New York City

Charles Ashton’s study looked out over the courtyard of his parents’ estate. The gardens and hedges were gorgeous and a large fountain decorated with cherubs sat directly in the center of his view. He considered himself quite blessed to have the opportunity to take a break from his studies to look out at such a lovely vision.

His father believed that children should stay at home with their parents until it was time to go off to a secondary school to study, so John had hired the best tutors to come into their home to educate both of his children, and despite the fact that she was female, his sister Grace studied just the same as he did, though in another room with a governess instead of a male tutor.

Charlie had always been told he was quite bright and his tutor gave him high marks in nearly every area. He studied hard and paid particular attention to math and business as he knew how important those two subjects would be when he took over his father’s business someday. He was also aware that he would be running Westmoreland Textiles by the time he was twenty-four, and he had only ten more years to successfully understand how to lead a corporation. He wanted to be prepared.

He was not yet engaged to Mary Margaret Westmoreland. He had never met her, not that he remembered anyway, and he hadn’t so much as written or received a letter from her yet, either, though his father thought that he should begin to write her soon. Yet, he thought of her often, wondering what she was doing, where she might be. He asked his father several times what she might look like or what he thought she would be interested in. His father had recanted several stories that Henry had relayed to him over the years, read from some letters that Henry had written. So, even though Charlie had never met Mary Margaret, he realized she would someday be a very significant part of his life. He even said a prayer for her each night before he fell asleep, hoping she was doing well despite how difficult it must have been for her to lose her father at such a young age. At least she had her mother.

He hoped that somewhere across the sea, she was growing into a fine young woman, that she thought of him often as well, and that she was preparing to come to America someday to be his wife. He could only imagine that she must be sweet and kind, just like her father, intelligent and loving. Surely, she was praised for her grace and compassion as he was. They would make a fine couple someday, he just knew it.

Yes, Mary Margaret Westmoreland must be the lady of his dreams. He was certain of it.

* * *

Southampton

The sun was baking the mud into her skin. She could feel the crustiness taking over her legs and arms where it was beginning to dry. Likewise, her hair felt heavy with drying dirt and tangles from the wind. Nevertheless, she spurred the stallion on, taking hedges and gullies as if she hadn’t fallen off and landed in a puddle just a few moments ago.

Not only was she straddling the horse, she hadn’t bothered to put a saddle on him at all. If she had taken the time to do so, she likely would have been found out, and though she was certain an ample punishment awaited her when she returned to the carriage house, at least she would have her fun first. In Meg’s experience, it was always best to have fun first and then be punished. Punishment was bound to happen either way. One may as well have a bit of enjoyment first.

While their estate was located in the middle of Chilworth, there was a wooded area just a few blocks away that backed up to the creek she had jumped—mis-jumped, as it were—and from time to time, she liked to borrow a horse from the stable and take off for a bit. She’d done it several times over the last year or so and only gotten caught half of them. Those were fairly good odds, she thought, and despite the fact that Mr. Bitterly, Ezra’s father, the head groundskeeper and overseer of all things horse-related, had been punished severely the last time she had done so, she saw no reason to let that deter her from having a bit of fun. After all, if she could withstand the consequences, so could he. Perhaps he should be a little more careful with where he left the carriage house key.

Meg rode onward and upward until she came to the crest of a hill and pulled the reins, bringing her steed to a stop. She’d reached a clearing, and from here she could see the harbor and the ocean, two of her favorite sights. Both of them smelled of freedom and opportunity. Someday, she vowed she’d board a ship in that very harbor and sail away from here, leaving her mother, her uncle, and all of the ghosts of Southampton far behind.

The sun was beginning to set by the time she led the stallion back toward the gate behind the house. It was still ajar, and she thought, perhaps, this would mean that no one had noticed that she was gone. However, as she dismounted, the horse let out a soft whiny, and it was enough to draw Mr. Bitterly out of the shadows. He stood before her, his arms crossed against his barrel of a chest, his expression saying everything.

“I was just out for a quick ride, that’s all,” she said as she handed him the reins.

“You’re covered in filth, Miss Mary Margaret. You wreak of horse, and your governess has been inquiring about your whereabouts for nearly an hour. I don’t understand! Why do you insist on doin’ such things when you know it can only lead to trouble?”

Meg shrugged. “Trouble isn’t so bad, Mr. Bitterly. Sometimes it’s the only way you know you’re still alive.”

“For a ten-year-old, you sure have a smart mouth,” he said, shaking his head and leading the horse off toward the carriage house.

Even though she’d know when she “borrowed” the horse he’d also be held responsible when she returned, she couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him now. He really was a nice enough man most of the time, though Meg didn’t really trust any man. Rather than attempt to sneak back into the house, she made her way to the pump in the back of the garden and began to run the cold water over her legs, splashing it up onto her arms. If she could wash away most of the mud, perhaps she could also eliminate some of the horsey smell, and while she would most certainly be in trouble, she might be able to spare the other party.

“Mary Margaret!”

She would have known that voice anywhere. She turned about, her dress dripping and her boots soaked, to find Ms. Strickland staring at her in horror. “Where in the world have you been?” she asked, stopping quite a way back from her wayward charge.

“Just off in the woods there,” Meg replied pointing back beyond the house to the rear of their property. “I went for a walk. And I fell. In a puddle.”

“You incorrigible little mite!” Ms. Strickland shouted. “I don’t understand why you insist on being petulant—all the time!”

Meg stared at her, blue eyes unwavering as she continued to blast her with insults. Nothing she said could possibly hurt her.

“When you’re finished, get yourself up to your room, put on proper attire, and come to the study at once. You will have quite a punishment awaiting you!”

“Yes, miss,” Meg said making her voice as sickeningly sweet as she could, which got the reaction of disgust out of her governess that she was hoping for.

“My ruler will be waiting!” she threatened as she turned to stomp back into the house.

Meg held back a snicker and turned off the pump, dripping muddy rivulets of water all over the carefully manicured yard. She had no doubt that Ms. Strickland would find her bottom with that ruler. But she would have to catch her first, and that would take some time, and if nothing else, at least it would be fun. One really couldn’t have too much fun, now could one?