Love by the Morning Star

by Laura L. Sullivan

  Write to me, beloved girl.

  Cora

  “He’s alive!” Hannah said, beaming through tears as she handed the letter to Teddy. “My father is alive!”

  Teddy held her hand as he read through the note, absently stroking the little scar. “She doesn’t say so,” he began uncertainly.

  “Oh, no one says anything outright in wartime. But look here—he won’t know her when he sees her again. That means she’s sure he will see her again! And here—all is well. She’s afraid to give any details for some reason, but she believes he’s perfectly safe. And if she believes it, I believe it.” Hannah flung her arms around Teddy.

  THE SECOND LETTER CAME AT the end of that year, when Starkers had just thrown open its doors to a herd of Cockney urchins sent to escape the Blitz. It had a California postmark and positively reeked of sunshine.

  Liebchen,

  Siberia is not all it’s cracked up to be, so I’m giving California a try.

  There’s a fellow here, Preston Sturges, who makes the funniest films that just can’t seem to get past the Hollywood morality police. I talked Pres into letting me tackle a rewrite of a flick called The Lady Eve, and now I have a real studio job—I write sex scenes so no one can be sure whether the lovers have actually had sex. Still the same tricky old Teufel, you see, in the same funny old world.

  Write so I know you’re still safe at Starkers. Maybe the Yanks will step in and hurry this damned war along. Out here, though, most of them don’t seem to notice.

  All of my love, dear heart,

  Aaron

  Much later Hannah learned of her father’s harrowing journey to Russia, of the golden promises and black betrayals that country offered . . . of the midnight escape, crossing the Pacific curled up in a bulkhead . . . of destitution in the golden land of oranges and sunshine . . . of his work as a shoe shiner . . . how an offhand quip about polishing shoes shiny enough to see up a lady’s skirt led to a stellar Hollywood career as script doctor, then writer, then director, with a gracefully aging Cora Pearl as his star . . .

  But now, her happiness complete, Hannah consented to be married in a fortnight.

  “Over my dead body!” said Lady Liripip, who had spent the last year campaigning against her son’s intended. Good to her word, she died the morning of their wedding. No one noticed for hours; her stiff posture and rigid smile were nothing unusual. In fact, everyone was impressed by her remarkably pleasant behavior.

  When she was discovered, the family shed a few obligatory tears, and Hannah placed another order with the florist who had served them so ably at their wedding.

  “Hannah, is that you?” squealed the voice over the phone line. “Lilies? She did? Cor! How very thoughtful of her. No, no calla lilies in stock, can’t abide them, but I have heaps of lovely white stargazers. I’ll make up a few wreaths, and maybe some big pots of mums. Ha! I don’t imagine she invited you to call her mum, did she? Of course not. Condolences and whatnot, but it is for the best, I believe. Oh, I’ll send you a spray of lemon blossoms too, just for you, luv. Is there any welcome news yet? Silly me! That’s only a great idiot like myself who walks down the aisle with a big belly. You’ll wait your proper nine months, I’m sure. Eight? You devil! Can you hear mine over the wire? He’s got a handful of peonies, the terror, tearing them to shreds like they don’t cost half a guinea apiece this time of year. Yes, Hardy is splendid. Always away growing his war weeds for the Ministry of Agriculture, but I have the flower shop to keep me occupied. Give my love to Teddy, will you? Not too much, though! Oh, I forgot to tell you last time we talked: Hardy said that his new strain of pigweed is such a success, they’re thinking of knighting him. Fancy that! I’ll be Lady Anna after all. Ta!”

  Chapter 1

  The Rich Man’s Daughter

  England, June 1662

  ELIZA PARSLOE, age fifteen, tickled her chin with her plumed pen and gazed levelly at her latest opponent, Lord Ayelsworth, second Earl of Lambert. To her great displeasure, he took it for flirtation and sidled closer until his foppishly beribboned thigh crushed the delicate moiré of her apricot skirt.

  “You slay me with those killing eyes,” he sighed.

  Those killing eyes rolled, for she knew he was looking not at her decidedly plain brown orbs, but rather at the fortune in emeralds at her throat, or perhaps, to give him credit as a man of flesh as well as avarice, at the swell of bosom lower down.

  Why did each and every suitor feel it necessary to harp upon her nonexistent physical charms? If just one had suggested they could use her vast fortune and his court influence to rule the nation, to set the mode, she might have been swayed. But no, they spoke of her languishing eyes, her enchanting hair; compared her neck to a swan’s and her skin to pearls, when she knew full well her only beauty lay in the acres of timber, the flotillas of merchant ships, and the masses of gold settled on her as the only child of the fabulously wealthy Jeremiah Parsloe.

  She turned away from him and dipped her quill in the ink, dripping a blob, unnoticed, on her buttercup-colored satin underskirt, and began to scribble.

  “What do you write, sweetheart?” Ayelsworth asked, craning his skinny neck to see. “I would pen you a thousand love poems daily, if only you would be mine!”

  Eliza dipped the pen again and flicked it as she turned to reply, spattering his multihued ribbons with blue-black. He squealed and leaped up. Eliza instantly kicked up her feet and crossed her ankles, reconquering the lost territory of her chaise.

  “It is a play,” she said.

  “What do you call it, sweet nymph?”

  “Nunquam Satis,” she said, and though he had no Latin, he knew the vulgar tongue. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or blush.

  “My dear, do you know what that means?”

  “‘Never satisfied,’” she replied evenly.

  “Ah, but in the common cant, it means . . . it means . . .” He could not tell her what part of a woman’s anatomy was, by popular jest, never satisfied. She was from a reputedly Puritan family. Very likely she was not even aware of that particular part of herself.

  Ayelsworth, though but twenty, was a habitué of Charles II’s court, and accustomed to whores, courtesans, and loose ladies of rank. He was not quite sure what to expect from this provincial heiress. All he knew for certain was that she was the catch of the season, and if he could secure her, his future was assured.

  Her father had given him permission to try for her hand, leaving them alone with only a maidservant within, for propriety, and a liveried footman without, in case he should try to claim his prize by force. Now, that was a thought, he mused. It had certainly been done before, though mostly through abduction. Still, if he managed to spoil the goods here on the chaise, she and her father would probably agree to let him buy what remained.

  He looked over her big-boned, recumbent form. She was at least a head taller than he, and he didn’t think much of his chances in a forcible seduction.

  He clung instead to what had worked with other ladies—wit and conversation.

  “Pray, what is your play about?”

  “An heiress deciding which of her many suitors to accept.”

  “A tragedy, then, for all but one lucky swain. Will you read me a snippet?”

  For the first time she blessed him with a smile—her teeth were good, at any rate, he noted—and blew on her pages to dry the ink before she picked them up to read.

  “This bit I just finished is a conversation between Lady Nuncsat and Lord Stormthebreech. He tries to persuade her of the chief benefit of having a husband, and she protests that if husbands are à la mode, another’s will suit her just as well:

  “‘Is carnal pleasure prize for married misery I’ll reap?

  I’ll ride the steed—or not—and let another pay his keep.

  Who’d buy with precious liberty what she’d get elsewhere gratis?

  I’ll keep my heart and hand and wealth,’ quoth Lady Nunquam Satis.”

  “Ah . . . ahem. She is a villa
in, then?”

  “Lord Stormthebreech thinks so, and calls her a fishwife and a mettlesome jade who ought to be forced to feel a man’s hand on her rein. She replies,

  “‘Touch me and you’ll find a fishwife verily, by gods!

  One who shucks your oysters and fillets your pretty cods.’”

  Ayelsworth’s hand cupped his own cods protectively, and it was not long before he excused himself with flourishing apology, never to be seen in the Parsloe household again. He would give a great deal to have Eliza’s wealth, but not that.

  “What did you say to this one?” her father asked sharply when he entered to find her alone.

  “Oh, he spoke to me of the theater,” she said nonchalantly, placing a book of sermons on top of her manuscript. Her father had no idea she’d read every play on the boards since the theaters reopened with the king’s return from exile. Her maid, Hortense, was liberally paid to smuggle them back from her monthly sojourns with the housekeeper to London for supplies that could not be had in the village.

  “You cannot allow yourself to become offended because a gentleman speaks to you of plays. Why, I’m told even the most pious go to the theater. I know you’ve been delicately reared, my dear, but when you are a married woman you might be . . . ahem . . . exposed to things your upbringing didn’t prepare you for.”

  Eliza affected the serene incomprehension of a novice in a nunnery and said, “In any event, sir, I find I cannot love him.”

  “Love! What nonsense. A pity I promised your mother on her deathbed I’d only give you away with your own consent. A girl can’t be expected to know what’s good for her.”

  She bowed her head in seeming acquiescence. Eliza had been there for her mother’s final breath a few years ago. “Let Eliza marry for love,” she’d pleaded as she fingered the embroidered hem of her sheets weakly. “See what my marriage has been, and let her give her heart and fortune where she pleases.”

  Jeremiah took it to mean that his was a love union and had worked out well. Eliza, who better knew her mother’s secret longings and frustrated passions, read those words otherwise. I had a chance at love with another man, her mother said in cipher. But I threw it all away at my family’s behest. I married where they bid me, for money, and had nothing but misery in it all, save for you, my daughter. You have money, her mother’s dying eyes had said so eloquently. You can afford to wait for affection.

  Eliza clung to that idea, since it so closely matched her own. Though her father was true in the letter to his wife’s deathbed wish, he had plans of his own he was not willing to abandon for the sake of feminine sentimentality.

  “What am I to do with you, child? Is there no one pious and decent enough to win you? Ayelsworth has a fair reputation among that stew of rakes.”

  So you believe, sir, Eliza thought. Hortense brought different tidings from gossip gleaned at the Royal Exchange, London’s vibrant marketplace. Ayelsworth was known to frequent the most scandalous brothels (Eliza thought she could perhaps forgive an occasional sojourn to London’s better brothels) and was deep in debt.

  “Also,” Hortense had whispered to her before the lord’s arrival, “Bab at the Queen’s Point Shop told me he takes a bolus regular, no doubt mercury for the pox.”

  “He’s a perfect match,” Eliza’s father went on. “The highest title to come for you so far.”

  “Sir,” Eliza said, “I know your opinions of the court. Why go to such lengths to ally our family with such a licentious place?”

  “I have money enough for Midas,” he said, patting her knee kindly. “But His Majesty won’t hear a word from me because I’m a commoner. I’m not pleased with his reign thus far. Better to have stuck with Old Noll and his line, though they were far from perfect. But daughter, hear me! I am a man of power, yet powerless. I have more gold than the king himself, yet this nation muddles on without my say-so. A man, however rich, cannot buy much real influence in the court. But if I can link my family to that of some great noble, I will have a voice at last! And my children after me! Your children, I mean, of course, my dear. Marry an earl, and I can catch the king’s ear!”

  And what do you hope to do, sir? Eliza wondered to herself. The Lord Chancellor is trying to moderate the king’s appetites, to no avail. Then when the king would do good, would bolster the fleet or let people worship as they will, Parliament thwarts him. Do you think because you’re father-in-law to some poxy coxcomb who cleans the king’s ears each morning you can effect change? The world is what it is, Father. Best to find your place in it, and not try to make the world anew.

  But all she said was “Yes, sir.”

  Jeremiah sighed. “You must marry, girl. You must marry a nobleman, and you must do it soon, while I can still do some good in that sinful court. I have made a difficult decision.”

  Eliza’s eyes flew open. “You must not force me to marry! You promised Mother!”

  “I will not force you . . . not yet. You have one last chance to find a noble you can respect. It pains me to tell you this, for I know what a moral and devout child you are. Eliza, I fear you must go to that den of wickedness, the court of King Charles II. My money cannot buy a place for myself, but I can purchase you a position as one of the new queen’s ladies in waiting. They say Catherine of Braganza is convent-bred, and though I don’t hold with popery, they do have a knack for keeping their girls pure-minded. She will keep you safe until such time as you find a suitable noble to wed.”

  Eliza looked at her hands and bit her lip. It was all she could do to keep from screaming with joy.

  “Do not fret, my child. A heart as pure as yours is incorruptible. You have nothing to fear from the court.”

  Her voice trembling with emotion, she said, “I will do as you wish, sir.”

  Within her breast, her heart exulted.

  “Now you may take off that silken frippery I know you despise, and put on your good sober grays again. At court I suppose you must dress like the rest, but here at home you can be your own self.”

  She ran upstairs and Hortense changed her into her customary charcoal wool. The high neck itched, and she tugged at it in irritation as she told her maid the news.

  “No matter, ma’am. Once you get to court he’s lost his hold over you. You’ll be your own mistress.”

  Eliza smiled at her somber reflection. My own, or someone else’s, she thought.

  She caught herself up sharply. No, that’s a good line for a play, but not for me. I don’t want to be kept in check by anyone—not my father, not a husband, not even a lover. I want to be free.

  Buy the Book

  Visit www.hmhco.com or your favorite retailer to purchase the book in its entirety.

  About the Author

  LAURA L. SULLIVAN is a former newspaper editor, biologist, social worker, and deputy sheriff who writes because storytelling is the easiest way to do everything in the world. She has an English degree from Cornell University and once assumed she would be an English professor, but eventually learned she preferred simply to devour books rather than dismember and dissect them. Her other books include Delusion, Ladies in Waiting, Under the Green Hill, and Guardian of the Green Hill. Laura lives on the Florida coast, but her heart is in England.