Thomas Green, a medieval scholar from the village of Littlewood in the north of England, died December 21st, 1808, leaving his only child, Afton Green, an orphan at the age of fifteen.

Being a poor but respectable girl, and utterly without relation, upon this occasion it would not have been remarkable for Miss Green to enter into domestic service, a parish apprenticeship, or perhaps a workhouse. But, as fortune would have it, she learned after his death that her penniless father had made arrangements for her to be cared for by one Mr. Holland, an old friend and one time patron of Mr. Green.

“But he is a stranger to me,” she protested to Reverend Clarke as he saw her off that cold winter morning only the day after Christmas. “How can I possibly impose upon him?”

“With gratitude and humility, Miss Green. That Mr. Holland is willing to honor his promise to your dear late father is an act of Christian charity which must never be taken for granted.”

“Of course, Mr. Clarke.”

Afton, being in no wise insensible of the great debt she would owe Mr. Holland for his incredible generosity, nevertheless was a private, withdrawn sort of girl, and the prospect of being so abruptly uprooted to such a completely new circumstance was wholly unappealing to her. She should have much preferred to remain where she was in Littlewood, among her father’s old things, his many books with the pages soft from frequent turning, his chair by the fire with the worn red cushion, where he used to sit in the evenings, sighing for the rheumatism in his back and hips.

“Cheer up, girl,” the reverend encouraged her. “The Hollands are a very respectable and wealthy family. The thoroughbreds that come from their stables are some of the finest in England. I daresay as Mr. Holland’s ward, you’ll find your situation remarkably improved from the one you enjoy now. And in time, with such proximity to such a prominent family, you may perhaps meet a well-suited young man yourself, and make a favorable match, situating yourself for life. Though,” he added with a frown, “you would do better to improve upon your countenance. For I daresay no young man could be tempted by such a gray face as that.”

Afton, knowing he wanted her to smile, made a valiant effort, though she suspected it didn’t entirely produce the desired effect. Looking at her rather pitiably, the Reverend Clarke made his own attempt at a smile and a nod for her sake. Then he backed away from the carriage as the driver made ready to begin their journey.

From the other side of the glass, she watched the man whose Sunday sermons she had attended weekly from her earliest memory wave his hat in a farewell before shoving it back down on his head and over his ears. Then, with the sound of a whip crack, the carriage was off, and in a jerking instant, Mr. Clarke disappeared from her view.

It was nearly 60 miles from Littlewood to Holland House. Though it was winter, the roads were serviceable, if not entirely favorable. Leaving her home around 8 o’clock, the horses made good speed, being changed every fifteen miles or so at posting inns. She traveled alone, in want of a companion or protector with whom she might have passed the time, or asked questions of the home she would be staying at.

With nothing but her own melancholy to occupy her, Afton began her journey with a good cry. But, after several hours spent feeling sorry for herself and her poor father, she wearied of the activity, and, being refreshed by luncheon of leftover Christmas dainties from one of the posting inns, she re-entered the carriage determined to make the best of her circumstances, and whatever the future held for her.

Though she had been reluctant at first to leave their home in Littlewood, in truth Afton had always rather liked the idea of traveling—not for traveling’s sake, but with the destination in mind. From a young age, she had studied not only the books on history her father collected, but Reverend Clarke’s many atlases of Europe, Africa, Persia and the Orient, as well as the West Indies. Though she studied history to please her father, it was geography that captured her fancy more than anything else.

What world existed beyond the dreary gray of northern England, the only land she’d known these fifteen years? Lands of heat and spices, savages and fearsome animals, exotic music and sights too magnificent to describe. Though she’d read of these places, their description often exceeded her imagination, leaving her yearning to one day travel, and see these things with her own eyes. And perhaps, she dared to dream, map them with her own hand.

While it was true her move from Littlewood to Holland House was only a transplant of 60 miles, from one corner of Northern England to another, it was nevertheless a change that left her hopeful that perhaps some excitement may be had at her new home after all. It was a new place, with many, she imagined, brooks and copses, winding paths and curious landmarks, all of which she must explore thoroughly, and map with great precision, in the fashion of a true cartographer.

But these practical matters aside, there was whimsy to occupy her mind as well, for though it was true Miss Afton Green often read books solely for the purpose of educating herself, she was also guilty of reading such books as were not conducive to improving one’s mind. That is to say, novels.

Frivolous things, her father called them, stuff and nonsense. But Mr. Green had not the sensibilities of a lonely fifteen-year-old girl, whose heart, though contented to attend Sunday services and conduct herself in the manner of all good Christian girls, nevertheless yearned for thrilling scenes of wicked villains and tragic heroines, of ruined castles, moonlit gardens, thunderstorms, kidnappings, ghosts and pirates, or for desperate young lovers, secret assignations, stolen kisses, jealous rivals, dramatic rescues, devastating betrayals, and all the delicious wickedness of a passionate romance.

Hours passed and darkness fell. In the cold black of her carriage that rattled across the moorland, Afton’s imagination supplied excitement enough, pictures of the future she imagined for herself at Holland House. What sort of man Mr. Holland might be, what his children might be like.

Her benefactor, she imagined, quite unjustly, as being very old and bent, sinister and foul. Thin and yellow she imagined him, with a crooked back and a long hooked nose, a miserly temperament and perhaps, yes, a murderous disposition! His beautiful young daughter (Rosamund, she named her, for it was at once medieval, tragic, and heartrendingly beautiful), pursued by a forbidden lover, the stable boy, Reginald (Reginald was not such a good name for a stable boy, she admitted, but owing to her prejudice for it, she felt this could be overlooked for the sake of her fantasy…).

Mr. Holland would have Rosamund marry the licentious Lord Beaumont, the aged earl who desired the young girl purely for his own carnal pleasure, but Rosamund could not bear the thought of the horrid old man touching her. So she made plans to run away with the handsome Reginald, only, on the eve of their elopement, Mr. Holland got wind of their scheme and, after locking a tearful Rosamund away in the tower, stalked through the torrential downpour for the stables, rapier in hand. And then—!

“Whoa…”

Afton was shaken from her scandalous reverie by the slowing of the carriage, and with a leap of her heart, realized they must have reached their destination.

Holland House. After such a long and wearisome day of travel, she ought to have been eager to quit the carriage, but now she could only gaze upon it through the glass, nervous and once more hesitant.

It was a very grand house with a score of black windows. Not old. In fact, quite modern, built perhaps twenty years ago. A handsome, grand and very respectable looking house, not at all the old run-down manor she’d imagined it to be, and not the sort of place one would imagine to house some dreadful mystery or grand secret…

The sound of the carriage door being opened caused Afton to jump, and she looked wide-eyed at the weary coachman.

“Well?” He was cold and he had five miles to drive yet to the nearest inn; he was in no mood to loiter. “Out with ye.”

Hesitatingly, Afton stepped out into the cold December air as all around her, tiny snowflakes began to blow past her in a sudden flurry of wind.

Cold, she thought, still watching the house warily. Cold and lonely.

Standing amidst her few humble possessions, Afton watched the coachman drive away with a keen sense of abandonment. He’d been the closest thing she’d had to a companion all day, and now he was gone.

Afton looked around for signs of life, and found none. Though it could be no later than 9 o’clock, all of the windows were dark, with the drive being lit only by a single flickering lamp. A house this large ought to have servants, but strangely none came to assist, nor even to greet her.

She was well and truly on her own.

This being the case, she had very nearly made up her mind to gather her things and knock on the front door when, in the distance, she heard the crunch of gravel under foot.

The sound, so unexpected on this still and utterly silent night, caused her to start and even to exclaim softly as she spun around to face an approaching figure.

He carried a lantern in his right hand, and leaned on a cane with his left. From his bent posture and pronounced limp, she presumed him to be an elderly man, but as he drew near she found to her astonishment that he was quite a young man, not more than twenty.

Like the body which conveyed him, the man’s expression did not match his youthful looks. He was handsome to be sure, with pale gold hair and fine dark clothes, but his face was twisted in a grimace, so fierce upon catching sight of her that Afton found herself taking an involuntary step backwards.

“Who the devil are you?”

The young man’s coarse address quite confused and astonished her, and for a moment, Afton did not know how to answer him. Fortunately, she did not have to.

“Ah,” he glanced at her humble travel effects. “The ward.”

Before she could reply, the man began to move past her. Afton stared confusedly at his back. Then, realizing her silence might be mistaken for impoliteness, somehow found the courage to call after him.

“I-I am—” she stopped herself, pronouncing slowly and deliberately, “Miss Green.”

“Yes, I know. My father’s expecting you.”

His father? Afton realized he must mean Mr. Enoch Holland, her father’s old benefactor. Then, that would make this man young Mr. Holland.

“Get the door.”

Afton started from her thoughts to realize Mr. Holland was waiting for her on the top step, each hand occupied, one by the lantern and the other by the cane which he leaned upon heavily. His glare was baleful.

“Hurry up. It’s bloody freezing…”

Quickly, she gathered her things, two bags containing her few clothing articles and books, and a small leather case, which she tucked securely under her arm before hurrying up the steps to where Mr. Holland waited.

She opened the door for him, and he went in first, not too quickly. She followed and shut the door behind them.

The house was silent and very dark but for Mr. Holland’s lantern. Its sooty light cast an orange glow in a radius of just a few feet, illuminating just enough to make the unknown house even more eerie.

“The servants are away for the holiday, and Father is asleep. Don’t wait around for anyone to come see to you tonight, because they won’t.”

“I…” Afton hesitated again before carefully pronouncing, “see.”

Ezra Holland—for that was the young man’s name—like the coachman, was in no mood to humor this wide-eyed orphaned waif. It was cold, and his hip was aching. He wanted a drink and a warm fire. He wanted to be alone.

After briefly studying the girl’s clothes (poor, but clean) and features (pale and unremarkable), and having heard her speak so inelegantly, Ezra dismissed her at once.

Plain, he thought. Plain and stupid.

“I think you’ll find the nursery in the attic unused. You may make your room there.”

So he said, then he turned and started laboriously up the stairs.

If she had been a good looking girl, he might have shown her the way himself. Even if she had not been a good looking girl, but merely bright and engaging, he might have flirted. But Miss Green was dull, and so far beneath his notice that he forgot their encounter almost as soon as he got himself alone with a bottle of brandy.

As for Afton, having followed Mr. Holland to the second floor, she felt quite at a loss when he disappeared into his room, taking the only light in the house with him…