Cheltenham Castle, England June, Year of Our Lord 1819

Lady Efrona Drake was twenty-one and had been betrothed to Lord Blakely Hansford, the Duke of Warwick's only son since she was fifteen. And to top it all off she hadn't seen the man since the Lehigton's summer house party when she had just turned seventeen. Oh, he was handsome she had to admit and she suspected young ladies fawned over him with his extremely tight-fitting coat and trousers that provocatively revealed a good deal of his figure, and she shuddered to think she had once — albeit being only thirteen at the time — thought him gorgeous, until that is, his true pompous and eccentric nature showed itself. She thought herself much wiser now. Plus, rumor had it that he had a mistress. She had informed her father, the Earl of Chedworth, no more than four months earlier that she would never marry the man, which brought on a fearsome row. His shouts still echoed in her ears. Angry words spewed past a sneer that twisted his features and let her know that a powerful peer had little use in a daughter, except for the match she might someday make. But she had not relented; little good that it did.

Efrona settled upon the window seat and kicking off her slippers drew her stocking-clad legs up under her cone-shaped skirts as she rested her forehead against the window pane. She gazed dejectedly out upon the farm fields spread out before her. A narrow dirt road meandered over rolling hills through the little village of Seven Springs that seemed almost to grow out of the landscape. Its weathered Cotswold stone glowed honey colored midst the green and brown countryside dotted with lavender fields bursting in flower.

What had put her in this present sullen mood was what her father had casually informed her at breakfast: Her mother Lady Chedworth was to have a house party here at Cheltenham Castle, her father's country estate, and Lord Blakely Hansford, Marquess of Sudeley, had been invited. She could expect his arrival within a matter of days ahead of the party guests. This information had been met with a glower and stony silence on her part, which, of course, her father patently ignored. It was all contrived her mother's house party. If Mohammad wouldn't come to the mountain ... then her father — more likely both set of parents, would see to it that he did. She was sure it hadn't been strictly Sudeley's initiative. If it was up to him she was sure he would stay away until ... well, she shrugged. Which was fine with her, she hadn't minded, being snubbed that was — she really hadn't — but now ... Obviously the two fathers had something to do with it, which reminded her that in her father's eyes her only purpose in life was to make an advantageous match with another titled family. To hear her father tell it, it was time she gave up her silly resistance, her supposed freedom of being an unmarried woman, and place herself under a man's control, as though being under her father's control was anywhere close to freedom. Well, she was just as stubborn as her father. He could rave all he wanted. She would marry whom she wished — she had always known and believed that, and it wouldn't be to gain a title. It would be for love. And she didn't love the insufferable Lord Blakely Hansford, Marquess of Sudeley.

She was startled when suddenly a goldfinch landed on the stone windowsill only a foot away and she jerked back involuntarily before catching herself. Surprisingly the bird hopped closer to the glass its black and white head and red face tilted off-center as it stared inquisitively up at her. She smiled in delight studying the tiny bird. She had never had the occasion to be this close to a wild creature before, albeit there was a thin glass pane between them. The bird's back and flanks were chestnut brown, its wings black with a broad yellow bar. Slowly she pressed her palm against the glass and to her amazement the bird pecked lightly, almost intimately, on the glass beneath her fingers.

"My goodness," she giggled completely taken aback. "What have we here?"

The bird gave forth a pleasant silvery twittering, a tinkling medley of trills and twitters. Efrona couldn't help the oddest sensation that if she opened the casement the bird would fly inside and perhaps even land upon her shoulder. Her absorption in the bird's antics was cut short by a light knock on her bedroom door.

"Efrona," her mother's soft voice came from the opposite side of the door. "Are you in there?"

"Yes, mother, come in," she called, quickly straightening.

Swinging her stocking feet to the floor she slid them into her slippers. The older woman stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind her. Efrona glanced back at the window. The bird was gone. She sighed disappointed.

"What is it, mother?" she asked trying to remain objective for she knew what this was about ... her mother, always the peacemaker.

"Well, you seemed rather upset when you left the breakfast table. I just thought I'd come check on you," the countess said sitting down beside her daughter.

"Father is insufferable," Efrona sighed disgustedly.

"Your father — is only concerned about your welfare dear —"

"Hah!" Efrona snorted rolling her eyes.

"Oh Efrona! Why are you always at odds with your father? I fear your lofty notions will only bring you heartache."

Efrona said nothing staring out the window silently wishing the little goldfinch would return.

"My dear, the house party will be just the thing. You've been so absorbed in your books of late and have neglected your friends far too long. Besides, you haven't seen Lord Hansford in — goodness, how long has it been?" her mother suddenly quizzed.

"Four years," Efrona said absently eyes searching the hedges below her window.

"Oh," her mother gasped. "Four years? Surely it hasn't been that long!"

Efrona looked at her mother with her figure round as her cheeks and a soothing softness in her tone. What would it be like to be her mother, soft, to allow herself to be meek and gentle, the total opposite of her father? Would it smooth over her own sharp edges? Her father called her a disappointment, a cruel daughter, an unnatural woman for her lack of enthusiasm for marriage to Lord Hansford. A loathing for marriage and the prospect of motherhood had less to do with her reticence than the man her father had chosen for her. The man did not inspire trust or desire.

* * *

Four days later the inevitable occurred. Efrona's nine year old sister Heather burst into the room and flopped unceremoniously on the bed. Efrona tilted her head and peered at her sister. Heather's name, like her own, had to do with meadows and birds — in Efrona's estimation — a harebrained mania of their mother's, and her fixation with nature, particularly birds. Her mother could have, at least, come up with a name more alluring than, Efrona — even if it did mean, Sweet Singing Bird in Hebrew. Hebrew no less! Heather now, that was a rather pleasant name ... but Efrona? She wished she could have chosen her own name, something like Catherine or Elizabeth or, Sophia ... she liked the name Sophia.

"Heather, don't you ever knock?" Efrona demanded straightening in her chair and laying aside her newly acquired book, Northanger Abbey.

"He's here," the girl said by way of answer.

Efrona didn't need to ask who. He was early. No other guests had arrived as of yet. She...