March 1879

Spring mornings in Essex were often brisk if not downright frigid, and today was no different. As Roger rode through the front gates of his family’s country estate, the air bit at his skin even through his coat and gloves. Sliding down from his huffing horse and handing the reins off to a member of the estate staff, he could see a hint of his breath in the air before him. 

The warmth of the foyer was beyond welcome against his face, but as the front doors shut behind him, he started to wish he had chosen to stay out just a little while longer. The relief wasn’t worth it.

His father was standing before him in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, his arms crossed as he leaned back against the railing of the stairs to the home’s second floor. Streaked with silver and gray, his blond hair looked darker in the dim light, as did his eyes, churning like the waters of the Thames. This was intentional. Roger got home from his morning ride at about the same time each day, and his father knew it. He had been waiting for him.

“Son,” he said without making eye contact. “We need to talk.”

A short, respectful, “of course” was all Roger could manage before his father moved away from the steps and down the hallway that led to the drawing room. It wasn’t out of character for him to be like this—serious and minimally receptive to anything he didn’t have the motivation to pay attention to. He was Richard Townsend. It was simply how he was, but it made Roger uneasy nonetheless.

As they entered the drawing room, Richard gestured toward one of its several settees and told his son to sit, moving toward the cart of liquor he kept near one of the room’s two windows. He poured himself a drink, not bothering to offer his son one too, and stared at his glass for a moment as if he were deciding what to do with it. His shoulders weren’t tense, but they weren’t relaxed either, hunched and fragile. 

He cleared his throat, as he took a seat on the settee opposite Roger’s and brought the glass to his lips. The expression on his face was grim. “I have a friend coming to join me soon, but I figure it’s best that I get started with you now, while we’re still alone.”

Roger could feel his face wavering, his lips turning downward and the lines in his forehead growing deeper. He hoped his father couldn’t hear the hesitation in his voice. “Get started with what?”

“Roger,” his father said, “I need you to move faster.”

Roger nearly scoffed but managed to hold himself back. “Excuse me?”

“I need you to marry. Soon.”

The room was almost unnecessarily large, adorned with dark shades of green and purple. It was dreary but not drab, lit with dim candles and lanterns, and the wallpaper was busy, decorated with swirls of gold. A small table off to the side held a vase filled with dying orchids; the china cabinet was weighed down with glass and painted cups and plates. A small fire crackled vaguely in the grate of the stone fireplace. But still, in all its glory and spaciousness, Roger couldn’t help but feel like it was closing in on him. 

Richard’s thin, light brows were raised. “Well?”

His English accent was thick, thicker now to Roger since he had spent the months after his final year of university traveling the continent. It had never occurred to him before how the French, the Spanish, the Germans, the Italians, and everyone else might speak differently than people did in either the Essex countryside of his summers or the London society of the rest of his other seasons. The differences went beyond language and into how the tongue and the mouth moved and which part of the throat a group of people spoke from. He should have known better. It was just as Scotland and Ireland differed from England. No two places, no two peoples, were exactly the same, not even in speech.

Roger wanted to demand to know why something so important was being sprung on him so suddenly. They had never discussed the topic further than the understanding that, when Roger did get engaged, he would use his mother’s ring to propose. 

This was a conversation that mothers and fathers had with their young daughters—the majority of whom were already married at his age—not their sons. Where many women of his standing had little say over the matter of their marriage, as a man, he had always assumed he would have the privilege of a choice, of taking his time.

By some miracle, he remained calm, his eyes level and self-assured. “Have I missed something?”

“No, but I suggest you fix your face and consider it now.”

When Richard said to “consider it,” he didn’t mean consider as in think about or make a decision on. He meant, “take a moment to accept your fate.” He meant, “remember who is in charge and try to comprehend what he is asking of you.” He meant, “deal with it.” There was no choice in the matter. What Richard wanted, Richard got. At Townsend House, he was a ruler with an iron fist. He always had been, and he always would be. And now, there was no mistress of the house to instill reason in him and help mediate.

Roger’s lips moved on their own. “Why rush? It doesn’t make sense.”

He didn’t understand. He was twenty-two years old. His status was not unreasonable. It was typical. Many young men remained bachelors by his age. He wanted more time to travel the world and gain experiences, and he should have had it. But he could see in his father’s eyes that this was no joke. His time as a single man had run out.

Marriage was hardly something he’d considered, always keeping himself occupied with riding or studying or traveling or, when his mother was sick, caring for her. Women were not of much interest to him. Why should they be, when he had other things to occupy his mind? He hadn’t realized how much he had come to peace with the fact that wanting what other men his age did might not be in his nature until his father had thrown it in his face and said “Here! Catch!”

“It doesn’t concern you,” said Richard. “You don’t get to question the things I tell you to do. You simply do them.”

In no way did this not concern him—it was his life they were talking about—but he bit his tongue. By pushing his father further, he would only make things worse. He would only be digging his own grave. 

Richard brought his glass to his lips again. He had filled it up entirely with dark, amber liquor. Now, it was less than half full. “We don’t have a choice, Roger. We must find you a wife.”

Even if it was only for a moment, there was regret in his voice. Whatever the reason for this sudden need was, it was his fault. He had done something, and somehow, marrying off his son would rectify it.

After Roger’s mother had died years earlier, Richard had developed a habit of going to gentlemen’s clubs and, presumably, gambling. He’d had luck with it at first, but maybe his luck had run out. Maybe his luck had run out and he had been too high on the adrenaline of the game to know when to stop. Or, just as likely, too drunk on liquor to consider the consequences.

But if the issue was that he had a debt to settle, Roger didn’t see how his getting married would help. He would be expected to provide for his wife. It was women who married for financial security and men who provided it. Unless it was a sizable dowry Richard had in mind.

“Mr. Townsend, sir.” One of the footmen had appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Lockhart is here.”

“Perfect,” Richard said. “Send him in.”

A moment later, the footman was gone and another man had entered the drawing room. He was on the shorter side, but his jacket was tight on the shoulders of his broad form. His clothes suggested he, like the Townsends, was a member of the upper class. He looked slightly older than Roger but much younger than Richard; Roger doubted he was even thirty.

Richard was standing to greet him, reaching out to shake his hand like they were old friends. Roger got to his feet, as his father introduced them. “Giuseppe, my son Roger. Roger, my friend, Mr. Giuseppe Lockhart.”

They shook hands and returned to the settees, where Roger sat uncomfortably across from his father and Giuseppe. It felt like this third party was only there to act as a reinforcement for Richard, someone he evidently had some form of friendly relationship with but who Roger had never met. Most likely, he had something to do with why Roger suddenly needed a wife, some kind of stake in the situation.

“I can give you a few months,” Richard said, his eyes back on his son. “After that, we will have to find someone for you.”

Roger looked back and forth between the two men before him. “We?”

“Yes. Mr. Lockhart has been very helpful to me in considering options for you.”

“I have some prospects I’m looking into that I think could work very well,” Giuseppe said. He almost looked proud of himself, as if his greatest dreams were about to come true. “But your father wanted to give you a chance to find someone first.”

He said it as if it were a gift, as if Roger should be thankful. In a way, he was—grateful that while he was being told what to do, some things were still left up to him for now—but he knew better than to think he was free to choose anyone. Even if he could find someone he liked or even loved in the limited time he was given, if she didn’t have whatever it was his father was looking for—presumably, if she didn’t have sufficient funds—he would find someone else for him anyway. The time limit was simply a formality.

“Now, we have a few things to discuss on our own.” Richard gestured toward the door. It was a sudden action, but still not unexpected. It was how these things went. He demanded something of his son and dismissed him immediately after he was done with him, discarding him like one of his burnt-out cigars. “You’re excused.”

It was for the best. As Roger stood and exited the room, Richard and Giuseppe speaking in low tones to one another behind him, he could feel fire rising in his belly. It traveled up through his chest and into his face. Not bothering to shrug his coat, gloves, or hat back on, he welcomed the very cold that he had been so happy to escape not an hour earlier, shoving the front door open and heading into the stable to retrieve his horse. He had to take another ride. Only the wind in his face and the steady beat of hooves against dirt could bring him out of the nightmare his father had just placed him in.

It wasn’t until he had seen it all at risk of being taken away that he had realized just how lucky he was to be in his position. Fed, clothed, educated, well-traveled, social, and, most importantly, free to build a family as he saw fit. He could wait to marry or make an effort to do so sooner than later. He could find a match based on love, convenience, or necessity. He could choose to forgo the institution of marriage altogether. Now, he saw just how fragile that privilege was. 

Disregarding the suffering of others was easiest to do from a comfortable place, so it was easy for him to forget that while he was a man of high standing in English society, nothing he had was certain. He had done nothing to earn it, and none of it was guaranteed. He deserved it no more than anyone else in the world, whether they were of his standing or below it. Now, it appeared he had made a mistake. He had taken his freedom for granted.