Eloise’s vision narrowed to a thin tunnel: the view of a handful of men upon her front steps narrowing to only one. The cruel stranger was puffed up in his arrogance, his demand echoing in her ears. Leave? Leave the only home we’ve ever known? How can we? Why must we?

She shook her head, trying to clear it, wishing that this was a nightmare dredged up by her subconscious from the grief of losing her father. That could happen, couldn’t it—anxiety-ridden visions that felt real as they unfolded, reflecting her darkest fears?

Her gaze now took in her mother and sisters, beside her, their faces apt mirrors for her inner turmoil. Fear spread through the family like a silent fire. Lady Covington was paler than Eloise had ever seen her, frail and helpless in her nightclothes, and Eloise felt a derisive, furious laugh curling up in her chest. She had to stay very still to keep from screaming it out. The pleading look Rosabella gave her made ice settle in Eloise’s stomach. Her sister had never looked so terrified.

Phoebe, small as she was at fifteen, drew herself to her full height. “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spat at the man, indignant.

The stranger rolled his eyes, sighing in annoyance. With a flourish, he shoved an overstuffed envelope in Lady Covington’s direction; but as the girls’ mother could do no more than look past the motion of his hands, Eloise snatched it from his grasp.

She broke the red wax seal and nicked her finger on the edge of the paper as she tore it open, letting out a little gasp of surprise as a pinprick of blood welled up on her fingertip. Biting her lip, she pulled out a smart stack of papers, adorned in elegant legal script.

A light smear of her blood then, next to the name on the first page—

“Lucius Covington?”

The man gave a mocking little half-bow. “At your service.”

“Only son and sole heir of Lord Covington,” continued Eloise, her voice sounding distant in her own ears. “How is this possible?”

Lady Covington swayed in place, hand over her heart. “Your dear late father was married once before me, his first having passed on,” she told them, her voice shaking. “It never occurred to me that any of that might matter. It was so long ago, and he never said anything about it...”

Eloise couldn’t picture her father married to anyone else. He’d been so in love with her mother, so happy… Why hadn’t she heard about this before?

“And now you have fifteen minutes to pack up and leave,” said the so-called Lucius Covington, her half-brother and their doom. He arched a brow, fussing with a glove. “I wouldn’t test my good graces, were I you. Run along now, ladies.”

Eloise stared at him. Now that she was looking more closely, it was obvious that he had inherited her—their—father’s lips and grey eyes. Her father’s mouth would never have curved into that cutting smirk, though—nor would his grey eyes ever have been so cold and cruel.

Lucius glared back. “Well?”

Eloise set her jaw, crumpling the paper in her hand. It was legal and binding, and there was nothing she could do. “Girls,” she said quietly. “Come on. We need to pack.”

Back in her bedroom, Eloise moved wildly, throwing her things into a set of trunks without pausing to evaluate their suitability for her future life, whatever that might look like. She stopped in front of her jewelry chest and caught herself in the mirror, taking in her ever-tangled cloud of russet brown curls and the ruddy flush of her cheeks. She had been sure she would look as pale and fragile as she felt, but the woman who stared back at her looked healthy and stable, if panicked. How had she managed that?

Her eye caught upon a small brooch, shaped like a sword, a fine chain connecting the hilt to the scabbard. Father had given it to her after one of his trips abroad. “For protection,” he had said, winking. “Not that you’ll need it, my capable girl.”

It was just a little charm, but upon getting dressed, she pinned it to her bodice. She desperately needed something lucky to cling to now. That it had come from her father only added to its comfort.

When they left the manor, dragging their trunks behind them, Lucius didn’t give them a second glance. He flipped his cloak over his shoulder and disappeared into their house, slamming the door shut behind him.

***

“We will be the talk of the countryside,” said Lady Covington as they stepped over the threshold of Sir Alistair’s estate, the rise of the eastern sun backlighting their harried move into their temporary new quarters.

“We’ve got bigger problems than gossip, Mother,” said Eloise. She began taking in Sir Alistair’s home from the novel perspective of the beggar.

“What will become of us?” sniffled Rosabella.

Sir Alistair smiled kindly, patting Rosabella on the shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay as long as necessary,” he said. “This midnight turning-out is the truly scandalous occurrence here. It’s appalling by any standard!”

“Again,” said Lady Covington, voice trembling, “you’re too kind, but I can’t bear the thought of our becoming charity cases.”

“What else can we do?” said Phoebe glumly, twisting the ends of her braid.

They began the process of settling into the guest wing, moving with the soft solemnity of ghosts. Eloise sat on the bed in the room that was to be hers for the time being, chin in hand. The quietness of her surroundings was a balm compared to the chaos of the early morning hours, and she felt a grim determination rising within her.

They would find a way to regain their dignity. As her father’s eldest and favorite, it was her responsibility that they manage to overcome their circumstances. What would Father want? She was sure he would not wish them to rely on the kindness of strangers for the rest of their lives. How would they even begin to pay Sir Alistair back? And how had fate conspired to shift their fortunes so severely?

Not fate, she reminded herself. Lucius. His taunts echoed in her head. How could he be so vile, when Father was always fair and kind? A picture arose unbidden in her mind—her father, standing beside a faceless, nameless woman and a frowning young boy. What had happened to them?

And, for that matter, why didn’t Father prepare them for this? What other secrets had he been keeping?

Getting to the bottom of things would have to wait. She knew what she had to do.

***

“Sir Alistair,” she said, stepping into the library, where he was reading a newspaper. “Could I have a moment of your time? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“Of course,” he replied, gentle as ever. He folded up the newspaper and rose to shut the door, leaving them alone.

Eloise took a breath. She felt like she hadn’t breathed in days. “You’re not married,” she said, and immediately blushed at the inanity and forthrightness of the statement.

But he just tilted his head, a curious look in his eyes. “Indeed, I am not,” he said.

Eloise swallowed, cheeks flushing, before she went on. “I could...that is, I wonder if you might be able to use some help. I could help take care of the estate. If I were your wife, that is. I mean. If you were to take me to be your wife.”

He raised both eyebrows, surprise and then sadness crossing his face. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but seemed to think better of it. “You don’t have to do this, Eloise,” he said softly. “You and your family are welcome here without a marriage to bind you.”

“You might not think of me as a wife right now,” said Eloise insistently, reaching out to grasp at the hand he had nearly proffered, “but I could... become one when you so desire. I would do my best to be good to you.”

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, blinked in what she hoped was an attractive manner, and tried to smile.

Alistair shook his head. “My dear girl,” he said, and later she would give him credit for not looking away. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I am not married, and I do not plan to take a wife, at any point. It’s... well, it’s not in my nature.”

“I… oh. I see,” Eloise said faintly. The relief she felt at not being forced into a marriage with a much older, if altogether kind, man was quickly supplanted by an array of new fears and worries.

“You needn’t worry so about caring for your family,” he said. “You are welcome in my home as long as you need to be here. Even if that is always. Now, let’s have no more of this marriage talk. Go, be with your family. You need each other now more than ever.”

Moving to join her family in the other wing of the house, she shoved the negative thoughts back under a curtain of optimism.

“What were you talking about with Sir Alistair?” asked her mother, sounding very tired.

Eloise paused. What the man had shared with her was private, and while she was sure her mother wouldn’t think ill of him for it, she didn’t want him to accidentally become the target of gossip further down the line. Her mother wasn’t exactly known for her discretion. “Nothing of interest.”

Her sisters stared at her from their place on the sofa, their eyes dull and sad. Her heart broke to see them so despondent. “I know everything feels impossible right now,” she told them, “but we won’t be charity cases forever. I’ll find a way out of this.”

“How?” said Rosabella, with a little laugh of disbelief.

“I don’t know, yet,” Eloise admitted, “but it’ll be alright. I promise.”

While no one smiled, the tension abated somewhat. That evening, they even found it within themselves to play cards, and when they went to bed, it was with the softness of newly lifted spirits.

Eloise didn’t sleep that night, a host of plots running through her head: woven together as though on a massive loom. By candlelight, she sat at the guest room desk and composed a letter to her mother.

Do not fear for me, she wrote. I promise to return and redeem our rightful heritage.

She left the house as quietly as she had entered it that morning, and with a deep breath of courage, Eloise Covington disappeared into the night.