

* * * Seven weeks later Sophie sat in the armchair near the window of the girls' bedroom.

Luckily Melanie was at the Nelson-Tynes estate, welcoming Priscilla home from summer holiday. Melanie had been acting suspicious lately, as if she knew Sophie was hiding something. Melanie's watchfulness made it doubly hard for Sophie to steal away to meet Henry, as she planned to do again at eight o'clock that night. Until then she would sit alone with her diary, gazing out the window at the late September twilight and dreaming about the man she loved.

In case Melanie should return early, Sophie's diary lay open on her lap inside a larger book, a copy of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. Sophie stared at the shadows on the vast lawn of Edmonton Hall. Then she flipped backward in her diary until she found the entry she wanted to reread.

Wednesday, August 3

I saw HIM again, Diary! I have been in agony since Monday, hoping to catch another glimpse of Henry Patman after our first meeting by the lake. Melanie spent much of yesterday hanging about the stablesagainst Papa's explicit orders, I might addin hopes of seeing Henry. But she was disappointed. Old Frankie was working alone. He's a dear, sweet old man, but he isn't rich, handsome, or well born, so he might as well be invisible to Melanie. Henry was off the estate on some errand. It serves her right.

Today I arose early to beat my lay-abed sister to our mutual goal. And sure enough there was Henry, pitchfork in hand as he spread fresh, sweet hay in the stall next to Lord Byron's. I stood a moment in the shadows, watching. As he

worked with the pitchfork the worn muslin of his shirt tightened over his arm muscles. An unruly lock of blond hair fell across hi& forehead, lending a dashing air to his otherwise picture-perfect appearance. And I ached to stroke those arms and run my fingers through that hair. The magic of Monday afternoon had not dissipated in the least. "Good morning!" Sophie called as she stepped gingerly across the stable yard. It was

Wednesday, two days after her first meeting with Henry. His face lit up like the sun. "Well, if it isn't my favorite mermaid!" he said. He leaned on

the wooden handle of the pitchfork. "How may I be of service this morning, Lady Edmonton?" "It's such a beautiful morning. I believe I shall take Lord Byron out for a ride," Sophie

said casually. "Would you saddle him up for me?" "As you wish," Henry said, the very picture of an obedient servant. Then he grinned. "As

a mermaid, you'll want the sidesaddle, I presume?" Sophie grinned back. "Of course," she replied. "And Mr. Patman," she began carefully,

"is there a route you might suggest for my ride? I'm frightfully tired of all the proper, established bridle paths on the grounds. I'm quite ready to try something new."

"Are you intent on a solitary ride?" he asked, holding her gaze with his pale blue eyes. "Or would you prefer a route that allows for the possibility of a chance encounter along the way?"

Sophie took a deep breath and tried to calm the drumming in her chest. "Chance encounters are lovely," she said softly. "I would very much like to meet up with a riding companionbut only if it's the right person."

"And how will you know if it is the right person?" Henry asked as he began strapping the sidesaddle onto Sophie's favorite gelding.

"Oh, I shall know right away," Sophie said lightly. "We mermaids have a special sense about such things." She held out her hand so that Henry could help her into the saddle. They touched only lightly, but heat spread from his fingers into hers and shot through her entire body. For a moment she was dizzy. Henry's hand steadied her.

"I suppose you'd be happiest with a riding companion who's also a water sprite, like yourself," he said in a strained, uncertain voice.

Sophie squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "No, not at all," she said evenly. "I would prefer somebody with both feet planted firmly on the ground." She pointed to the horse's legs and smiled. "Or all four feet."

A broad smile flashed across Henry's handsome features. Then he took a deep breath and gave her directions for a route to follow.

"And where along this route do you predict I might meet a possible riding companion?" Sophie asked.

Henry clenched his jaw and looked away for a moment, as if he were intent on old Frankie, who was exercising a mare at the far end of the corral. Then he gazed back at Sophie with those marvelous eyes. For a moment Henry Patman looked terribly vulnerable. "Tell me, Lady Sophie," he asked, "are you certain that this is a good idea? What if the duke disapproves of this new route you're planning to take?"

Sophie's courage faltered for just a moment. But the concern in his eyes renewed her resolution. "Mr. Patman," she said in her most dignified voice. "I am old enough to choose my own route. My father's approval or disapproval is irrelevant."

Henry smiled in admiration. "In that case, I would guess that the most likely place for a chance encounter is on the south edge of the copse of alder trees. You could meet somebody quite interesting there."

"I hope I do," Sophie said over her shoulder.

And when I arrived at the alder copse, Diary, he was there! We rode together for a time. Then we sat in the shade and talked for more than an hour. Before he left, he kissed my hand, and we arranged to meet again. I'm so happy. And so fearful. What on earth will Papa say? Sophie gazed out the window again. Just thinking about Henry Patman made her heart

beat faster. She paged forward a few weeks, to another entry.

August 27, 1825 I slipped out of the house after dinner and raced to the North Gazebo, as

planned. The aroma of those magnificent tea roses enveloped us as we sat on the bench, hidden from view. The warmth of Henry's hand on mine sent tingles through my body, and his eyes were the pale blue of robins' eggs.

Then he kissed me. His lips were sweet and warm, and his kiss set off something deep inside me, a rejoicing and a yearning I can't begin to describe. I only know that I love him. We must be together. Sophie smiled, remembering the wonder of that first tender kiss. The fact that a man as

gorgeous and sensitive as Henry could love her seemed like a miracle. Sophie moved a few pages forward in her diary until she found what she was looking fora small slip of writing paper, carefully unfolded and pasted in. It was a poem Henry had written for her.

To a Mermaid

Through willow branches I first glimpsed A rare and precious water nymph. A sparkling smile and flowing hair Your graceful arms, so lithe and fair. Your love's an unexpected prize For one so earthly born as I. My heart is yours, to hold or break, My Sophie, lady of the lake.

Henry Patman, September 1, 1825

Sophie sighed. Nobody had ever written poetry for her before. Her other suitors wanted

to marry her only because of her titled father and handsome dowry. Henry was different. Henry truly loved her. And she was determined to be with him, no matter what it took. No matter what the duke might say.

She picked up her fountain pen and began to write.

Tuesday, September 20, 1825 I've been seeing Henry for seven weeks now, and I love him more every

day. Sometimes I think my heart will burst with such love. I know not what will come of this. Papa would be furious. He still takes every opportunity to impress me with the charms of Charles Elliot. Lord Elliot is a pleasant enough man, to be sure. But I don't love him, and I shan't marry for any reason other than for love. The grandfather clock in the hallway rang seven-thirty, its chime echoing through the

house. Sophie slammed her diary shut. She stashed it in the bottom drawer of her Chippendale dressing table. Then she pulled on her riding boots, dabbed lavender scent behind her ears, and hurried from the room to meet Henry at the barn behind the stables.

* * * Henry swung himself up the ladder to the loft of the barn, whistling. He couldn't believe

the turn his life had taken in the past two months. At first he'd wondered if Sophie's interest in him was the temporary, childish rebellion of a bored aristocrat. But the sweet, stolen hours he'd spent with her had convinced him differently. Now Henry knew that the impossible was true. Lady Sophie Edmonton, the beautiful, fair-haired daughter of a duke, was in love with Henry Patman, a common stable hand.

Their clandestine meetings couldn't go on forever. Someone was sure to catch them sooner or later. In fact, he suspected that old Frankie, the head groom, already knew the truth. No matter. It was Frankie who'd recommended Henry for his position. And Frankie had always been fond of Sophie. Their secret was safe with the old man.

A more serious source of apprehension was the duke himself. True, there was little chance of the Duke of Edmonton walking in on them as they kissed behind the stables or held hands by the lake. But he was growing adamant in his demands that Sophie accept a proposal from an acceptable suitor. They both knew that the duke would never accept a poor stable boy as a son-in-law. So tonight Henry would take decisive action. Together he and Sophie would decide their fate.

"Henry?" Sophie's sweet whisper filtered up to him like the lantern light through the rough planks. "Henry, are you here?"

"I'm here, my love," he called down in a low voice. Through the opened trapdoor he could see her below, her white frock shining in the dimly lit interior of the barn. Henry held out his hand and helped her up the final rung of the ladder.

"Oh, Henry," Sophie murmured, her face against his shoulder as they embraced. She smelled of sunlight and lavender. "I've missed you so much."

He laughed lightly. "It's only been a day since our last meeting." "I know," she admitted. "But it seems like a week. And Papa had Lord Elliot to dinner

again yesterday. I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out without giving an answer. What are we going to do?"

"First," he said gently, "you are going to kiss me." He gazed into her clear blue eyes that were so full of love and mystery. Then he tilted her chin up with his finger until her mouth met his. Sophie's lips opened like a rose, and he kissed her as long as he dared. Then he sank back into the hay and pulled her down beside him.

Sophie smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. "I love you, Henry Patman," she said.

"I'm pleased to hear that," he said in a formal tone, reaching into his coat pocket. "It makes this much easier." He handed her a small bundle, wrapped in a handkerchief. "Open it," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Sophie gasped. A simple silver ring shone in her hand like the thinnest crescent moon. "It's beautiful!" she whispered, her eyes wide.

"I know I'm a commoner and as poor as a church mouse. And I know your father will never consent to the match. But legally, we don't need his permission. Being with you and making you happy are the only things that matter to me. Will you be my wife?"

Tears glistened in Sophie's eyes. "Yes, Henry. I will. Nothing would make me happier!" They embraced again, and when Henry kissed her, Sophie responded with more passion

than he'd thought possible. With her lips on his, it was easy to forget about the people and customs that conspired to keep them apart. She wasn't the daughter of a duke. He wasn't a stable hand. They were Sophie and Henry, two people who would soon be joined as one in marriage.

"But how?" she asked a minute later. "Legally we may be old enough to marry without his permission, but my father has tremendous influence in this county. No clergyman would risk his wrath by granting us a marriage license!"

"I have a plan," Henry explained. "Slip out of the house late Saturday night. Meet me at the stable at midnight. I'll have Lord Byron and another horse saddled and ready to go. I think old Frankie knows about us"

Sophie's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no! What if he tells my father?" "He won't," Henry assured her. "In fact, if I'm reading his hints correctly, I believe the old

man approves. He'll help us if we need him." Sophie nodded and flashed him a half smile. "Henry, when you saddle Lord Byron, forget

the sidesaddle. Even a mermaid can ride astride when speed is of the essence." He laughed appreciatively. She was trying hard to be brave, despite the enormous step

she was agreeing to take. "We'll ride all night and into the morning," Henry explained. "Two counties from here,

where nobody knows you, we'll find someone to marry us." Sophie nodded resolutely, but silent tears slid down her face. Henry wiped them away

with his hand. "Darling"he hesitated"are you sure this is what you want? I'm asking you to give up

everything for me. Don't agree unless you're absolutely certain." Sophie blinked away the last of her tears. She smiled radiantly and reached for something

at her collar. "Of course I'm certain," she said. Suddenly she seemed utterly calm and content. "I've never been more certain of anything," she continued, gaining courage as she spoke. "Here. Take this as a symbol of my love."

Henry gulped as Sophie pulled from her neck the gold-and-diamond locket she'd inherited from her mother. She lowered it over his head and leaned forward to kiss him.

"I can't accept the locket, Sophie," he protested. "The kiss is enough to seal our vows. The locket was your mother's! I know how much it means to you."

"That is exactly why I want you to have it," Sophie said serenely, considering the matter closed. "We will be safest if we don't see each other again until Saturday. I'll miss you desperately, but it's best if we don't risk discovery."

Henry nodded, impressed with her foresight. "You're right, love, but it will be a very long four days."

"Perhaps Papa will relent and allow us to remain here, once we're married and he sees that he can't change that."

Henry nodded again. "It's possible," he said carefully. "But I don't want you to get your hopes up, only to have them dashed. You know that it's unlikely your father will ever allow us to set foot in Edmonton Hall again."

"I know," she agreed, smiling bravely. "Now I must return to the house before Melanie discovers I'm gone."

He held her hand tightly and gazed into her eyes. "Until Saturday, then," he said. "Until Saturday." She hiked up her skirts to step down onto the ladder. Then she

scrambled to the floor of the barn, the lantern light casting unearthly shadows around her. "I love you, Sophie!" Henry called in a husky voice as she neared the door. She stopped and turned to look up at him. "I love you too," she replied. Her white skirt flashed in the doorway, and then she was gone, like mist. Henry sank

back into the hay and wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing. But the gold locket that hung around his neck felt smooth under his fingers. It was still warm from her soft, white skin. He kissed the locket and held it to his lips, dreaming of the future.

3 Sophie buckled the strap on her valise and pushed it under her bed. She was glad the

dressmaker had finished her gown early for Priscilla's coming-out ball this winter. Now it would be her wedding dress.

Sophie took a deep breath, marveling at her own calmness. "Tonight I'm leaving here forever," she whispered to the empty room. "Tomorrow morning I'll no longer be Lady Edmonton, daughter of a duke. I'll be plain old Sophie Patman. Mrs. Henry Patman."

She smiled at the sound of it. She wasn't sure how they would manage. Henry had little money. But Sophie had some savings of her own and a few jewels that could be sold if things were tight until Henry found a new job. None of it mattered as long as they were together. She imagined herself in her new silk dress, a blue as pale as Henry's eyes. The sleeves were puffedat Melanie's insistence. And the hem of the skirt was decorated with lace and tiny rosebuds made of silk. Under the skirt her blue silk pumps

"Oh, no!" Sophie said aloud. "I forgot the shoes!" She slid the valise from under the bed, rummaged in her wardrobe for the blue pumps, and made a space for them in the nearly full valise. She buckled the clasp again and shoved the valise back under the bed.

After the valise was out of sight, Sophie sat on the bed and lay back until her head touched the quilt. She gazed up at the painted clouds on the ceiling, breathing heavily. Packing had proceeded this way all afternoonin sporadic bursts as she remembered items she had forgotten. All the while she'd kept a sharp eye out for Melanie. Now she was exhausted and nervous and so excited that it was making her dizzy.

"I have to get ahold of myself," she whispered, sitting up on the bed. Henry's silver ring hung from a chain beneath her bodice. For now she didn't dare wear it where anyone could see. She pulled it out and held it in her hand for a moment, remembering the touch of his lips the night he asked her to marry him. The thought calmed her shaking hands, but her breath still came out ragged, as if her corset was laced too tight.

Suddenly Sophie knew the remedy for her nerves. She would make one last diary entry as a single woman. She ran to her Chippendale dressing table, slid open the bottom drawer, and reached under a stack of papers to the small volume that held her most private thoughts.

Her diary was gone. Sophie threw the papers aside and scoured every inch of the drawer, to no avail. She bit

her lip, hardly able to contemplate the implications. She shook her head. "I can't have lost my diary!" she said aloud, her voice on the edge of panic. She must have tossed it into her valise early in the afternoon, when she packed her best silk stockings from the top drawer of the dressing table. She yanked out the valise and pawed through her belongings again. The diary wasn't there.

Sophie's fists pounded against the side of the bed. "This cannot be happening," she wailed. She swallowed hard. "I'll find it," she whispered to herself as hot tears burned her eyes. "It must still be in this room. I misplaced it; that's all." She ran to her bureau and began yanking open drawers and sifting through their contents.

The diary contained every detail of her courtship with Henry Patman and every detail of their planned elopement. If it somehow fell into her father's hands, there would be no wedding. And if that happened, Sophie knew that her life would be over.

* * * In the darkness Sophie groped under the bedclothes for the handle of her valise and

slowly eased it out from under her bed. Across the room Melanie turned and murmured

something unintelligible. Sophie froze until her sister's breathing returned to the slow, regular rhythm of sleep. She threw off the dressing gown she'd worn to bed over her clothes. Then she bunched it under the quilt on her bed, with two velvet pillows. From the doorway, at least, it would look as if she were asleep, curled up under the quilt. She carefully lifted the valise and her shoes and slipped out the door in her stocking feet.

Sophie edged along the hall, expecting to hear her father's angry shout at any moment. A note rang through the house like a shot. Sophie jumped, but it was only the grandfather clock, chiming once for half-past eleven. She hurried to the grand staircase of the manor house and skipped lightly down the stairs.

Sophie's diary was still missing, but she convinced herself that it didn't matter. If Melanie or a maid had found the slim volume and turned it over to the duke, surely he would have confronted Sophie with it by now.

The heavy oaken door of the manor house creaked like a cricket when Sophie pushed it open. She held her breath, but nobody stirred in the mansion. She stepped outside, paused to pull on her boots, and flew down the front stairs, toting the heavy valise.

Fifteen minutes later she kissed Henry in the dark stable yard and watched in the moonlight while he tied her belongings to the back of Lord Byron's saddle.

"Are you still sure you want to go through with this?" he whispered one last time. The warmth of his breath against her ear sent waves of pleasure through her body even now.

Sophie kissed him on the cheek. "Why?" she asked lightly. "Have you changed your mind?"

Henry grinned and kissed her back. Then he lifted her onto Lord Byron's back, though they both knew she was perfectly capable of mounting a horse by herself.

"This is it," he said in a low voice full of sorrow and anticipation. Sophie turned the gelding to take one last look at the slate roof of the manor house in the distance. Henry mounted the other horse. She fell into step beside him and they picked their way across the dark corral.

Henry dismounted and ran forward to open the gate. Suddenly his horse reared. Three men materialized out of the darkness. Sophie gasped. Moonlight glistened on the barrel of a musket that prodded Henry in the chest.

"Henry!" Sophie cried. A powerful hand grabbed the reins from her fingers. "Dismount your horse, Sophie!" ordered the Duke of Edmonton. "Papa! Let me explain!" "The explanation is clear enough," he replied. Her father's face was in shadow, but she'd

never heard his voice seething with so much anger. A kinder hand rested on her arm. "Let me help you down," said her brother's voice. "You

know we can't let you do this." "I won't get down from this horse until you tell that man to stop pointing the gun at

Henry," Sophie announced, trying to keep her voice from cracking. "You're in no position to dictate any terms!" the duke roared. "I have instructed the

constable to take Mr. Patman into custodyand you, young lady, have no voice in the matter. Climb off that horse this instant."

Sophie crossed her arms in front of her. "I will not." Her father's face leaned in closer to Sophie, and she could see his features, etched by

anger in the moonlight. He spoke in a voice that was chillingly quiet. "If you refuse to dismount, I will have your brother remove you from the saddle by force."

Sophie stared back at her father, her jaw clenched. He nodded at Lawrence. "Please, Sophie," her brother urged. "Don't make me do it."

"Sophie," came Henry's sad, sweet voice, "there's nothing more we can do." Sophie stared toward Henry, cursing the shadows that obscured his face. She took a deep

breath and dismounted. Her father cast her a withering look and instructed Lawrence to escort her back to the mansion.

Before Sophie turned away, the moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the road in light as white as milk. Her last glimpse of the man she loved was of Henry's face as he gazed a wistful good-bye.

The constable rammed him in the back with the gun. "Get a move on," he growled. Henry stumbled and quickly righted himself. Then he faded into the dark, flanked by the duke and the constable, who walked as stiffly as toy soldiers.

Lawrence took Sophie's arm to help her over some uneven ground, but she wrenched his hand away. She'd never felt so alone in all her life.

It no longer mattered who she married. Tears streamed down Sophie's face. She would never love anyone but Henry Patman until the day she died.

* * * Henry Patman stood at the railing of a ship in the harbor at Liverpool. He squinted into

the sunlight, out the mouth of the harbor. But he saw only Sophie. He could feel the weight of her gold locket in his pocket. But the iron that bound his hands was heavier. Once the ship set sail and was clear of British waters, Henry would be free. He had committed no crime, but the duke had arranged for his deportation.

No doubt he thinks himself generous for not sending me to Newgate Prison, Henry thought bitterly.

He didn't feel free. He wasn't free to marry the woman he loved and to remain in the country of his birth. "There is no freedom without power," he whispered. The Americans knew that. Only a half century earlier they had found the power to fight for their freedom. Perhaps America was the place for one such as him. But times had changed. These days high ideals and lofty sentiments weren't enough. Money was power. And without love, power was the only thing that mattered.

"I will make my fortune in the New World," he vowed, whispering to the waves. "No man will ever make me feel so powerless again."

* * * Henry slumped against a brick wall, somewhere in New York City. He pulled his

threadbare coat tighter. Hard, gritty bits of snow pelted him like pebbles. The December wind cut through his clothes like a scythe.

He had disembarked the ship that morning, eager to see his new home, the promised land. But life for a poor man in the city looked grim. More than a hundred thousand souls called New York City home. To Henry, accustomed to the rural expanses of the English countryside, it seemed that every one of that multitude was wandering the street around him.

The city smelled of sewage and sweat, of horses, garbage, and woodsmoke. Even worse was the smell of his own filthy body and lice-ridden clothes; it had been impossible to keep clean during the long, cramped voyage. Now the noise and confusion of Gotham made him long for the more structured life aboard the ship.

Carts and carriages clattered over unpaved streets, oblivious to the crowds of pedestrians and the squealing pigs that appeared to roam freely through the mazelike streets of the city.

Vendors hawked oysters, chestnuts, and other foodstuffs that Henry had no money to buy. Their accents seemed flat and unnatural. And everything he saweven the peopleseemed dingy and gray. All in all, the promised land didn't seem very promising.

But Henry had sworn an oath to himself. He knew he would someday rise above the squalor that surrounded him and make himself as powerful as he wanted to be.

4 "Your earl looks quite handsome!" Lawrence told Sophie on an early spring day in 1826.

She stood in front of a mirror in the vestry of a grand cathedral in London, fumbling with the lace at her neck. Her brother tilted her face up to look into her eyes. "Be happy, sister," he urged. "You're marrying a fine man."

Sophie shrugged. She supposed that twenty-four-year-old Charles Elliot was attractive, with his slim figure, blond hair, and easy smile. He was pleasant enough at conversation, and he treated her with respect. But she didn't love the earl, and she knew she never would.

Still, it didn't matter. In another few minutes she would marry Charles and become the countess Elliot. She would preside over Elliot Arms as the mistress of the manor. She would spend the social season in London at Charles's town house. She would be his dutiful wifeas she'd been her father's dutiful daughter for the last six months, quietly obeying the duke's wishes in everything.

"You look lovely," Lawrence told her. "Are you ready?" Sophie shook her head. "No," she said softly, speaking of much more than her dress. She

pressed her lips together. "I can't get the collar to lie right. You know how clumsy I am at such things."

Lawrence smiled. "I'm afraid I shan't be of much help with it, but I know someone who would be."

"Melanie," Sophie said flatly "It's your wedding day, Sophie. Can't you forgive her?" "My wedding day was supposed to have been last September," Sophie reminded him, her

voice cold and dispassionate. "Melanie read my diary. She told Father of my plans to elope. How can I forgive her for that?"

"She only did it for your own good," Lawrence argued. "She didn't want you to make a mistake you would regret later. She wants to see you, Sophie. Let me call her in."

Sophie took a deep breath. "Very well," she said slowly. "It doesn't matter either way. Nothing does."

Lawrence ushered Melanie into the small chamber. He smiled encouragingly at Sophie before he walked out the door.

"Does this mean you're no longer angry with me?" Melanie asked. Her words might have sounded hopeful to somebody who didn't know her. But Melanie's lips were pouting, and a defiant gleam lit her eyes.

"I haven't felt angry in months," Sophie said truthfully, still trying to arrange the lace collar so it lay flat. I haven't felt anything in months, she amended to herself.

Melanie stepped behind Sophie and reached around her throat to smooth the collar. She wouldn't meet Sophie's eyes in the mirror. "Everything is your fault, you know," Melanie told her sister.

Sophie felt curiously distant from the scene, as if she were standing outside the window, peeping in at a blank-faced bride and her sullen sister. She laughed ironically. "Lawrence still believes you were motivated by concern for my best interests," she said. "But you and I both know the truth"

"The truth is that you stole Henry from me!" Melanie interrupted, angry tears in her eyes. "I was closer to you than anyone," Sophie continued as if her sister hadn't spoken. "For

fifteen years we shared sweetmeats and secrets and silk stockings. And then you betrayed me." "You stole him from me!" Melanie repeated.

"He was never yours to begin with." "He would have been!" Melanie insisted. "I loved him, and you knew it. If I couldn't have

him, I wasn't about to let you have him either!" "You didn't love him," Sophie said. "If he had noticed you at all, you would have

forgotten him in a month and moved on to some new flirtation." "That's not true!" "It doesn't matter anymore," Sophie said. "Neither of us will ever see Henry again, and I

am about to marry Charles Elliot. Next year or the year after I suspect you'll marry some likely duke or marquess. And we'll both live happily ever after."

"I know I will," Melanie said with bitter triumph, her eyes narrowed. "But you don't look very happy."

"I'm as happy as I can be," Sophie said truthfully. In the chapel outside the door an organ began to play, signaling the start of her wedding ceremony. Then she squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and stepped out into the music.

* * * Henry leaped from his mattress at the sound of gunpowder popping in the street outside.

He peered through the cracked window of his unlit room, the pane grimy even beneath its layer of ice. He scraped the frost from the inside of the glass. A few sputtering gas lamps lit the street outside. In their glow he saw three boys playing with firecrackers. At least, he saw their feet and legs. His basement window rested on the level of the street. It made for an odd view of life in the city, but somehow that seemed appropriate. Henry had started at the bottom when he arrived from Britain almost exactly thirteen years earlier. And despite all his efforts the bottom was exactly where he'd stayed.

"Happy New Year!" one of the boys yelled. Another round of firecrackers popped and sparked. Then the three sets of poorly shod feet scrambled out of view.

Henry shook his head. It was January 1, 1839, and he'd made no progress at all in the New World. He'd been nearly twenty-one years old when he stepped off the ship from Britain in 1826. Now he was almost thirty-four, but he had nothing to show for his years of labor except a weary body and a few gray hairs.

Henry's first thought upon arriving in the city had been to find work as a groom or driver, but such jobs were scarce. Through the years he'd hawked newspapers in the streets. He'd washed dishes, cleaned fish, watered horses, and run errands. But the few coins he could make in any of those jobs weren't enough to keep him fed.

Finally Henry had tried his hand at gambling. Luck had been with him at first. But it had run out. Now he owed money to the kind of rogues who would break his legsor worseif his accounts were past due. And as of midnight the final deadline had expired. He fully expected his creditors to send thugs to extract some land of paymentprobably within hours.

Henry kicked aside a rat, which scurried to a dark corner and watched him warily with its sharp, beady eyes. Then he sat down heavily on the torn mattress, shaking his head. After all he'd come through, after all his work, he deserved better than this. "Blamed if I'm going to die in a rat-infested cellar at the hands of some paid rowdies!" he said aloud. But he wasn't sure how he could prevent himself from meeting such an end.

Two hours later Henry sat up with a start, surprised to find that he'd dozed off. He pulled his thin blanket around him as he strained his ears to listen. A horse whinnied in the distance. A rodent scuttled somewhere close at hand. And then he heard it: two rough voices speaking in low

growls, just outside his window. He watched their feet as they walked toward the front steps of the squalid boardinghouse.

"I'm sure this is the building, Shem," whispered one man. "But how will we know him?" "Charlie said he lives in the basement," said Shem. "Besides, he talks like a Brit." "What if he doesn't plank down the greenbacks?" Shem gave a sinister chuckle, and Henry gulped when he heard the sound of a pistol

being loaded. "Well, Phineas, you know how wrathy Charlie gets when folks don't pay up," Shem said. "If the Brit can't give up the loot, then we take our payment any way we can."

When the heavy front door closed behind them, Henry ran to his window and tried to wrench it open. "Oh, no!" he hissed. The window was stuckprobably frozen shut. And the men's footsteps were growing louder. Henry pounded at the window frame with the heel of his hand.

"Did you hear that?" came Shem's voice from down the corridor. The window creaked open. Henry threw his small bundle of belongings out into the

snow. Then he grasped the sill and swung himself up, praying his shoulders would make it through the small opening. Behind him the door of his room flew open and banged against the wall.

"Trying to skedaddle?" Shem asked in a pleasant voice. "I suspicion that means you can't pay the money you owe Charlie."

Henry wrenched his shoulders through the window, wincing as a shard of glass from the broken pane scraped his arm.

"What d'ya think, Shem?" asked Phineas. "Do we shoot him in the rear as he hangs there, half in and half out? Or do we pull him back inside so we can hurt him face-to-face?"

Shem spat on the floor. "It ain't sporting to shoot a man from behind," he said with a laugh. "Or in the behind, as the case may be."

Phineas grabbed Henry by the nearest foot and yanked on it. Henry, surprised by the man's strength, nearly lost his grip on the windowsill. Now the tightness of the space was an asset. With his shoulders crammed into the window opening, he was harder to pull back into the cellar. Henry whipped his other leg around and caught Phineas squarely in the jaw with his boot. He heard the big man stagger back and fall against his companion. Henry took advantage of their confusion to squeeze his shoulders the rest of the way through the window. Pain screamed down one arm as he sliced it on the broken glass.

At any moment he expected to feel a bullet searing his flesh. But Shem didn't fire. Maybe he'd dropped the gun when Phineas fell on him. Henry didn't stop to look. Another rough hand groped at his foot. Henry jerked his legs through the window and skidded forward, facedown in the gritty snow. A bullet whizzed by his hip, and Henry somersaulted away from the window. Then he grabbed his knapsack, leaped to his feet, and sprinted away, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and foot.

Behind him another gunshot rang out in the cold, still night. Two sets of quick, heavy footsteps were pursuing him. And they were gaining on him.

* * * The first dawn of 1839 lit the filth-smeared window of a tavern near the banks of the

Hudson River. Henry looked up, red-eyed, from his poker hand. Hours earlier he had managed to elude Shem and Phineas. But his escape could bring only a temporary respite. If he stayed in town, the two thugsor others like themwould eventually catch up with him. His only chance for escaping Charlie's bill collectors was to somehow come up with enough money to leave New

York. But Henry didn't have a penny to his name. All he had was Sophie's locketthe locket he'd sworn to keep forever.

Handing the gold-and-diamond locket over to the pawnshop owner had felt like losing Sophie all over again. But his options had run out. Sophie would understand. She would want him to be safe.

From the first hand Henry had been more motivated than ever before to win this poker game. He had to make enough to buy back Sophie's locket and leave New York City forever.

And for the first time in years Henry was on a winning streak. The pile of money in front of him was more than he'd ever seen in his life. This would be the final hand. Two of Henry's opponents had folded; one of them had proceeded to pass out at the table, his head in his arms. Only Henry and Silas O'Hara were left in the game.

"What do you say?" Henry asked, staring O'Hara steadily in the man's bloodshot, half-lidded eyes. "Are you in?"

"I reckon I am," O'Hara said in a slow, deep Georgia drawl, made slower by a lack of sleep and an abundance of bourbon. "But you done cleaned me out. Let me give you an IOU."

"You used an IOU for the last round, Silas," the dealer reminded the man. "And the stakes are a lot higher now."

"So I did, so I did," O'Hara acknowledged. "Maybe it's time to fold," the dealer suggested. O'Hara's head swiveled. "Not on your life!" he said. He swatted his cards with an

unsteady hand. "These little babies are going to make me rich!" "You're already rich as Solomon!" the dealer shot back. "Well, then they're going to make me richer!" O'Hara declared. "That's some poker face you got there," Henry observed. "I tell you what I'm going to do," O'Hara decided. "I got me the nicest little plantation

you ever did see, away down in Georgia." "I thought you lived in South Carolina," the dealer said. "I do," O'Hara answered. He hiccuped, laughed at himself, and continued. "The place I

live on came down from my wife's daddy. Charleston folks, you know. This other farm is mine, free and clear. It's got workers and furnishings and a business manager. It's a little run-down, but it's got everything you could want, except a master that lives on the premises."

"Does it have a deed?" Henry asked. "Right here in my pocket," said O'Hara. He pulled out a folded sheet of parchment and

laid it on the table. "Show me your cards, Brit. If you win the hand, the plantation's yours." Henry scanned the deed. "You've got yourself a bet," he agreed. He knew he should be

nervous. But Sophie's locket had brought him the luck he needed to turn his life around. This day, he couldn't lose. Slowly but confidently he turned over his cards. "A flush," he said. "Diamonds."

O'Hara's blotchy face paled. "Your turn, Silas," the dealer urged. "Shoot!" O'Hara exclaimed. He tipped up his glass and drank his bourbon in one gulp.

Then he turned over his cards one at a time. "Three of a kind," he said. "Brit, you've got yourself a plantation."

* * * Henry boarded a train later that day, trying to regain the euphoria he'd felt at sunrise. He

was leaving New York, free from Charlie and his hired thugs. He was clean and fed. He wore a

new suit cut in the latest fashion. Even more surprising, he was a landowner. In fact, he owned an enormous amount of land and a plantation house that rivaled Edmonton Hall. In England such a turn of fortune would have been unthinkable.

But part of him would have traded it all to have Sophie's locket back. Henry had raced to the pawnshop after the card game had broken up. But the locket had been gone.

Henry found a seat on the train and leaned against the window, staring out at the dirty, winding streets of New York. The trip to Georgia would involve a combination of trains, boats, stagecoaches, and horse-drawn omnibuses. But he had plenty of time. As soon as he left the city he'd be safe from Charlie's thugs, who were mad enough to pummel him into the snow at this point, money or no money. Once he was safely away, he would send back what he owed. After that it didn't matter how long it took him to reach his new home in the Georgia countryside.

The train began chugging along, and Henry watched the outskirts of the city fly by. A long, wretched phase of his life had been swept away. But his life in England had been swept away too. It had been thirteen years since he'd seen the country of his birth. As long as he carried Sophie's locket Henry had felt a connection to Englandand to her. Now his last link with that idyllic past was gone.

Henry wiped a tear from his eye. Then he straightened his back and resolved to stop mourning the past. He finally had what he'd dreamed about since the day Sophie's father expelled him from Britain. He had money. And with it he had power. From now on he would be the master of his own destiny. Other men would bend to his willfor the first time in his life.

5 July 1846. London.

Whispering together, the dark-haired beauty and her handsome fianc planned their

elopement. She would flee her father's house at night and meet her love in the forest outside of town. Then they would run away and be wedded in a place where her father's decrees held no power.

Watching the production of A Midsummer Night's Dream from her box seat in a London theater, Sophie felt memories filled with unspeakable joy and unbearable pain rise within her. She pressed her lips together and fought down the feelings from the past. For twenty years she'd been the countess Elliot, obedient wife of the earl and impeccable mistress both of Elliot Arms and a stately London residence on Berkeley Square. She had sealed off the memory of Henry Patman long ago, and she refused to open the floodgates now.

The scene onstage changed to the working-class neighborhood of a group of vulgar craftsmen, and Sophie sighed with relief.

Sophie glanced at her daughter, beside her in the box. Looking at Emma was like seeing herself twenty years earlier. Emma had the same golden blond hair, the same delicate facial features, and the same nose that had always seemed slightly too long to Sophie on her own face. The only difference was Emma's eyes. Sophie's were as blue as the sky on a clear summer's day. Her daughter's were a dark, soulful brown, like the eyes of a gypsy.

Now those brown eyes shone as Emma gazed at the actors, mesmerized. It was Emma's sixteenth birthday, and Sophie and Charles were celebrating by taking her to her first theatrical production. Emma barely breathed as she drank in the sights and sounds of the audience, the colorful costumes, the magical scenery, and Shakespeare's soul-stirring words.

Suddenly Sophie recognized the look on her daughter's face. Emma was feeling the same joy Sophie had experienced at the age of sixteenthe day she treaded water in a lake, unable to take her eyes off the young stable hand who stood on the shore. Emma was in love. She was in love with the theater.

* * * "Did you enjoy the play last night?" Lord Charles Elliot asked his daughter at breakfast

that morning. "Oh, yes, Papa!" Emma said, bubbling with enthusiasm. "Thank you so muchyou too,

Mama. I can't imagine a more thrilling birthday present." Sophie smiled. "It's unfortunate that the season is ending so soon. Parliament adjourns

next week, so we'll soon be back in the country. But next year, Emma, I promise you we'll attend as many plays as you like."

"Actually"Emma hesitated"last night helped me make a decision about my future." Charles smiled indulgently at his only child. "And what would that be?" he asked as he

speared a slice of ham. Emma took a deep breath. "I want to become an actress!" Charles dropped his fork, and it clattered to the floor. A servant rushed in to clear it away

and replaced it with a fresh one before the earl had recovered enough to respond. "What a lovely idea, Emma," Sophie said. "Lovely idea, rubbish!" Charles spat out. "Have you forgotten who you are? After you

turn eighteen, you'll be presented at court. Your prospects for marriage will be excellent! You've no need of a career at alllet alone a career on the stage!"

"You say that word as if it leaves a bad taste in your mouth!" Emma pointed out. "Besides, Mother said it was a lovely idea."

"As an idea, it is lovelya wonderful daydream," Sophie said quickly. "But you must be practical, dear. You wouldn't fancy the reality of life as an actress. It's not nearly as glamorous as it seems. Your real prospects are so much more exciting. You're a noblewoman and an heiress. You could marry a duke or a marquess!"

"Listen to your mother," Charles said. "She is a proper, respectable woman, as you should aspire to be."

"I'm not my mother!" Emma protested. "I've always been bored by the idea of running a household and paying social calls. Now I know why. Last night I understood at lastacting is what I was born to do!"

"Are you sure this is what you want, Emma?" Sophie asked. Sophie's blue eyes were hesitant, but Emma thought she saw a glimmer of sympathy there.

Before Emma could answer, Charles rose from his chair. "I don't care what she thinks she wants!" he thundered. "The child is sixteen years old. I know what's best for her, and she will follow my wishes!"

"But Papa" "I consider the matter closed," he said firmly, sitting down and savagely spearing another

slice of ham. "Mama," Emma appealed. Sophie's face seemed to have closed over, and the understanding look she'd had a

moment earlier had disappeared. "Your father is right, of course," she said quietly. "Accept his judgment, Emma. In time you'll thank him for it."

* * * Emma turned restlessly, on the edge of waking. Something bright was shining on her.

She opened her eyes to see a full moon outside the window of her bedroom at Elliot Arms. "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" she whispered automatically. Ever

since her first visit to the theater five years earlier, Emma had read and learned every play she could find, especially those of William Shakespeare. Now the lines came to her constantly, unbidden. She hadn't mentioned her ambition to her father again, but Emma was more determined than ever to move to London permanently and become an actress.

Every spring the family had returned to the city for the social season. And Emma attended the theater there as often as possiblesometimes without her parents' knowledge. Her father didn't mind her going to plays. All the fashionable families did. But he would never approve of the passion she felt as she sat in a hushed theater. This year the abominable heat in London had cut the season short. It was still July, but Emma was back in the countryside with her parents, dreaming of the plays she was missing.

With a chuckle she realized that it was well after midnight. "So it's now my birthday again," she whispered to the moon. "I am twenty-one years old."

If Emma were still in London, she would be attending a play with her parents that night as part of her now-ritual birthday celebration: She Stoops to Conquer. Instead she would celebrate with a birthday dinner here at Elliot Arms. Her parents would be present, of course. And Aunt Melanie and her family were invited as well.

Emma shook her head. Her two cousins were close to her own age, but she found their company tedious. They cared about nothing but clothes, jewelry, and eligible bachelors. When it came to fashion, Emma had a dramatic sense of style. But she dressed to please herself, not to

impress some potential husband. Worrying about such things was a waste of time. She would much rather be holding her breath in suspense as some thrilling plot unfolded onstage.

Emma rose from her bed as if entering another world. She glided across the floor, following the path of moonlight to the window. Then she sat on the wide window seat and pulled her nightgown-covered knees up to her chest. Gazing out at the manicured lawn, Emma imagined a young man gazing up at her in the moonlight, dressed in a colorful, Italianate costume and dark cloak.

"O Romeo, Romeo!" Emma cried softly, "wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet."

She ran through the entire scene from Romeo and Juliet, reciting the lines for both characters. When the scene concluded and the young lovers parted with sweet sorrow, Emma remained on the window seat, gazing at the moon. When she was very small, her father had held her in his arms and told her to make a wish on the moon. She knew what she would wish today. But she also knew that her father would never condone her wish.

"It would be so much easier if I had someone to confide in," she whispered. Her friends and cousins would be mystified by her ambition to become an actress.

Emma thought of her mother. Occasionally, as they left a London theaterEmma's mind still awhirl with verses and costumesshe caught her mother's eye and thought she saw a glimmer of understanding. But then Sophie would take Charles's arm, and her face would settle into the face of a proper noblewoman who knew her place in society. Sophie wanted her to be happyof that Emma was certain. But she would never contradict her husband's wishes for Emma's future.

"Mama has never had an independent thought in her life," Emma whispered. She hated herself for speaking so disloyally. But she was sure it was true. Emma loved her mother, but Sophie would never understand this yearning for something so different from what her upbringing said she should want. Sophie always wanted exactly what she was supposed to want. No more and no less.

* * * Nineteen-year-old Belinda, the daughter of Duchess Melanie Briarton, shoved her hand

in front of her cousin's face as Emma was trying to eat her turtle soup. "Look at my ring, Emma! I'm going to marry Edward Nelson-Tynes!"

"Edward is the nephew of Priscilla, my old school chum," Melanie explained unnecessarily. "He's the duke's heir, you know."

Belinda sighed happily. "Isn't he the most handsome, most dashing man you've ever seen?"

Emma pasted a smile on her face. "That's wonderful, Belinda," she said politely. "I know you'll be very happy."

"Mama says I can make my debut at court next spring!" boasted seventeen-year-old Brittany Briarton. "Then I can have suitors too!"

Aunt Melanie tossed her head slightly so that chestnut ringlets bounced at each ear. "Isn't this the third year since you were presented, Emma?" she asked sweetly. "You'd best hurry and find a husband, or my little Brittany could be married before you!"

Charles rose to his feet at the head of the table. "Before we continue with this line of conversation, I believe a toast would be appropriate." He raised his glass of champagne. "To my lovely and obedient daughter, Emma, on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday!"

Sophie smiled proudly at Emma as everyone drank in honor of her birthday. But Charles was not finished. "Now I have a birthday surprise for Emma."

Emma stared at him, wondering what it could be. Sophie's eyebrows arched high on her forehead, and Emma knew that not even her mother was in on the surprise.

"I have made some very special arrangements for my daughter, which I know will make her happy. I want to announce the betrothal of Lady Emma Elliot to Baron Arthur Worthington's eldest son, Stephen."

Emma felt as if she were falling into an abyss. Around her the family began extolling Stephen's respectability and physical attractions, but their voices seemed to be coming from somewhere far, far away.

* * * Sophie watched her daughter's face grow pale. The duke of Briarton was exchanging

toasts with Charles. Melanie and her silly daughters were giggling and gossiping about Emma's betrothed. But Emma seemed frozen in time.

Sophie had known her husband was considering a match between Emma and the Worthington boy. But she hadn't thought he'd make the arrangement final without first consulting hernot to mention Emma.

As Sophie watched, Emma's lips mouthed the word no. Sophie reached under the table to take her daughters hand. Despite the hot weather, Emma's skin was as cold as ice. Suddenly Emma began shaking her head violently.

"No!" she whispered, jumping to her feet and upsetting her chair. "No!" "Charles," Sophie began, "perhaps" "The decision has been made," intoned the earl. And Sophie watched helplessly as her daughter ran, sobbing, from the room.

* * * Moonlight poured in through Emma's window a few hours later. But this time it wasn't

the light that had awakened her. She sat up, blinking, surprised to see her mother sitting on the edge of her bed. Sophie's blond hair, usually pulled back tightly from her face, flowed long and free over her shoulders. She looked young in the moonlightso young that Emma, her eyes still heavy with tears and sleep, thought for a moment that she was gazing at her own reflection.

"Mother?" she whispered. As Emma's mind cleared, her father's announcement flowed back over her like the moonlight, and tears began running down her swollen face.

"About your father's plans" Sophie began. "I don't want to talk about it!" Emma interrupted. "You can't possibly understand how I

feel." "Yes, I can," Sophie insisted. "My father did the same thing to me." Emma's eyes widened. "But grandfather didn't force you to wed. You wanted to marry

Papa!" she said. "I suppose I did," Sophie said, nodding slightly. She gazed at the full moon for a full

minute before continuing. "But only after I lost the will to fight against my father's wishes. Only after he took away my dream."

"What do you mean?" "Don't misunderstand me, Emma," Sophie began. "Your father has been a kind and

generous husband. And I've been a proper wife to him." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I was sixteen years old when I fell in love"

"Yes," Emma said, nodding. "With father."

"No. With a stable hand named Henry Patman." Emma gasped. Sophie spoke quickly now, staring at her hands, which glowed white in the moonlight.

"We fell in love and planned to elope. But my father discovered us and had Henry deported to America."

"How terrible!" "My dream dissolved when Henry left Britain," Sophie said, her eyes glazed and

unfocused. "When Papa ordered me to marry Charles, I no longer had anything to lose. I gave in and did as he said."

Emma stroked her mother's hand. "I didn't know." "It's time you did," Sophie replied, still whispering. "My father stood in the way of my

dreams. I can't watch you suffer the same fate." "What other choice do I have?" Emma sobbed. "It would take months or years of learning

and working before I could support myself as an actress. Father will never agree to help me," "We don't need his help," Sophie said. She smiled at her daughter, but tears glistened in

her eyes. She lifted a carpetbag and sat it on the bed beside Emma. "This is the money I've saved from my household allowance over the past twenty-five years. If being an actress is what you truly desire, then I want you to take this money and work hard to make your dream come true."

Emma threw her arms around her mother, stunned by Sophie's generosity and understanding. "Thank you, Mama," she said, her voice quavering. "I don't know what else to say."

"Say you'll follow your dream wherever it takes you and that you'll find a way to be happy," Sophie said tearfully.

"I will, Mama," Emma promised. "There's one more thing in that bag, in a small purse," Sophie said. "It's a silver ring.

Henry gave it to me the night we became engaged. I couldn't wear it after I was betrothed to your father. But I've kept it all these years. Now I want you to have it."

"No, Mama! I can't take so precious a gift. It's all you have to remember him by!" Sophie shook her head, a tearful smile on her face. "No, dear. The ring doesn't matter

anymore. What I have to remember Henry by is in here." She clasped her hands together and raised them to her heart. "My memories are the one thing my father couldn't take away. I want you to keep the ring now, to remember the importance of following your heart."

"But Henry" "Henry would understand." Emma pulled a thin silver band from the purse and slipped it over her finger. "I think I do

too," she whispered.

6 September 1851. London.

"My name is Vanessa Saxton," Emma told a sour-faced theater director in London six

weeks later. The pseudonym had been her mother's idea. If Emma used her real name, her father

might be able to track her down. This was the ninth theater to which "Vanessa" had applied since she'd arrived in the city. And it looked as if she was about to receive her ninth rejection.

"Do you have any experience?" the director asked, his hand on the door, blocking her from entering the backstage area of the theater.

"Yes," Vanessa replied. After the first few rejections she'd learned that a negative answer would abruptly end the interview. "I played Juliet," she said. It wasn't exactly a lie. She thought about the night she'd sat at her window, performing Shakespeare for the moon.

"Where was that?" asked the man, sniffing suspiciously. Vanessa hesitated. "Elliot Arms Theatre," she said. "Never heard of it." "It's in the countryside," Vanessa explained weakly. "Anything else?" he asked, with a look that said he knew the answer was no. "Please," she implored. "I know I don't have a lot of experience. But I've read dozens of

plays! I know many roles by heart, including every one of Shakespeare's heroines. Let me recite something for you"

The man laughed. "Reading a play doesn't make you an actress." "I'm taking acting lessons now, twice a week!" Vanessa told him. "I learn quickly, and

I'm willing to work for very little just to get experience." The man rolled his eyes. "Apprentices we don't need," he said. Vanessa opened her mouth to argue. Then she jumped back as the door slammed in her

face. Twenty minutes later she was trudging toward her rented room, wondering if her father

had been right after all. She patted her purse protectively. She had enough money to last for several months, but she wasn't sure if she had the stamina to endure being rejected again and again. Suddenly Vanessa looked up from her downcast thoughts, noting with surprise that the fog had begun rolling in from the river. She shivered. The late afternoon was cold for September. It would be good to get home.

Then Vanessa saw a sign she hadn't noticed before: The Vauxhall Theatre Company. From the look of the building, she could tell it wasn't one of the more respectable theaters in the city. It was small, and paint was peeling in long curls from the facade. Vanessa shook her head. She would ignore the Vauxhall Theatre and continue home. She was planning to heat water to soak her aching feet before retiring early to bed.

Vanessa bit her lip and stopped walking. She couldn't afford to be picky. With no experience and no contacts in the theater world, she had to be willing to work anywhere she could. A small role at the Vauxhall could lead to a bigger role. And that could lead to a role at one of the better-known theaters. She knocked on the door.

To her surprise, an assistant took her immediately up a narrow staircase to the office of the theater director, Mr. Possum. Vanessa was glad to get inside out of the damp chill. But she had to admit that the director's looks weren't impressive. Mr. Possum was fat and balding, and his teeth were rotting so badly that she longed to cover her nose with a handkerchief to filter out

the smell of his breath. Mr. Possum looked her up and down, the way many of the other directors had. But his cold, beady-eyed appraisal gave her chills.

She sat when he told her to. It didn't matter what he looked like. This man was a theater director, and he was willing to speak with her. Most of the others had made her stand in the doorway. Vanessa clutched her purse on her knees, grateful for something to occupy her hands. She answered the usual questions and braced herself for the inevitable rejection. Instead Mr. Possum smiled broadly.

"We consider ourselves a teaching theater," he explained, "a place where young actresses of obvious potential can gain experience. I believe you have that potential. I can always spot it right off."

Vanessa wanted to leap from her chair and dance around the room. "Does that mean I have a job?"

"That's what it means," he confirmed. He pulled out a pocket watch and frowned. "But I have a rehearsal right now. Can you return this evening to discuss the terms of your contract?"

"I'll be here directly after dinner!" she promised. Mr. Possum shook his head. "That won't do. I'll be tied up with a performance. Do you

mind stopping by much latersay, after eleven?" "That would be fine," Vanessa agreed, trying to keep the elation out of her voice. A few

minutes later she floated out of the theater, her sore feet forgotten. Outside th