CHAPTER ONE

London, England
1840

Fire. The angry beast curled and stretched, creeping up steadily until it engulfed the entire building in its flames. The smoke ascended to the heavens, cloaking the clouds, poisoning the air. Unable to breathe, Frances crumbled to the dust. She pressed a hand to her racing heart and tore her lips apart in a desperate attempt to force oxygen through her parched throat. But her efforts proved useless. Darkness swooped down on her, invading every inch of her being as it fought to claim her soul.

Frances jerked upright, the vision before her dispelled by the object that touched her hand. She opened her eyes to find Sara’s hand resting on her wrist.

“You’re shaking,” Sara said.

“I am,” Frances murmured into the stiff air of the hackney, her heart matching the sound of the horses’ hooves as they pounded the gravel.

“Same dream?” Sara slipped her hand further down, her callouses poking Frances’ delicate flesh as she laced her fingers with hers.

Frances turned to Sara then. While a small smile tugged on the edges of Sara’s full lips, her brown eyes reflected the same fear that tormented Frances’ soul. And indeed Frances was afraid. It didn’t matter how much she fought to be rid of it, or how far she ran, fear haunted her; it had chased her across the Atlantic Ocean, it plagued her nightly visions, and seated in this carriage with her, it possessed her body.

She nodded. “Perhaps we made a mistake. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come here.”

“We didn’t have a choice.” Sara squeezed her hand, sensing her distress. “And Layla will be delighted to see you.”

“Too many years have gone by. Layla might be unforgiving in her recollection of the past.” Frances shook her head. 

Six years had passed since she saw her sister Layla. Frances had been fourteen at the time, but not too young to understand the implications of her sister’s crime against their family. Papa had called it demonic possession, for nothing could better describe Layla’s decision to steal from her family and runoff in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again. It wasn’t until two years ago that a letter from Layla arrived at their farm in Louisiana. Frances knew nothing of its content, and certainly wouldn’t have heard of it if Sara hadn’t told her. It was Sara who took delivery of the letter for Papa. She had crammed the return address because she believed Frances might secretly want to rekindle her relationship with Layla. But Frances had been too much of a coward to go against Papa’s wishes to ostracize Layla. For all she knew, Layla might wish to do the same to her now.

“We must hope for the best.”

“I’m weary of hope. I fear we’ve come all this way for nothing. Oh, Sara, what have we done?!” Tears filled her eyes, and she hurried to wipe them with her sleeve. She was unwilling to give into her tears, even if all she wanted to do was bury her face in her hands and weep. For several weeks, she’d fought to keep from crumbling into a pile of grief. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Sara shifted close, her warmth enveloping Frances as she pulled her into her embrace. “We did what we had to,” she whispered against her hair and patted her back in the familiar manner she always did when Frances was upset about something.

Frances closed her eyes as she rested her head on Sara’s shoulder, drawing strength from the arms of her best friend. More than a friend, Sara was a sister, and had been so since the day of Frances’ birth. While Sara was only a year older than Frances’ twenty years, the two women grew up together. They’d formed a bond peculiar to the one that typically existed between a mistress and her slave.

They sat in the stillness of the carriage for nearly an hour until it began slowing down. They’d arrived. Frances swallowed. Gently, she raised her head and turned to the window. She pushed the curtain aside in time to see an imposing black gate. A giant three-story building laid within the confines of the barred gate, its shingled roof nearly kissing the gray, pregnant clouds that hung low over it. She released her grip on the curtain and turned sharply to Sara.

“Are you certain we’re in the right place?” Two years had passed since Sara crammed Layla’s address from the letter; surely she was mistaken, and they were in the wrong house!

Sara moved closer, and leaning over Frances, pushed the curtain aside. She gasped, then released the curtain like it was on fire. She shook her head. “Oh, but I’m certain this is it!”

“But how?” Frances looked out the window again, confused. How was Layla able to live in such luxury?! Frances thought this house sat on land nearly twice the size of their farm In Louisiana.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and Frances was nearly certain her heart stopped with it. “This is it,” the coachman announced as he opened the door and helped the two women down.

Frances had half the mind to implore him to remain until they’d confirmed they were in the right place, but the words died on her lips as she watched Sara hand him the payment for his services. With his money in hand, he nodded his thanks and turned from them, abandoning them to their fate.

“Come now.” Sara took their valises. Using her elbow, she pushed the gate. It swung open with a loud squeak, causing Frances to jump in fright.

“But we cannot just barge in on complete strangers in the middle of the night!” she protested as Sara began making her way through the cobbled walkway.

“We cannot stay out here, Miss Frances. The rain is threatening.” Sara nodded to the gray clouds. “Hurry!”

Nervously, Frances hurried after her, retrieving one valise from her hand as they mounted the stairs to the front door. Sara pounded the knocker. Nothing. On the fourth attempt, Frances was nearly certain the home was abandoned, or the household had retired for the evening. It was on her lips to suggest they returned on a later date, at an appropriate time. Perhaps then they might run into a servant at the gate who might offer useful information about the whereabouts of Layla. It was certainly better than offending the sensibilities of these homeowners by barging in on them at such an ungodly hour.

The sound of the locks giving way reached them as the giant wooden door cracked open. A lanky gentleman appeared, a small frown immediately claiming his withered face as he looked down his crooked nose at them. “Who might you be?” His gaze crept down the length of them, causing Frances to become unpleasantly aware of her ruffled state. She’d spent the last three weeks aboard a ship from America. She’d barely slept, barely eaten, and had been worried out of her mind. Surely she looked like the mess she felt.

Sensing her inability to speak, Sara said, “My name is Sara. My mistress, Miss Frances Hawkins,” she motioned to Frances, “is here to see her sister, Miss Layla… Layla Hawkins.”

The man turned piercing green eyes from Sara to Frances, his frown deepening. Just then, a drop of water fell on Frances’ forehead, heightening her nervousness. They needed to find shelter before the heavens gave way to the rain, and she didn’t suppose they might convince the snotty man to let them in.

“We fear we’ve come to the wrong place. Please forgive our intrusion.” She reached for Sara’s hand, but Sara shook her head.

“I’m certain we haven’t. Two years ago, we received a letter from Miss Layla. It originated from this address.”

“Yes, but two years is a long time to be certain about anything.” Frances tugged on Sara’s hand, silently urging her to relent.

“Not for me, it’s not.” Sara turned briefly to her, and from her raised chin, Frances knew she was determined. “We only wish to speak to Miss Layla,” she said, turning back to the man, who stood watching the two women with a persistent frown on his face. “Please.” Sara stepped forward, to which the men stepped back, holding the door halfway close in readiness to slam it in their faces if they made another wrong move. Sara’s shoulders sank as she shook her head. “We have traveled several weeks to be here. At the very least, inform Miss Layla of our presence. I’m certain she will be pleased to receive us.”

Frances watched the man’s Adam’s apple disappear into the collar of his white shirt. “Very well. You two shall wait here.” He made to close the door, but Sara stepped forward, blocking his effort.

“My mistress is exhausted. We shall very much appreciate a place to sit.”

“I cannot possibly let two complete strangers in. Wait here while I announce your presence.”

“The rain is threatening. We shall be soaked upon your return, and in all likelihood, given our exhaustion, sick, on the verge of death. You do not wish to have our blood on your hands, do you?” He glanced down briefly at his hands, and when he raised his head once more, Frances saw that Sara had broken down his resolve. Sara saw it, too. Squaring her shoulders, she offered him a small smile. “I beg that you permit us entry into a warm room. We shall wait there until our presence has been made known.”

Half a second passed before the man released his grip on the doorknob. “Come with me.” He stepped aside, giving them access into the large vestibule.

Frances stepped into the building cautiously. The room was bare, but for the single console table beside the door, and the vase of fresh flowers that sat on top. A curving staircase stood directly opposite the front door. From Frances’ position in the center of the room, her gaze trailed the row of balustrades to the third floor, where an enormous chandelier hung from the high ceiling. The two women followed the strange man through the grand building into a lavishly furnished living room. Frances had never seen finer furniture. The light blue curtains complimented the mint green walls, and the white chairs with curved gold legs gave the room an elaborate feel.

“Wait here. Touch nothing,” he said, annoyance evident in his voice as he turned sharply from them and exited the room.

“Sit.” Sara extracted the valise from Frances. Placing them by the corner of the door, she ushered Frances to the couch closest to the fire. She helped her settle on it. “You’re still shaking. Perhaps after you’re reunited with Layla, we must request for a doctor.”

Frances shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“We do not know that.” Sara touched her cheek. “You’re also pale. You’ve been so since…” She released a small breath and shook her head. “I do not wish harm upon you.”

“And you?” Frances took her hand that rested on her cheek, before pulling her down until she was settling on the couch beside her. “You conceal your fears to soothe mine, but do not think me careless enough not to notice.”

“I do not find it surprising that you noticed. You’ve always been quite nebby,” she teased.

“And you, the mother hen.” The soft smile that claimed her lips was quenched by the sound of approaching footsteps.

The heavy set of footsteps across the marbled floor sounded like a man’s, but it was nothing like the man who had opened the front door for them. This was different, slow and calculating, almost rhythmic, like a forward march. It commanded attention. More than that, it commanded respect, forcing Sara to her feet. Frances would have done the same if she trusted her wobbly feet to carry her weight. She instead clasped her hands before her and watched as the footsteps reached the door and the man entered the room.