It was as though the neglected manor house on a steep promontory overlooking the sea set the tone for the entire village. No matter how tidy people kept their homes, or how freshly painted, no matter how many colorful flowers they planted in window boxes, there was a general air of dereliction and neglect.
As secretary of the Squalton Historical Preservation and Improvement Society, Sandrine had penned countless petitions and letters to the owner of the manor, the Duke of Rydell, pleading with him to lease or bestow the manor to the historical society for renovation and use as a museum, attraction for travelers, and venue for charitable events.
She longed to see the vines trimmed and the windows sparkle. She pictured elegant assembly rooms that could be used for charitable-fundraising events. Perhaps a small tea shop serving baked goods that would also sell copies of the pamphlet she was drafting: an entertaining account of Squalton Manor’s long and interesting history.
Visitors would flock to Squalton. Her museum pamphlet would be so popular that peoplewould beg her to write an actual history of the house...
Take your head out of the clouds, her mother always said.No more silly flights of fancy that will never come to pass.The current Duke of Rydell, like generations of his ancestors, always turned a deaf ear, preferring to allow the manor house to molder in perpetuation of some long-forgotten grudge against the original owner of the property, the first Earl of Amberly, Sandrine’s distant relation on her father’s side.
The little bell mounted over the bookshop door rang merrily to announce her arrival. To Sandrine, the sound of that bell was one of the happiest noises in all the world. Books were one of her only escapes from her mother’s carefully regulated version of her life.
“It’s arrived, Miss Oliver,” said Mr. Dunlop, handing her a handsome, crimson book. “Memoirs of the Court of Queen Elizabeth, by Miss Lucy Aikin, still crisp from the presses.”
Sandrine hugged the book to her chest. “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Dunlop! I shall begin reading it immediately.”
“I’ve never seen anyone so excited about historical tomes. It does my old heart good.”
“And this one is doubly intriguing because it’s by a female historian and biographer about the most illustrious of female sovereigns. It promises to be a domestic history of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. I’m hoping some light will be shed on why the queen decided to gift Squalton Manor to the Earl of Amberly.”
“For your pamphlet about the history of the manor house.”
“Exactly. I want to have every detail perfectly correct.”
“I very much look forward to reading and distributing your historical pamphlet, Miss Oliver.”
She left the shop, walking along the promenade and down onto the beach, reading the introduction of the book and dreaming about life in Queen Elizabeth’s court. She’d stay out in the fresh air with her new book for as long as possible before climbing the steep hillside to collect lavender from the manor’s herb gardens, which had gone wild and unkempt from disuse.
The moments away from her mother’s control were precious and few. Sandrine knew her mother loved her, but sometimes she felt like a fish trapped in a net of maternal anxiety, flopping this way and that and only succeeding in tightening her snare.
She followed the progress of a distant ship, tossed on the waves, dancing gaily, sails filled with wind.
She didn’t want to marry Mr. Pilkington and be swallowed by the butter churn of village life, pounded into the kind of proper young lady that was pleasing to her mother and to the vicar.
She yearned for more. One or two interesting occurrences pertaining directly to her, to record in her journal.
Just one small adventure beyond the predictable story her mother had already written for her life.
Mr. Pilkington was considered pleasing by the other village ladies, being tall with a somber, long face, elegant hands, and a willowy figure. The vicarage was a handsome one, with an ample living, and she knew she could hope for no better.
She’d been raised to believe that, as a girl with no fortune, her purpose in life was to marry as well as was possible. Her mother was fast friends with Mr. Pilkington, and they shared the same beliefs, which meant that marrying him would double the lectures she received. Her mother would live with them at the vicarage, and the two of them would rule her life.
Sandrine didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her, but everyone expected him to propose any day now, and she was a dutiful daughter who’d never crossed her mother in any way, never broken any rules.
She would take comfort in the thought that she wanted a large family, and she would find joy in raising her children with kindness and love, sending them off into the world as stout branches of a flourishing family tree.
But was that enough? To walk the predictable path. To never have a glimpse of life outside of Squalton. To marry the man her mother chose for her.
She was never allowed to walk around the promontory because once she rounded the bend she would be out of sight of both the village and her mother’s cottage. She half turned to walkback on the familiar path but then her feet continued walking.
It’s up to me to do something out of the ordinary.
The thought seized her mind and kept her feet moving around the promontory and into a beautiful, sheltered cove. It had been used by smugglers in times past, and some said there were shipwrecks with buried treasures nearby.
The sun sparkled and danced over the waves. She selected a smooth round pebble and flung it into the sea where it skipped once and fell. What was it like to float in the sea? To be weightless, to feel the sun on your face and be supported by the gently lapping waves?
She scraped a line in the wet sand with a sharp piece of driftwood. This was the line her mother had drawn, the strict boundary she must never cross. Sandrine never disobeyed her mother’s rules. What would happen if she did?
What would happen if she dipped her toes into the water? It would only be a small, harmless act of disobedience, a safe little detour from the approved path.