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R oyston , E ngland O ctober 1889

The end of Eva’s world started with a window she never should have left open. A small neglect, yet twelve years later, one that had culminated in a leaky roof, a ledger that refused to balance, and a blind sister. Not to mention her dead mother—for Eva wouldn’t. She kept that memory locked tightly in a closet.

Hefting a great sigh, she set down her pen, trying to ignore the incessant plip-plip-plip of raindrops collecting in a nearby bucket. Inman Manor may have a long list of needs to fill, but at least she did not need to worry about their water supply.

She picked up her father’s silver letter opener, taking a moment to admire the scrollwork on the handle, then slit the next missive on the pile. Thankfully this one wasn’t a bill but a note from her friend Lottie, bemoaning the fact she’d not seen Eva in ages and would Eva please consider coming to the harvest ball on Saturday. A lifetime ago she would have. She’d have bought a new gown and ribbons for her hair, maybe even splurged on a pair of silk slippers. She’d dance with the young men and laugh with the ladies. Oh, what a dream she’d lived in.

She wrote a short, yet pleasant, refusal. Lottie would understand. Hopefully. Eva sealed the note and set it in the post bin. In her haste, her elbow caught on the bottle of ink. Black liquid spilled on the desktop and crawled up the fabric of her sleeve like a disease. Bother!

Grabbing a rag, she blotted up the mess on the desk, then did what she could to dab away the stain on her gown. So much ruin. A sigh leached out of her. It was the best she could do.

She sank heavily onto the chair, pressing her fingertips against her eyes, wishing she weren’t the one who must hold everything together. And yet here she was, sitting in Papa’s office, at Papa’s desk, filling Papa’s shoes.

Oh , Papa.

It had to be nigh on a year ago since the riding accident that horrid grey morn. But her father’s commands hung heavy on the air as if he had just spoken them. “Take care of your sister. Always. And the house , don’t lose it.” Expected commands. Promises she easily gave and had every intention of keeping. But it was his final words that haunted her the most.

“Blackwood. Beware of Blackwoodssss ... hissss.”

A statement unfinished. A warning she had yet to decipher, for in the twelve months since, she still hadn’t figured out why she ought not trust the Reverend Mr. Blackwood.

“Are you unwell, miss?”

She swiveled in her seat at the steward’s voice. How had she missed the thud of Sinclair’s boots on the office floorboards? Yet there he stood, water dripping from the brim of his hat, adding to the cadence of the plip-plip-plipping in the corner bucket. He was a sinewy man with an incongruent softness of cheek, as if the sugar biscuits the cook, Mrs. Pottinger, slipped him now and then were never swallowed but stayed bunched up right there beneath the skin. Would that change now that there were no more coins for sugar?

“I am fine.” She tapped the ledger, ignoring the jagged edges of her bitten fingernails. It was a slovenly habit, one she’d picked up over the past year, but she had bigger concerns to master first. “Our budget, however, is ailing. Do you have a moment? I should like to speak with you about an idea to increase our income.”

“I was just stopping by for the supply list, miss, but I have time to hear you out.” He pulled off his hat, the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes a mix of hardship and laughter. “What’s on your mind?”

She pulled the list he wanted from atop a stack of papers, quickly penned an addition, then held it out. “As long as you’re going into Royston, would you stop by Mavers Feed and pick up enough winter wheat for ten acres? I know it’s not much, but every bit will help.”

He slanted her a skeptical look. “I thought the budget was strained.”

“It is.” So much so that she’d nearly considered fluttering her eyelashes at any man of means in Royston, for marrying into money ought to be easier than grabbing pennies out of thin air. Another great sigh leached out of her. “But I pawned my locket for extra funds. If God wills, no one shall purchase it, and I’ll buy it back when the wheat is harvested next summer.”

A frown tugged down his brow. “I hate to see you suffer such hardship, miss.”

So did she, and yet there was nothing for it. Perhaps this was what came of buried secrets. “Thank you, Sinclair,” she murmured.

“I can do that, miss, but...” He tucked away the note, rainwater collecting in a pool at his feet. “Where is this seed to go? The fields are already sown.”

“Which is why I’d like you to speak with Tom. As soon as this rain lets up”—she glanced out the window, the leaden skies giving no hint of relenting—“have him begin work on the fallow plot near the northwest corner of the estate. If we can get that wheat in before a hard freeze, next season we’ll increase our yield.”

“Mmm.” An ominous grumble rumbled deep in Sinclair’s throat. “I don’t think so, miss. You know it’s not right.”

She pulled her shawl tightly to her neck to hide her frustration. “You cannot negate the fact that eighty extra bushels—one hundred if God smiles upon us—will bring in extra money.”

“I don’t fault your mathematics, miss.”

“Then what do you fault?”

He fiddled with his derby, inching it about in a circle, the veins on the backs of his hands sticking farther out with each twist. “It’s not wise to turn earth that ought not be disturbed. You know this.”

She snorted, wholly unladylike yet completely unstoppable. “Don’t tell me you believe such poppycock. I should have ordered this done earlier.”

“It’s not called the cursed acres for no reason, miss.”

“Look around you, Sinclair.” She swept her hand through the air, knocking her shawl aslant. “The house is falling down about our shoulders. The Inman estate is already cursed. Besides, that tale is from centuries ago. I’m sure any truth to the legend has expired by now.”

“‘When the land is left alone, in peace the curse is overthrown.’”

As if on cue, a low drone of thunder added a sinister tone to the ancient words. A shiver spidered down Eva’s spine—one that annoyed more than frightened. She faced the steward with a lift to her chin. “Be that as it may, the account numbers leave me no choice. That ground must produce, despite traditions—or superstitions. And even then we’ll barely get by.”

“I don’t like it, miss.” He blew out a long breath. “But I’ll do as you ask.”

“Thank you, Sinclair. I know it’s not been easy on you since my father died. It’s not been easy for any of us. I pray we will soon see better days.”

“Your words to God’s ear, miss.” He clapped on his hat. “And may the good Lord grant us a speedy answer. Good day.”

“Good day.” Her words blended with the chime of the wall clock. Eleven already? Where had the morning flown? She closed the ledger cover, weary of trying to balance numbers that refused to be wrangled into any sort of common sense.

Leaving the office, she wound her way through the back corridor, passing by the open kitchen door. The mouthwatering aroma of baking bread pinched her empty stomach. Thin soup and toast for dinner again, yet she was grateful for it. Why her father had kept the abysmal state of their finances such a secret was beyond her. After managing the books this past year, she still couldn’t account for how he’d kept things going, save for the odd earnings he’d labeled as sundries. She’d sure like some of those sundry payments now—payments that had dried up after his death. Apparently he’d had some unknown source of sporadic income to keep the manor running, not enough, though, to provide her with a new gown for the Guy Fawkes festival. If only he had explained instead of hiding their money woes. If only she had not pushed him so hard on the matter. For if they’d not quarreled, he wouldn’t have taken out his fury on such a hard ride.

And he’d still be here today.

She sighed as she threaded her way to the front of the house. No sense obsessing about monetary matters now. She simply must trust God to provide, and the devil be drawn and quartered. La! What a thought, but even so, a wry smile twitched her lips.

“There you are!” Penelope Inman whirled from where she’d been pacing in the entry hall.

Eva smirked. The girl had the ears of a dormouse.

“Aren’t you eager today.” Closing in on her sister, Eva straightened the girl’s collar.

“You’re late.” Penny flinched away, waving her copy of Little Women in the air. “I’m dying to find out what happens now that Marmee cut her hair. Do you think Jo will cut hers? Why, I was of half a mind this morning to do away with my own.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, poppet. I happen to like this head of yours as it is.” Bending, Eva planted a light kiss atop her sister’s crown. “It is a far more respectable colour than the wildfire burning atop mine.”

“Then perhaps we should clip off yours.”

“Perhaps we should,” she murmured, then added under her breath, “it might bring in a coin or two.”

“What’s that?” Penny cocked her head, a single dark wave falling over her brow.

“Nothing.” She grabbed the book from her sister’s grasp. “Let’s find out what is happening in the March home, shall we?”

Penny spun toward the drawing room, a folk song on her lips and her skirts swishing around her legs, which didn’t slow her in the least. She marched off, completely unhindered by her lack of sight, as the front bell rang.

“Be there in a moment, poppet. I’ll save Dixon a few steps.” Eva set the book on the entry table before pulling open the front door.

A round fellow smelling of lilies and sausage stood on the front stoop. Rain droplets dripped from his hat brim onto his moustache—which was a curled affair, the sides neatly swirled into downward circles at the sides of a stern set of lips. His direct gaze was no merrier, and she got the impression he summed her up with as much pleasure as she had this morning’s ledger.

Even so, Eva managed an amiable smile. “How may I help you, sir?”

“I should like a word with the man of the house.” He sniffed, his bulbous nose bobbing. One fat raindrop fell to the ground.

“There is no man. I am Eva Inman, mistress of the Inman estate, and you are?”

“Mr. Buckle, tax collector from the Royston Assessment Office. I’m paying a courtesy call to all the homes in the area, reminding owners that taxes are due by December thirteenth.” He held out an envelope that may have been crisp at one time but was now damp and wilted. “Oh, and there’s been a slight surcharge added. Rates have gone up. Good day.”

He dipped his head as she broke the seal. Of all the inconvenient times for a tax increase!

And then her jaw dropped as she glanced at the formal missive.

“Hold on there, Mr. Buckle.” She dashed down the stairs, chasing the man to his horse in the rain. “There’s nearly a fifty-pound difference here.” She shoved the horrid document against his chest, blinking away the moisture collecting on her eyelashes.

He retreated, palms in the air, water dripping from his elbows. “As I said, miss, rates have gone up. If you take issue with the amount—which I can only surmise that you do—you’ll have to direct your inquiries to the appeals board, not to me.”

“Very well. I will.” She lifted her chin, refusing to show cowardice though it cost her a face full of raindrops. “When do they next meet?”

“In January.” He swung up into the saddle, leather creaking.

“But that’s after the deadline!”

“So it is. Walk on.” He clicked his tongue.

Leaving her standing agape. In the rain. Alone. Again.

Would God never smile upon her?