Awakened by a Lord: Victorian Nights Read online

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Also by Victoria Whitlock

  My Lord & Master

  Copyright © 2015 Victoria Whitlock

  Cover Images© 2015 konradbak and Aarrttuurr – Depositphotos.com

  Originally published under the title Awakening Amelia

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  I saw him approach, hunched forward on his horse, the rain and wind lashing as he rode towards the house, a striking silhouette against the night-black sky.

  So late at night, I should have been fast asleep in my bed, but instead something had drawn me to the window, and I looked down onto the wide path that led up to the front of the house, along which this curious stranger now rode.

  As I watched, he dismounted, tying up his horse and then, a moment later, a loud knock upon the door sounded, violently shattering the stillness of the house.

  I held my breath, turning and padding towards my bedroom door, opening it just a crack to listen to the murmur of voices that were now drifting up towards me, maddeningly just out of earshot.

  I knew I was not allowed from my room under any circumstances, but even so I tiptoed out into the coldness of the upper hallway, dressed only in my cotton nightgown, creeping along the corridor until I could finally discern the conversation that was taking place downstairs.

  “You can’t keep her here like this,” came the male voice of this strange interloper; low and imposing, and trembling with an ill-concealed rage. “She’s alone. She has no friends, no peers. It’s not fair.”

  And in answer came the voice of my aunt, as icy-cold and measured as always: “It is my wish, she is my charge.”

  “You know I will come for her sooner rather than later,” the stranger replied. “So why not let her go now? Why not let her lead a normal life?”

  “Because I am in charge of her education until she is of age,” hissed my aunt. “She will remain here with me as I see fit.”

  I held my breath, my heart pounding, as this strange conversation unfolded, afraid that at any moment I might be discovered, cowering there at the top of the stairs in just my nightgown, listening in to this private exchange.

  “This is no life for a young girl,” the stranger continued, his voice rising. “Cooped up in here. She needs companions, sunlight and play. She needs to see how men and ladies live. She needs to learn from other people, not from dusty old books.”

  “I will educate her as I see fit,” my aunt replied sternly, still seemingly unshaken by this odd late-night visitor.

  Of course, I knew by now that they were talking about me, but I could not fathom why. Who was this man, I wondered, and what was he doing here? But I was only nine years old, and so much of the adult world still eluded my grasp.

  In a moment of bravery, I decided to creep a little further down the stairs, until I could just about make out the dark figure facing my aunt, dressed in a black cloak and hat. But still I could not quite glimpse his features, and as I craned my neck further he suddenly bowed, turned his back, then made his way to leave.

  A moment later, the whole house shook with the almighty sound of my aunt slamming the door behind him. The noise shook me, causing me to realise that I should really return to my room at once before I was discovered here, but as I quickly turned to scurry back up the stairs, I lost my footing and stumbled, making the floorboards beneath me creak loudly.

  “Amelia?” came the severe voice of my aunt, now tinged with anger, too. “Is that you?”

  I froze, my heart positively hammering in my chest by now, knowing there was little chance of escape, and aware that the consequences of lying were always worse than telling the truth. So instead, I turned once more towards the staircase and spoke.

  “Yes, Aunt, it is I.”

  “Get down here at once,” she hissed. “You know you are expressly forbidden to leave your bedroom after eight o’ clock. Have you somehow forgotten this?”

  “No, Aunt,” I replied, my voice trembling with fear.

  I began to descend the staircase, until the imposing figure of Aunt Agnes was in full view, stood there at the foot of the stairs, her bony hands resting upon her hips, her grey eyes narrowed, her thin lips pursed in a scowl.

  “Then you know full well how insolent you are being, wicked child,” she hissed.

  “Yes, aunt,” I said, the tears brimming in my eyes. “I’m sorry, aunt.”

  And then she spoke the very words I had been dreading:

  “Go to the punishment room, at once.”

  It wasn’t until I left Sandwell Hall, that I truly realised just how strange my life had been. As a child, I’d lived alone with my elderly Aunt Agnes. Both my parents had died when I was just a baby. I do not know exactly what happened to them, for nobody ever told me; and I learnt early on not to ask questions.

  Sandwell Hall was a large, imposing manor house, but despite its vastness my existence inside it was confined to but a few rooms.

  Every morning, I would awake in my bedroom. It was a large room, neat and clean, for as a child I had but a few toys. I did not learn until much later on that young ladies of my station generally had more things to play with, so I did not feel sadness at this. You see, dear reader, I did not know another way.

  Lorna, my maid, would wake me every morning, light the fire in my room, and give me my breakfast. Breakfast with Lorna was the very high point of the day! For she was kind to me, you see, and would tell me amusing stories about the servants. But best of all, she would sometimes tell me stories about the garden – how the flowers were blossoming and the trees were growing. For I was only allowed outside very rarely. I was a delicate child, and my aunt feared that I would catch a cold, and so it was decided that it was much safer for me in the nursery.

  After breakfast, Lorna would bathe and dress me, and then I would go to the school room. The school room was a stuffy hot room, high up in the attic. It had only a single child’s desk, a blackboard, a globe, a bookcase, and a desk for Mrs Whittenbury, my governess.

  Back then, Mrs Whittenbury seemed to me about a hundred years old. She was strict and severe, in particular about my time-keeping. Every morning at nine o’ clock sharp, we would commence an hour of French, followed by an hour of history, and then an hour of English.

  For lunch, Lorna served me a bowl of soup in my room, but by that point in the day she was taken up with her other duties, too, and so I always ate alone.

  And then, after lunch, there would be an hour of geography, an hour of sewing and domestic skills, and finally an hour of wife studies. With her face permanently pinched in a dismiss
ive scowl, Mrs Whittenbury would attempt to teach me how ladies and gentlemen behaved in private, using selections from old books as her examples. We would practice conversations – the correct topics and how to address the people one met. And at the beginning, I would ask her questions as there were many things I still did not understand. But I was soon to learn that at best these questions were ignored. Often, I was scolded, and once, when I asked innocently where children first came from, I was sent to the punishment room.

  Mrs Whittenbury had not been my first governess. There were others before her, younger and kinder. My very favourite had been Miss Reeve. She was kind and pretty, with a slim petite figure, the most beautiful blonde hair, and sparkling sapphire blue eyes. She told me that I, too, was pretty, complimenting my own pale skin, and chestnut brown hair, and I felt a strange flush of pride and excitement from her words – such was my neglect.

  Miss Reeve did not stick strictly to the syllabus like Mrs Whittenbury. She taught me poetry and the pianoforte, too, and we even had dancing lessons occasionally, up there in the privacy of the hot attic schoolroom. And Miss Reeve willingly answered my questions, too. She didn’t tell me everything, you understand. I mean, how could she? I was still so young. But even so, she helped me to understand what it meant in some ways at least to be prepared for marriage.

  But one evening over dinner, I made the mistake of imparting my newfound knowledge about men and women and their behaviour in private to Aunt Agnes. For the next morning, I found that Miss Reeve was gone and so too was my little piano. I learnt my lesson; I never asked what happened to her.

  And so there it was that I learnt to keep secrets.

  After my lessons for the day were finished, Lorna would dress me in a smart clean pressed frock and then take me downstairs for dinner with my Aunt.

  Perhaps dinner was the strangest of all our rituals, for in a dining hall large enough to seat at least twenty, a dining hall that once must have heard the ringing laughter and hearty joy of young men and ladies at play, my Aunt and I sat alone, and in silence took a three-course meal. The menu never varied, for my aunt said her stomach was delicate.

  Occasionally, she would ask me a question or two about my studies that day, but apart from these moments, I would not speak unless spoken to.

  After dinner, we retired to her sitting room, where I was to read to her for an hour. And then, at eight o’ clock sharp, Lorna would appear at the door and take me up the stairs.

  Dressing me in a starched linen nightgown, she would then tuck me into bed with a tender kiss, wishing me sweet dreams.

  Ah, kind Lorna! The only tenderness I ever received as a child was from her, and I know that if my aunt were to find out about her sweet night-time kisses, that she too would have been dismissed with haste.

  And in this way, the first nineteen years of my life passed quietly and uneventfully. I marked my time in the changing of my outfits – from bed, to schoolroom, to dinner, and then to bed again.

  There were a few small bright spots. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I was allowed out into the garden with Lorna, as long as I behaved as a real lady and did not run. Oh, the delicate scents of the flowers and the sun beating down on my pale skin! How I adored those sunny Sunday afternoons with Lorna!

  From the gardens, I would try to watch the going-abouts of the other servants of the house. People in general still seemed so strange to me, I saw so few of them back then. I learnt about them mostly just from books. And men? Why, I had no idea what kind of creatures they were. For Aunt kept only female servants at the house, and the single reason I was allowed into the garden on a Sunday was because it was the gardener’s day off.

  Even so, I would sometimes catch secret glimpses of the gardener and his boy from the window of my room, marvelling at their construction – at the many subtle yet intriguing ways in which their bodies were built so differently from myself and the female servants.

  And sometimes delivery men would arrive at the house unprompted, too, and I watched them with a similar curiosity and wonder. From afar I wondered what it might be like to actually talk to one of these strange creatures. For I longed to practice the conversations that I had learnt in the school room.

  But once again I knew better than to ask my Aunt, for had I expressed any curiosity in the opposite sex in front of her, it would surely have been rewarded with another trip to the punishment room.

  It was February; I knew as much by the coldness of the house, and by the thickness of the simple cotton dresses and underclothes that I was given to wear.

  As I have already begun to explain, it was a sheltered life I led, and changes and celebrations were but few and small. But as I opened the door to the dining room that evening, just as I did every evening, what I saw there made me freeze stock still in the doorway.

  “This is Lord Hartford, Amelia,” my Aunt announced matter-of-factly. “He shall be dining with us this evening.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to look even remotely in his direction. For in my entire nineteen years, I had dined exactly three times with a man, and on every occasion, that man had been my elderly Great Uncle Phineas: who sported a huge white beard and bright white whiskers, and was almost totally and utterly deaf. Due to his decrepit form and his imposing silence, there was very little difference between the dinners when Great Uncle Phineas joined us and those taken alone with my Aunt every single night.

  So before I had even taken my place at the large table, I knew that tonight was to be very different indeed.

  For a start, this was no elderly, white-haired uncle. This man was a complete stranger. And although I knew very little of men, I knew that he was handsome – by far the most handsome of the few men I had seen thus far. More handsome even than any drawing I had studied.

  His hair was much darker than my own, as jet black as night itself. A true gentleman, he stood up to greet me, and I could see immediately that he was tall, far taller than the gardener. His eyes too were dark, yet seemed to glow with a strange fire, as if there were something burning deep inside him.

  I timidly took my usual place at the table, suddenly finding even the most commonplace actions awkward and unusual, as if I were performing them for the very first time under the watchful gaze of Lord Hartford.

  And as I felt the silence grow between us, I began to wrack my brains for something to say to him – perhaps from one of the conversational lessons I’d partaken in with Miss Reeve before her dismissal.

  After taking a deep breath, I offered quietly, “I hear the hunting is very good this season?”

  But at this, Lord Hartford’s face grew dark, his brow knitting, and he shot a strange glance at my aunt, speaking to her instead of answering – or even acknowledging – my question.

  “I’m pleased to see that you have educated her so thoroughly in the ways of society,” he said, a curious smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.

  But even though he spoke the words, I could tell he did not mean them. For somehow it was as if he meant the very opposite of what he was saying. And at this, I felt truly puzzled.

  “I did what I could, James,” Aunt Agnes replied coldly, before taking a spoonful of her soup.

  The night continued in this fashion, with Lord Hartford and Aunt partaking in a conversation that made little sense to me, although at the very same time, I could tell that it was all about me, as if I were not even seated with them at the table! And as I tried to busy myself with my meal, I felt overcome with the strange compulsion to continually steal glances at Lord Hartford. It was as if there were something about him that drew my eyes to him like magnets, something that made me wish I could just gaze upon him for a great length of time, as if he were a fine painting in a gallery.

  Towards the end of the meal, I felt my heart quicken as I began to fret that Aunt Agnes would still want me to read with this stranger here at our table. I worried mainly that my voice would tremble and give away my curious thoughts about him.

  But to my great relief
, at the meal’s end Aunt Agnes said, “ Amelia, you must go to bed at once. There shall be no entertainment this evening. For you have a busy day ahead of you.”

  As I stood, Aunt turned to Lord Hartford and added, “James, your room is in the Peel Wing. The servants will take you there shortly.”

  And so I bade them both a goodnight, feeling oddly fascinated at the thought that Lord Hartford would actually be spending the night at the house – that he would be sleeping under the same roof as me.

  As I walked upstairs to my room, the house felt different somehow, as if charged with a curious energy. And as I reached my room, to my surprise I found Lorna waiting for me, even though I were taking myself to bed much earlier that evening than was normal. She was sitting by the fireside, clutching a handkerchief, and her eyes were red, as if from crying.

  “Lorna,” I exclaimed, confused. “Whatever is the matter!”

  “Nothing child,” she replied with a sad smile. “Now, let me get you to bed.”

  Once bathed and dressed in my nightgown and tucked into bed, as Lorna blew out the lamps and was leaving, she suddenly turned, as if overcome by a great emotion, returning to my bedside and hugging me so tightly it knocked the very air from my lungs.

  “Oh, my darling sweet Amelia,” she murmured, stroking my hair and planting a flurry of kisses upon my forehead.

  And as she finally got up to leave, I knew for certain this second time that she had been crying and I wondered what could have upset her so.

  §

  I was drifting off to sleep a short while later, when the door to my room opened, and I sat up in bed in surprise. At first all I could see was the flickering light of a candle, but then, as my eyes adjusted, I made out Aunt Agnes, who approached my bedside and set the candle down, illuminating us both in its soft glow.

  “Aunt?” I said. “Is something the matter?”

  “You are to leave here in the morning,” she whispered.