Year 1889
The first thing Scarlett saw every morning was the intricate, cream-colored molding of her ceiling. For a few heartbeats, the world was silent. She lay there, staring up, wondering what the day would hold before the weight of being a Vandean truly settled in.
She needed a moment of peace. Slipping out of bed, she made her way outside before the sun had fully burned the dew off the grass. The garden maze was her sanctuary. Down in the heart of the hedges, the morning air was sharp and cool, smelling of damp earth and boxwood. Scarlett sat on a stone bench, closing her eyes to just breathe. She let the sound of the birds chirping drown out her thoughts, soaking in the stillness before the gears of the great house began to grind.
When she finally headed back inside the mansion, the spell was broken. The quiet was replaced by the frantic hustle and bustle of the morning. Maidservants scurried by with armloads of fresh linens; the rhythmic thrum of rugs being beaten echoed from the distance.
Scarlett slipped into the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of frying salt pork and baking bread. Everything had to be perfect-up to the exacting, impossible standards of Ms. Vandean. In the chaos, Scarlett spotted a familiar face.
"Good morning, Emmy," Scarlett whispered, dodging a cook with a heavy tray.
Emmy, her favorite maid, flashed a tired but warm smile. "Morning, Miss Scarlett. You're up early."
"Just catching the air," Scarlett said with a wink. "I'll see you this afternoon."
Back in the privacy of her room, Scarlett prepared for the day. She chose a light blue dress, the fabric scattered with delicate pink and yellow wildflowers. She spent extra time on her hair, pinning it into a soft half-updo that let her curls bounce against her shoulders. Looking in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks until a rosy glow appeared. "There," she whispered to her reflection. "Pretty enough."
She stepped into her black heels, the rhythmic clack-clack of the wood floor following her all the way to the library.
She settled into a velvet chair with one of her favorites-the kind of cartoonish storybooks meant for children, full of bright illustrations and simple heroes. She was deep into the final pages when the peace was shattered. From the hallway, the booming, irritated voices of her brothers drifted in.
"Cornelius! Heathrow! Stop it!" Scarlett yelled, not looking up from her page. "Stop crying to each other! I am trying to read!"
The heavy oak door swung open. Cornelius stepped in, looking ruffled and annoyed. "If you want peace, go to your bedroom, Scarlett. Men have things to discuss here."
Scarlett finally closed her book, a snarky smile tugging at her lips. "Men? You sound more like two little boys fighting over a girl."
Heathrow wandered in behind his brother, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Yeah, Cornelius... who are we fighting over?"
"We aren't fighting over anybody," Cornelius snapped, his face turning a shade of red that almost matched his sister's hair.
"Oh, please," Heathrow chuckled, leaning against a bookshelf. "We're fighting over that shop girl around the corner in town. You know, the one you've had your eyes on for two years now?" "Before Cornelius could sputter out a defense, the heavy library doors creaked open further. Marcella stepped into the room, her presence as sharp and unyielding as the corset she wore. Her eyes swept over her children with a look that could chill boiling water.
"What is all this shouting about?" she asked, her voice low but piercing. She fixed a gaze on her oldest son. "And who is this girl, Cornelius? How is it that your own mother has never heard a whisper of her?" From behind her, Reginald followed, looking up from a ledger. "Yes, son," he added, his tone more curious than accusing. "Who is this girl at the corner shop? Why haven't you introduced us to her?" The library went dead silent. Every eye in the room-Scarlett's mischievous ones, Heathrow's laughing ones, and the steady, expectant stares of his parents-was locked on Cornelius. His face didn't just turn red; it turned a deep, bruised purple. "I... I'm not talking to you people anymore!" he stammered, his voice cracking. "I have business to take care of! I'll see you later!" He turned on his heel and bolted. As he hurried down the hallway, he could hear the explosion of giggles and full-bellied laughs erupting behind him. A small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips for a split second-he loved his family's spirit-but the embarrassment was too much to stay. He kept running until he was well out of earshot. Reginald chuckled, shaking his head as he tucked his ledger away. "Well, I suppose that's that for now. I need to head into town to get more supplies for my office. It's important business."
Scarlett jumped up from her velvet chair, her childlike book forgotten. "Daddy, can I go with you? I need a new bow for my hair. This one is in such bad shape, the seams are tearing."
Reginald smiled at his daughter's enthusiasm. "Of course. Let's make it a family outing. Marcella? Heathrow?"
"I'll come," Heathrow said, stretching his arms. "I need to pick up some new boots anyway." Marcella nodded, her mind already on the household's needs. "I suppose I'll join. I need to find specific fabric to fix the embroidery on the parlor curtains; it's looking dreadfully messed up."
The Vandeans' carriage ride into town was filled with the usual bickering and planning, but once they arrived at the local shop, Scarlett's eyes went wide. Displayed on a velvet cushion was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen: a deep red bow, encrusted with shimmering diamonds around the center, with a massive, glowing pearl sitting right in the middle.
"Daddy! Daddy, look!" she breathed, pointing at the glass case. The shopkeeper stepped forward, bowing slightly. "A fine choice, Miss. This piece is quite rare. It would be £20."
Without a second thought, Reginald reached for his purse and counted out the notes. At the same time, Heathrow paid £30 for his sturdy new boots, and Marcella found her fabric for a modest £50. They left the shop feeling accomplished, but as they walked further into the bustling heart of town, the mood shifted. Scarlett froze. There, standing on the dusty street corner in front of a local business, was her cousin Iris. She held a small tin, her head bowed as she asked passersby for spare coins. A wave of hot embarrassment washed over Scarlett, followed quickly by cold, biting guilt. They were family. They shared the same blood. Scarlett looked at the £20 bow in her hand, then back at Iris's tattered clothes.
Why haven't we ever given them money? Scarlett thought, her heart sinking. They are our family. Why haven't we ever helped them?" As the family moved away from the corner, the image of Iris-tattered, red-haired, and hollow-eyed-burned into Scarlett's mind. She looked down at her own clean, pale hands and then up at her father. She reached out, her fingers tugging urgently at the heavy fabric of Reginald's overcoat.
"Dad," she whispered, her voice small against the noise of the street. "Why aren't we giving money to our cousins? What's wrong with them? Did they do something... did they do something wrong?"
Reginald stopped. The lines around his eyes seemed to deepen, and he didn't look at the crowd anymore. He looked down at Scarlett with a heavy, weary sadness.
"Oh, dear," he sighed, patting her hand but gently pulling his coat away. "We don't talk about them often because of past grievances, Scarlett. What they did in the past to your mother and me... it's a sore subject, honey. A very sore subject."
Scarlett turned to her mother, searching for an answer, but Marcella's expression was unreadable-a mask of cold stone. She reached out and tucked a stray red curl behind Scarlett's ear.
"It's okay, honey," Marcella said, her voice strangely soft but final. "We will tell you when you are older, so you truly understand. Right now is not the time for old ghosts."
"Yes, exactly," Heathrow chimed in, stepping between them to break the tension. He threw an arm around Scarlett's shoulder, trying to steer her toward a brightly painted storefront. "Come on, let's go to this shop down here. I heard they have a brand-new shipment of dolls. The porcelain kind from France-you'll love them."
Scarlett let herself be led, her black heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement, but her heart felt like lead.
Inside the toy store, the air smelled of sweet sawdust and peppermint. It was a wonderland of Gilded Age luxury: towering dollhouses with real miniature lace curtains, hand-painted rocking horses, and rows of dolls with glassy eyes and silk dresses. Everywhere she looked, there was something beautiful to buy, something new to own.
"Look at this one, Scarlett," Heathrow said, pointing to a doll with golden ringlets.
Scarlett stared at the doll's perfect, painted smile. It was beautiful. It was expensive. And it was utterly hollow. In the back of her head, the guilt was a dull, throbbing ache. Every time she looked at a toy, she saw Iris's empty tin cup. Every time she touched a silk ribbon, she felt the rough, dusty wool of her cousin's rags.
She was living a life of velvet and gold, while her own blood was starving just three blocks away. The "Standard of Excellence" the Vandeans lived by suddenly felt like a very heavy weight to carry.Scarlett stood in the center of the toy shop, surrounded by perfection. They must have done something truly terrible, she thought, her mind racing to find a reason for the gap between her life and Iris's. A massive financial mistake, perhaps? Or a debt so deep they could never climb out? It had to be their own fault; it was the only way she could stand to breathe the expensive, peppermint-scented air.
She pushed the guilt into a dark corner of her mind and focused on the shelves. Then, she saw her.
Propped up on a velvet stand was a doll that looked like a mirror image of Scarlett herself. She had a thick mane of curly red hair, bright blue eyes, and was dressed in a stunning forest-green gown with tiny pearl buttons running down the bodice. She even wore little green high-heeled shoes.
"Daddy, I want this one," Scarlett said, her voice finally losing its tremor.
Reginald smiled, relieved to see his daughter back to her usual self. "Of course, honey. Let's get her to the counter."
They walked out of the store a few minutes later, the porcelain doll tucked securely in Scarlett's arms. Her first instinct was to look toward the corner, but the space where Iris had been standing was empty. The dusty patch of cobblestone was vacant, as if the girl had never been there at all.
Where did she go? What happened? Scarlett wondered, but the questions remained unspoken.
"It's time to go home," Reginald announced, checking his pocket watch. "The sun is dipping, and it's nearly time for supper."
The carriage ride back to the mansion was quiet, the rhythmic sway of the coach lulling them into a comfortable silence. When they arrived, the house was already glowing with lamplight. Inside, Cornelius was tucked into a chair in the parlor, his nose buried in a book, while Marcella immediately hurried toward the library, her arms full of new fabric, eager to start her embroidery project on the worn curtains.
Scarlett bypassed them all, running up the grand staircase to her bedroom. She carefully placed her new "twin" on the vanity next to her old doll. "There," she whispered. "Get to know each other. Be friends."
She was about to change for dinner when a loud, echoing shout drifted up from the foyer.
"Scarlett! Come down, honey! A letter has arrived for you!"
Scarlett froze. "A letter?"
"It's from Sorel!" Reginald called up, his voice booming with excitement.
Scarlett didn't just walk; she scrambled. Her black heels clicked frantically against the wood as she flew down the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Give it to me! Give it to me!" she laughed, snatching the cream-colored envelope from her father's hand.
She broke the purple wax seal of the De la Vegas and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was elegant but hurried.
Dear Ms. Scarlett,
I hope to write to you more often. My apologies if this letter reaches you late; the postmen here in Casa Lava are notoriously unreliable. I hope you have been doing well.
I must tell you-I rode my very first horse yesterday! And then, promptly, I fell off. I don't know why it took me so long to finally try; I suppose I was just terrified of them. I'm not anymore, but I hope that with your encouragement and a letter back to me, I can ride more often and make you proud.
Yours, Sorel.
Scarlett clutched the letter to her chest, her face lighting up with a brilliant smile. The dust of Pembroke, the image of Iris, and the heavy guilt of the afternoon all seemed to melt away, replaced by the warm, sun-drenched promise of a Prince in Spain.