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A thena was glad to be wearing her half-boots, for the riverside path was damp with mud from the previous night’s rain.

The morning sun sparkled on the dark waters of the slow-moving river.

Insects buzzed in the tall grasses, and birdsong filled the air.

Scattered oaks and willows, obeying nature’s command, were turning golden to celebrate the early days of autumn.

The scene was so beautiful and serene, it seemed impossible to believe that anything dire could have happened here—that a young woman might, that very morning, have lost her life.

And yet, as Athena rounded a bend in the path, the truth of the tragedy burst upon her.

A small group was gathered on the embankment beneath the bridge that led to the village.

Sally Osborn’s older sister, Bridget, a plump, young woman in her late twenties, stood weeping beside her grey-faced father.

Two horses were tethered to trees nearby.

A ruddy-faced, blond gentleman attired in a green-silk coat and top hat was writing with a pencil in a small notebook.

Athena recognized him as Neville Sinclair, the parish constable, a man she guessed to be in his mid-thirties.

At his side, the vicar, Mr. Johnson, a tall, awkward gentleman who looked to be about a decade older, stood with his hands behind his back, in what appeared to be deep reflection.

The onlookers included the village shopkeeper, a couple of men Athena had seen at church, and two barefoot lads in short pants.

They were all staring at the unmoving, wet form of a young woman clad in a dark cloak and frock who lay face up on the ground beneath a large oak tree. Her countenance was ghostly white.

It was indeed Sally Osborn.

A sharp pang stabbed Athena in the chest and sudden tears burned her eyes. How sad that the young woman had met such a terrible fate. As Athena fumbled to withdraw her handkerchief from her reticule, the bag slipped and fell to the ground.

Before she could retrieve it, the boughs of a nearby weeping willow tree jostled, and a man emerged.

He stood well over six feet tall and looked even taller due to the top hat perched atop his neatly combed, inky-black hair.

A tailored grey frock coat and trousers hugged his lean frame, and a black silk tie was knotted at his throat.

Their gazes met. Athena froze. She recognized that strong jaw, the chiseled face, and the piercing, cornflower-blue eyes that matched the morning sky.

Although the one time they had been introduced at church, he had avoided her gaze and uttered only four curt words— How do you do?

— before he had vanished into the crowd, Athena had heard a great deal about him from her housekeeper, Mrs. Lloyd.

His name was Ian Vernon. He was thirty-three years old.

And he had good reason to hate her.

Because Thorndale Manor had been in his family for over two hundred years. It had been his home since birth, and his birthright. Until his father had gambled away the family fortune.

Mr. Vernon retrieved Athena’s reticule from the damp ground. “Your bag, Miss Taylor.” His voice was low and deep, but so sharply edged that she felt its sting like the blade of knife. In fact, a cold civility seemed to vibrate through his entire being.

She understood why.

Ian Vernon, she had learned, had become a licensed architect in an attempt to support himself and his father, but he hadn’t been able to save Thorndale Manor. After his father’s death, Mr. Vernon had been obliged to sell the family estate and remove to a small cottage on an adjacent scrap of land.

“Thank you, Mr. Vernon.” Athena’s heart pounded in confusion as she accepted the muddied article. How on Earth, she wondered, do you tell someone you’re sorry they lost their home, when it is the very home that you now own and love? Is there a kind way to accomplish that?

Perhaps it is better left unsaid.

Dashing away the moisture that had accumulated in her eyes, Athena gestured to the body by the riverbank. “Two pupils at my school told me what had happened.”

“Your school? Ah, yes.” He regarded her with tense reserve, as if he were straining to behave like the gentleman he had been bred to be. “And how is your school doing?”

“Well, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He didn’t sound glad at all.

“This is so awful.”

“Indeed. It is a real tragedy. Sally Osborn was a sweet, quiet girl who worked for us for many years at Thorndale Manor.”

Athena flinched at his tone and phrasing, which seemed to deliberately emphasize the fact that Sally had once worked for his family. He turned as if to walk away.

“Wait. Do you know what happened?” Athena inquired quickly.

He paused. “I do.”

She waited.

His features tightened, as if he were conducting an internal debate as to whether or not to continue the conversation.

Finally, with obvious reluctance, he said, “I was on my way into the village early this morning when I came upon Miss Osborn weeping in great distress. She’d noticed Sally missing from her bed and, worried, had set out this way to reassure herself that Sally had arrived at work. ”

“And she found her here.” Athena could guess how horrible that must have been.

“Sally’s body had been caught in a pocket of the river, wedged between that fallen tree trunk and a rock.” He indicated an area not far from the embankment where the unfortunate young woman’s body now lay. “I fished her out, but there was nothing to be done.”

“How dreadful.” She noticed now that his boots were wet and encrusted with mud and river debris, proof of the awful act he had undertaken. “How do you think she ended up in the river?”

“I don’t know. But I believe Mr. Sinclair has drawn his conclusion.” Mr. Vernon gestured to Neville Sinclair, the gentleman who was still jotting something in a notebook.

Sinclair was the wealthiest man in the neighborhood and the owner of Woodcroft House, a place Athena had never visited.

She had spied Mr. Sinclair and his wife at church and had wished to introduce herself and her sister, but social etiquette required that the Sinclairs take the first step and request a mutual acquaintance to make an introduction, and they had not done so.

No doubt because we are mere school mistresses and beneath their notice.

There was something else about the surname Sinclair that sounded familiar, but Athena couldn’t remember what it was.

“I fetched Sinclair,” Mr. Vernon added, “and he came, reluctantly.”

“Why ‘reluctantly’?” Athena gave him a questioning glance. “Isn’t he the parish constable?”

“He is and has been for nearly a decade. But he has just been appointed as the new magistrate for the county of York and is to preside at the next assizes. He is anxious to pass on the duties of parish constable to his successor, Mr. Johnson, who seems to be in training.” He pointed to the vicar.

“I see.”

Mr. Vernon touched his hat, as if to signal an end to the discussion, but once again, Athena stopped him.

“Mr. Vernon.” Gathering her courage, she added, “Sir… I wanted to say… I feel bad about the way things worked out for you with regard to Thorndale Manor. I understand that it must have been very hard to sell your home.”

He gave her a stony stare. “ Hard to sell Thorndale Manor? You understand , do you?” His words simmered with resentment. “How could you possibly understand?”

Athena felt as if he’d slapped her in the face. “So. You do hate me,” she muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?” His eyes narrowed.

A sense of the injustice of it all stabbed her in the gut. She wanted to hurl at him, What right do you have to be angry with me? It wasn’t my fault that your father gambled away your birthright. If Captain Fallbrook hadn’t bought Thorndale Manor, someone else would have!

Instead, she replied through gritted teeth, “Nothing.”

“Good day, Miss Taylor.” He turned and strode away.

Athena watched him go, annoyance dripping through her every vein. What a rude, insensitive man. If that was how the matter lay, she would just have to make the best of it . She would do her best to avoid Mr. Vernon in future, which, she guessed, would surely be fine by him.

Athena made her way towards the group assembled beneath the oak tree. She wanted to talk to Neville Sinclair and to express her regrets to Miss Osborn and her father, with whom Athena had become acquainted at church and at a vicar’s tea.

As she passed Sally’s body, although Athena told herself to hurry by, she couldn’t help but pause and take a look.

Sally was sopping wet, her rumpled cloak open and revealing the black frock that encased her slender form. Her feet were encased in low-heeled, blue shoes that were streaked with mud. Her tangled, red hair had been drenched darker by the river water, and her face was as white as stone.

Athena had only been six years old when her mother had died, and she remembered very little about it.

She had, however, attended many funerals since then, where the deceased had been on display before burial.

Each time, particularly at the funeral for her father, she had felt a sense of pain, sadness, and emptiness, but in time, she had been comforted by the hope that the deceased’s soul had departed to a higher place.

This time, however, a new and different sensation accompanied these emotions: puzzlement. Something about the maid’s appearance didn’t seem right. Of course something isn’t right , Athena reminded herself. The poor young woman just drowned.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Athena crossed to where Bridget Osborn and her father stood. Mr. Osborn leaned on his cane with his only hand, the empty sleeve from his missing arm pinned up against his chest. The young woman was still weeping softly.

“Mr. Osborn, Miss Osborn. I’m so very sorry.”

“Foolish girl,” Mr. Osborn said, his eyes on the ground. “Never did look where she was going.”