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“Pa, I—”

“She’s bent up the farrowin’ crate, ’n’ now I’ll hafta repair it. ’N’ all a’ this before Saturday. We’ve a big day comin’.”

“Yes, of course.” Bartering day in the nearby village. Mum would trade whatever she could so that the family could make it through the spring season.

“This stall needs to shine like Buckingham Palace, lazy miss, and put some elbow grease into it.”

“Yes, Pa.”

His gaze narrowed. “Yer not the Queen o’ Sheba, ya know. Just a pig farmer’s daughter. No lollygagging about. And when yer done with yer work, we’ll have our rock prayers. Yer in need of humblin’, fer sure.”

She trembled as the words “rock prayers” were spoken. Pain shot through her legs as she braced herself for the moment ahead when she would be forced to kneel atop a pile of broken rocks to repent for sins she hadn’t really committed—all to appease her
drunken father. If only she could avoid these religious rituals of his. Her knees would be in far better shape. So would her heart.

Out of the corners of her eyes, Tessa watched as Mum eased her way across the yard and toward the house. Coward. Then again, neither of the Bowen women stood much of a chance around Pa, did they?

If only Peter were here. He would know what to do.

Pa’s face tightened and the stench of his breath sickened her stomach as he drew near. As the back of his hand stung her cheek, Tessa squeezed her eyes shut. Images of her older brother rushed over her, bringing peace. Truly, she could endure anything with the image of Peter’s face there to bring comfort.

Friday, March 8, 1912

Abingdon Manor, Richmond, England

Jacquie Abingdon gazed through the front window of her family’s country estate, the expansive gardens capturing her attention as always. A grove of mulberry trees framed the gently rolling lawn. Perfectly manicured shrubberies, well-tended with bits of vibrant green peeking through, spoke of the promise of spring, as did the budding flowers in the planted beds below.

Her gaze shifted to the graveled walk, which led to a smallish stone bridge. It inclined over the narrow ribbon of water in the creek below. She found the scene picturesque. Idyllic. If only such perfection existed in her own life. Releasing a sigh, she fixed her sights on the bridge. How she longed to hike her skirts and run across it then disappear into the meadow on the other side, never to be seen again.

She could not, of course. Gone were the carefree days of doing as she pleased, of playing the child. As this realization set in, tears sprang up and covered her lashes, and Jacquie brushed them away with the swipe of a hand. As was the custom with all well-bred British girls, she would play the role of the dutiful daughter, though every fiber of her being argued against it. Until then, she would take a seat in the parlor and disappear into a good book. While keeping an eye on the door to her father’s study, of course.

She closed the drapes and walked to the parlor. After settling into a chair, Jacquie reached for her novel of choice, her thoughts as gloomy as the dense fog that so often descended upon the manor. In spite of her passion for romantic tales, the story could not hold her interest today, not with her thoughts in such a whirl. How could she maintain any sense of control over her imaginings with her future in the hands of a father who insisted upon clinging to outdated traditions and narrow-minded notions? She had never been much for blind obedience to such things, particularly of late.

“Customs shape the lives of the British, Jacqueline. We hold fast to our habits and conventions because they have served us well.”
How often had she heard those words?

“Served us well?” She placed the book in her lap and folded her hands over it in a prayerful stance. “When you’re the lord of the manor,
everyone
serves you well.” Jacquie glanced up at the gilded frame that held her father’s portrait. His austere expression caused her to shudder. Not that she found her father cruel, of course.
Determined
would be a better word. He seemed bent on controlling every aspect of her life, a fact that brought anxiety on multiple levels.

At three minutes past the hour, Father’s business associate,
Roland Palmer, emerged from behind the office door. His stride exuded confidence, and his morning coat, which suited his tall, stately physique, spoke of money. Rarely did monetary fame and fine looks go together, but in the case of Mr. Palmer, neither could be argued. Not that this made him any more appealing to Jacquie.

The heels of his polished shoes clicked in steady rhythm as he walked across the spacious grand foyer of Abingdon Manor. Upon reaching the front door, he glanced her way and offered a cursory nod before tipping his silk top hat. Jacquie lifted the book and pretended to read, then shifted her gaze to see if he noticed. A half smile crossed Roland’s lips as he reached for his umbrella. He swung wide the door, spoke a cheerful “Good day,” and headed outdoors.

Several questions rolled through Jacquie’s mind as she tossed the book onto the side table and rose from the chair, but none of them could be voiced aloud. She took tentative steps toward the window and watched as Roland climbed into his impressive Rolls-Royce, which roared to life then motored down the driveway toward the lane. The automobile soon disappeared from view, but Jacquie’s troubles did not. Perhaps they were just beginning.

Father’s firm voice rang out from inside his study. “Jacqueline, I will see you now.”

A shiver ran down her spine as she anticipated their upcoming conversation. She made her way into the study and found her father in his leather chair behind the intricately carved mahogany desk, as always, surrounded by shelves lined with musty-scented books by the hundreds. He looked very much as he did in his portrait in the hallway—authoritative. His shoulders squared beneath the tailored suit as he straightened his stance in the chair. “Ah, there you are.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her father ran his fingers over his graying mustache then reached for a pen. “Sit, Jacquie.”

He might as well have been speaking to the family’s beagle. Still, she knew better than to disregard his instructions. As she eased her way into the wingback chair opposite him, Jacquie felt the knots in her stomach tighten a notch. Settling her gaze on the spectacles he had placed on the desk, she tried to remain focused. Visions of the garden danced through her mind, and she saw herself running across that bridge, over the creek, and toward freedom. If only she could actually do so.

He lifted his pen and glanced her way. “We have something of great importance to discuss.” A half smile followed. “Good news, indeed.”

No doubt
his
idea of good news, not her own.

Father rose, his tall frame commanding attention. He reached for the gold pocket watch fastened to his waistcoat and gave it a glance then walked to the door and called for her mother to join them. All the while, Jacquie’s heart twisted and turned, though she tried to remain calm on the exterior.

Mama arrived moments later, fussing with her hair. “Was that Roland Palmer I saw leaving just now?” After taking a few steps to the window, she reached to pull back the heavy brocade draperies for a peek outside. “I’m sorry I missed him. I do so enjoy his visits.”

“Yes. Have a seat, Helen.” Jacquie’s father tucked the watch back into its pocket and gestured for her to sit. He opened his cigar box and fussed over its contents, finally pulling out a cigar. As he ran it under his nose and inhaled, a look of pure contentment settled over him. He returned to his spot behind the desk, and
hints of sunlight from the window caused the silver strands in his hair to shimmer, which cast a deceptively angelic glow over him.

“Rather odd for Roland to leave his business midday for a social call.” Jacquie’s mother eased her ample frame into the chair, her green satin skirt pooling around her. Her gaze shifted to the window and then back again.

“He came on pressing business.” Jacquie’s father cleared his throat and rolled the cigar around in his hand.

Mama fussed with the pearl buttons on the sleeve of her white linen blouse, her brow wrinkling. “Something to do with the steel mill?”

“In a roundabout way, I suppose his visit could be linked to the mill. But he came with a proposition, one that involves our daughter, so I felt the whole family should be aware of the particulars.”

Jacquie’s heart rate doubled and a queasy feeling gripped her stomach. She fought it while offering a forced smile. “O–oh?”

Her father cut the cap from his cigar and reached for a match. “Roland Palmer is a competitive man, and he knows a good thing when he sees it. The automobile industry is young, but there is a lot of money to be made on both sides of the pond, especially when men work together. We’re both smart enough to see that.”

Jacquie remained silent, unsure what this had to do with her. She didn’t know which “good thing” her father happened to be referring to—his burgeoning steel mill or his daughter. “Father, I’m sorry, but I don’t quite understand. Are you saying that Roland is looking to merge his business in New York with yours, here in London?”

“I have no doubt that we will merge forces sooner or later, if all goes as planned.” With a snap of her father’s wrist, the match lit into a flame. Positioning the cigar in his mouth, his fingers
wrapped around the band. He began to puff as he rotated the cigar, his cheeks moving in and out until it was fully lit. Within seconds, the familiar pungent aroma filled the room. Jacquie had just started to relax when her father looked her way. “Roland Palmer has asked for your hand in marriage, my dear.”

The smile that followed did little to lift her spirits.

Chapter Two

Friday, March 8, 1912

Abingdon Manor, Richmond, England

A wave of fear washed over Jacquie afresh as she tried to absorb the news.

Father dangled the cigar between his fingers. “I’m delighted about Roland’s offer, as you might imagine. I do hope you will be as well. This has been a thoughtful undertaking.”

“B–but…” She couldn’t seem to manage anything else. The lump in her throat wouldn’t allow it.

“He’s a good man, and a kind one. I can’t deny that the arrangement is advantageous for us all, but I do believe you will settle happily. He will treat you well and give you a good life. And you will never want for anything. Of this, we can be quite sure.” Another puff of the cigar followed on her father’s end and then a nod. “Roland has a large home in New York and has just purchased the Willingham estate here in Richmond near the Thames.”

“Well, that sounds lovely.” Jacquie’s mother folded her hands in her lap and sat up a bit straighter.

“Yes.” Father grinned. “And what a stroke of luck, marrying a man in the automobile industry. Not only will you have an enviable home, but you will also own the best vehicles in the county.”

Jacquie swallowed hard as she thought about how to respond.
Of course her father found this news to be delightful. He would. But she could not—would not—marry a man she had no feelings for, especially when her heart remained affixed to another. She forced a smile and fought to quiet her racing heart, fearing it might somehow give her away.

“Father, this is 1912,” she managed at last. “I hardly think—”

“Yes, a great year for the automobile industry.” Her father leaned forward and pulled the cigar from his mouth. “You must consider how this will affect our family for generations to come, Jacqueline.
Abingdon and Palmer
has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? And I can envision a houseful of little Palmers running around, bringing cheer to us all.”

“But—”

“And who knows? Maybe one day your son—should you be blessed to have one—will carry on in my stead. I can’t live forever, you know.” Her father chuckled then leaned back in his chair and returned to smoking his cigar, his eyes now closed.

Jacquie glanced her mother’s way and noticed the widened eyes.

“What a blessed day for us all.” Mama pushed herself up from the chair and pulled Jacquie into a warm embrace. “Don’t you agree, darling?”

“Well, I…”

Her mother stepped back and extended a hand. “Come with me, sweet girl. It would appear we have plans to set in motion, and the sooner the better.”

“But Mother, I…” Jacquie couldn’t seem to complete her sentence. Pressing the words out past the knot in her throat proved impossible. How could she be expected to transition her thinking in such a way? Why, just yesterday she was attending parties with her friends and giggling over boys. Boys her own age, not men twelve years her senior.

Jacquie’s mother made her way across the room, the heels of her shoes clicking across the floor. “Your father has work to do, and it would appear we do as well.” Turning her attention to Jacquie’s father, she gave him a little wink. “You know how we ladies are, Henry. You don’t mind if we escape for a bit to talk through the particulars of the upcoming nuptials, do you? We’ve a trousseau to prepare, after all. And we must begin to put together the guest list as soon as possible. We don’t want to leave anyone out.”