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Love of My Heart

London, 1790

Cordelia Wakefield knew no home other than London. She’d lived in the bustling metropolis for the entirety of her twenty years and could not imagine passing so much as a single day as a resident of any other part of the world.

In London, one had that world at one’s fingertips. Drapers, milliners, dressmakers, and booksellers of the highest stamp could be found in England’s foremost city. The very best of food and company, the perfect balance of imposing architecture and glorious green spaces filled it to bursting. She was not so naive as to think her beloved home city was devoid of suffering and struggle, or that the experiences of all who called it home were as pleasant as her own.

But with all its flaws, she loved it.

Her younger sister was equally enamored. In fact, on a late-March morning, the two young ladies were spending time as they often did, making a slow circuit of the gated green near their home. The day was a bit blustery, as was often the case in Town, yet they could not have been happier with their location and the diversions it offered. The very earliest bulb flowers were emerging from their winter slumber. Soon, London itself would awaken as well, with the return of those who divided their time between their country estates and their Town residences. Cordelia felt heartily sorry for them. One ought to never be required to quit such a glorious city.

“Do you suppose Mother and Father will allow me to finally have my Season this year?” Cordelia asked.

“I do hope so. I’ll not ever have mine if they don’t allow you yours.”

Cordelia shook her head at Seraphina’s teasing declaration. Her sister did, in fact, wish to join Society herself in the next year or two, but she was too good a sister and too good a person to not wish Cordelia happy.

They passed Mrs. Seaver—a widow of advancing years who lived nearby—and her companion on the path that circled the green. Both ladies offered greetings, which the sisters returned in kind. This was an established routine between them. Cordelia loved the familiarity and calm of her life in London. She knew the people, and they knew her. The only thing marring her adoration of Town was her longing to truly become part of Society.

She would so enjoy attending dinner parties and balls, having full access to musicales and the theatre. She would, of course, still make ample time for painting, her true passion. Watercolors were deemed entirely acceptable for young ladies. Though Cordelia did enjoy the challenge of that particular medium, she was more enamored of oils, a less characteristic choice for a woman.

“Do you suppose Father and Mother have not allowed you your Season because they feel you ought to be older?” Seraphina asked once they’d fully passed Mrs. Seaver and Miss Greene.

“Perhaps. Though, I hope not. Most young ladies making their first foray into Society have done so by my age. I’ll be ancient in comparison if made to wait too many more years. I nearly am already.”

“And that would mean I would, of necessity, be required to wait just as long.” Seraphina’s sigh was heavy with frustration. “I would very much like to dance the allemande with someone other than Monsieur Benoit.”

Their aging dancing tutor had provided them a more than adequate education in the various dances one was expected to execute, but he smelled very strongly of cloves mingled with a putrid sort of tobacco and powdered his hair so heavily and inexpertly that a cloud of wafting white followed him everywhere he went. They did not dislike the Frenchman, but he was sometimes a bit uncomfortable to spend time with. Surely, there were gentlemen at the balls they’d heard so much about who did not leave residue everywhere they went.

“Perhaps Father and Mother have denied you your Season because of the expense,” Seraphina said.

There had been some tightening of the family purse strings the last couple of years, but nothing terribly severe.

“Perhaps they fear I will spend all of my time amongst Society haranguing anyone and everyone on the topic of painting,” Cordelia suggested with a teasing smile.

“Which means they will never permit me a Season, as I am even more likely to make a nuisance of myself, though on the subject of music.”

They made light of the situation as they continued their leisurely walk. Cordelia hadn’t the first idea why her parents had thus far denied her the entrée into Society she’d been expecting. She knew better than to ask. Her parents did not discuss difficult things with their children. Neither Cordelia nor Seraphina were certain their parents discussed difficult things even with each other.

And thus, the sisters spent a great deal of time speculating and guessing and uncertain about the whys governing their present or the whats to come in their future.

“Miss Wakefield!” The sound of her name spoken in urgent tones stopped Cordelia on the spot.

One of the chambermaids was only just catching up with them. She did not appear to have come in search of Cordelia for a calm or insignificant reason.

“Has something happened, Nora?”

She nodded and motioned back in the direction of their house. “Your mother’s insisting you return directly, miss.”

“Only Cordelia?” Seraphina asked.

Nora shook her head. “The both of you.”

Cordelia exchanged a glance with her sister. Mother didn’t often call them back to the house, and she very seldom showed significant emotion in front of the servants. Whatever had led to this departure from decorum, it must have been urgent.

An immediate return home was unavoidable.

The scene she found upon entering the sitting room was nothing short of chaotic. Servants rushed about, simultaneously offering Mother restorative teas and attempting to stay entirely out of her way. Cordelia’s parents did not allow their tempers to flare in front of the staff. The servants’ avoidance of Mother likely resulted more from confusion than fear.

“Why in heaven’s name were you gone so long?” Mother pressed her handkerchief, clutched tightly in her hand, to her embroidered stomacher.

“We were away no longer than usual,” Cordelia said.

“I am quite certain you were absent much longer. I have been in great distress waiting for you both.”

Seraphina looked every bit as confused as Cordelia felt. “We returned the moment we were sent for.”

“You should not have left to begin with.” Mother had never before objected to their daily exercise.

Cordelia crossed to her. “What has distressed you so entirely?”

Mother did not dismiss the staff nor request her daughters accompany her to a more private corner of the house. She declared, with passion and volume, neither of which she usually employed, “Your father is requiring that we retrench.”

Retrench? Cordelia had seen no indications that the family coffers were in danger of emptying. They’d certainly not been drastically economizing.

“What are we meant to quit in the name of retrenchment?” she asked. How she hoped it was not her painting supplies or Seraphina’s music instructions.

It was not her mother who answered, however. Father’s voice quite unexpectedly filled the room from the doorway. “London,” he said. “We are to quit London.”