The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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I do believe that Gabe and Lizzie have the most charming home I have ever seen. It is small, but grand, with a spacious garden out in back and a lavish library with more books that I could ever read. The name, which is Lily House, is derived from the name of one of Lizzie's childhood cats. Although I have only been here a matter of days, I can already attest to the homeliness of it. Gabe did well in choosing Lizzie for she is absolutely everything I will probably never be. She is refined, highbred, beautiful, smart, and altogether charming. She is truly what Mr. Patmore meant when he spoke of an angel in the house. From what I have perceived, Lizzie is the picture of domesticity.
She is currently taking tea in the sitting room with the preacher's wife—a Mrs. Jillings. I was invited but declined as I am still exhausted from traveling and I am not suitably dressed for company, or at least not by Lizzie's unspoken but easily understood standards. She wears the newest fashions, the prettiest and most decorated dresses and the most elegant hairpieces, all of which she offered to me. The gesture was all too kind, but I felt it wasn't right. Gabe assures me that he will withdraw enough funds for me to purchase a new wardrobe. I am set to go shopping with Lizzie just as soon as Hanny arrives from St. Agatha's. Until then, I remain in my black dress from yesterday and as such do not feel up to company where I might be judged for first impressions.
To be frank, I look ghastly. I am naturally pale with dull blue eyes and blond hair that is more white than golden. I do not glow like other fair ladies; instead I just look like an apparition. I haunt and am haunted. Sister Alberta once told me that I looked like I'd been washed and left out in the sun far too many times. There are scars as well, though I healed well enough from my burns. Add a dress that was most certainly meant for a widow in mourning, and I look casket ready. And so I sit and write. This has slowly become my constant, the one things that is mine. I have no friends, not really, no one with which I trust to share my burdens—my world. And I am so very burdened. I digress.
While I have time, I should recount the dinner from my first night here, as it was nearly as odd as my travels with Rosie and Desmott had been. When Gabe arrived home last night he was overjoyed to see me. I'd met him at the front step and fell into his embrace without any qualms. After a tight squeeze and more warmth than I'd been privy to in a very long time, he pulled away, holding me at arms length. "I will not lie to you, my dear girl, you look like death warmed over. Was there nothing else for you to wear?"
I grinned and spun in a circle so he could receive the full effect of my dress. "There was more crinoline for it, to make the skirt wider, but I refused to wear it. Made quite a fuss about it, Sister Alberta yelled at me no less than twice."
"Splendid choice. I suppose it would not be a proper farewell without a few good yells." He offered me his arm, "Have you been behaving yourself?"
I took his arm. "Why of course I have. Don't I always?"
He laughed and the smile never faltered from his handsome face as the two of us walked arm in arm down the hall and into the elaborate dining room. It was then that, upon entering the room and seeing the other two guests, his facial expression tightened. Lizzie, always the attentive wife, stood up from where she'd been seated at the table and went to meet her husband. "This is Mr. Desmott and Miss Gressil. They accompanied Merritt from Manchester. It was late when they arrived so I offered them dinner."
