Chapter One

December 21, 1816

"Oh, Aunt Antoinette, please won't you come to Bath with us? Christmas won't be Christmas without you!"

Lady Penelope Leighton's childish voice piped into the fire-warmed air of the sitting room. Her large, green eyes were wide and beseeching as she leaned against Antoinette's knees.

"Grandmama's house in Bath is always jolly, but it won't be if you're not there," added Penelope's brother, Edward, hanging off the back of Antoinette's chair with his sturdy, chubby little hands. "We're going to see a pantomime."

"And a lecture on Greek theater," said Penelope, her eyes growing even larger, if that was at all possible. She reached out to clasp a handful of Antoinette's red silk robe. "Or, if you don't care for Greek theater, there is sure to be something on philosophy or theology at Aunt Chat's Philosophical Society."

"Or herbs!" cried Edward. "You always like to hear about herbs."

Baby Louisa, still scarcely able to toddle, glanced up from her building blocks and gurgled an agreement.

"Oh, mes petites," Antoinette said softly, putting an arm about Penelope and Edward and drawing them close to her. "You know I would love nothing better than to spend Christmas with my favorite children in all the world. But, as I have said, I must finish this new book on winter herbs very soon, or my publisher will be most unhappy with me. And in Bath there would be far too many 'jolly' things to distract me."

"We would not distract you, Aunt Antoinette!" Penelope declared, going up on tiptoe to loop her small, slender arms about Antoinette's neck. "We would be so good and so quiet when you were working."

Antoinette laughed, for she knew all too well that the Leighton children's idea of "quiet" consisted of tiptoeing while they shouted out about their newest discovery in Greek history (Penelope), horses (Edward), and solid food (Louisa). She pressed a quick kiss to Penelope's tousled dark curls. "I know you would, dearest, but the lectures and dances would not be resisted. We will have a grand party when you return home next month."

As Antoinette hugged them close, she caught a glimpse of their little group reflected in the gilt-framed mirror hung above the fireplace. Anyone looking at them would realize immediately that she was not the children's true aunt. Not their blood aunt. Their milky-white complexions, Edward's silvery blond cap of hair, were in sharp contrast to Antoinette's own coffee-colored duskiness, her midnight eyes, and the thick, wavy fall of her matte-black hair. They were as far opposite as people could possibly be.

Except in their hearts. In Antoinette's deepest soul, they were her nieces and nephew, and she loved them beyond all else. They never watched her with doubt or curiosity or hostility, as so many others did. In their clear eyes there was only love and respect.

Or beggary—as there was now. It hurt her heart to see them, to know that they would go away in only a very few moments and leave her alone at the one time of year when all families should be together. She almost jumped up, grabbed a valise, and shouted, "Of course I will go to Bath with you!"

But she could not. Some urges were too strong, some hurts too deep for even Christmas to heal.

"We will find you the most wondrous Christmas present, Aunt Antoinette," Penelope said. "I promise. And I will write you every day."

"So will I!" Edward said stoutly.

"You do not know your letters yet," Penelope said, disdain heavy in her young voice. "And that is because you don't apply yourself to your lessons. You only think about horses."

"I do not!" Edward shouted, and the two siblings were off on their oft-repeated quarrels.

Little Louisa used her tiny sticky hands to pull herself up by Antoinette's skirt, adding her babble to the fray.

Thus was the room full of chaos when the cottage door was pushed open and Cassandra Leighton, Countess of Royce, the children's mother and Antoinette's best friend, appeared. A heavy, fur-lined white wool cloak swathed about her so that she appeared a ghostly apparition. Everyone at Royce Castle knew a great deal about ghosts. One could not avoid them in one of the most haunted houses in Cornwall.

The illusion faded, though, when Cassie pushed back her hood and stomped dew from her stout half boots. She took in the fray with one sweeping glance, and laughed. "Ah! I see I have come just in time. My children are obviously being carried away by naughtiness."

"Mama!" Penelope cried imperiously, propping her tiny fists on her hips. "We were not doing anything naughty. We simply asked Antoinette to come to Bath with us for Christmas."

"Did I not tell you, before I let you come here, that you were not to bother your auntie?" Cassie scooped up Louisa into her arms, and leveled her steady, motherly gaze on her eldest daughter.

Penelope's pugnacious stare faltered. "Yes, Mama. But . . ."

"No buts. You were quite clearly disturbing her. There is no time to discuss it now, though. The carriage is waiting, and if we do not hurry your papa will vanish back into his library for another hour. So, kiss your auntie, and be on your way. Papa will settle you in the carriage with warm bricks and blankets."

Penelope turned back to Antoinette and dropped her a perfect little curtsy. "Good-bye, Aunt Antoinette. I will write to you every day and tell you what we are doing." The image of impeccable young ladyhood was ruined, though, when Penelope threw her arms around Antoinette's neck and kissed her once, twice, three times. "We'll miss you! But we will have a party when we return home, right?"

Copyright © 2004 by Amanda McCabe