Winter Manor, 1862

Catherine Richmond shifted her crinoline uncomfortably and perched on the edge of the window seat. The bones of her corset pressed painfully into the underside of her bosom, and she adjusted herself to ease it. The tension had been just too excessive to bear, she had simply had to escape from the family gathering downstairs. The Long Gallery was soothingly quiet, though the oil paintings which covered the walls glared disapprovingly at her. In the flickering yellow of the candlelight she gazed at the artistic reminders of the people who had inhabited Winter before her. A fine lord of the previous century, with a ludicrous powdered wig, oozed arrogant self-confidence, even from his formal portrait. There were several beautiful but sad-eyed ladies, and a cluster of portraits of children, all with angelic faces, but no nameplates. However, it was her grandfather’s eyes that locked on to her from his heavyset face and made the hair on the back of her neck bristle with fear. It had been almost a relief when he’d died last year, though she saw the echo of his stern disapproval in her father’s countenance. Her father was a far kinder man, which she knew she should be thankful for.

Her mother emphasised continually how grateful they all should be to her father, Edward Richmond. Catherine’s mother, Kitty, had been born to a poor but respectable family and forced to work as a governess at Winter Manor, to Edward Richmond’s young cousins, Fanny and Eliza. Edward had spotted her walking in the grounds with the girls one day, and claimed to have fallen for her unusual beauty in that first instant. They had married within the year, despite Edward’s father’s disapproval. Father and son were eventually reconciled, the father won over by demure Kitty’s polite manners and keen sense of propriety, and when Edward’s father had inherited Winter Manor, ten years later, upon his uncle’s death, he had moved there with his son and his family, by then including Francis, aged nine, and Catherine, aged five. She’d been too young when they’d come to Winter to remember the smaller town house they’d lived in before.

Yet she had never settled into her home at Winter. There were too many rooms and too much parkland and she felt at once suffocated and overwhelmed. To make the days pass quickly, she had become a dedicated student of every conceivable subject, even branching out into the sciences, with the help of the books in the well-stocked library. She searched for some truth, some authentic foundation to build her world upon. In the books about biology and the natural world, she had found facts which truly interested her and inspired her to take on more advanced texts, but never really the understanding of the world she craved.

It was this queer interest in the sciences that her grandfather had so disapproved of. Her father allowed her to indulge her curiosity, but did not encourage it. Any questions she put to him were dismissed easily with words she barely understood. Her grandfather, a devoutly religious man, had been of the opinion that the sciences were at best a waste of anyone’s time, and at worst a crime against God himself. They were to be avoided by respectable gentlemen, let alone young women, being wholly unsuitable for more delicate and impressionable brains. Catherine had never understood, yet had not dared question, why his library was so well furnished with such texts if he truly held the convictions he claimed.

As she recollected her grandfather’s diatribes on this topic, Catherine wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, yet her mirth stuck in her throat. Laughter was difficult these days. She sighed, and the shadows of the Long Gallery seemed to sigh with her. Anxiously, she ran her fingernail over the grain in the wood of her seat, carving grooves in the softer part of the wood between the ridges. Even the science books were of no real interest to her now. She’d pored over them looking for some sign what she was feeling was documented and possible, searching for sympathy in the printed word, the educated opinions of men who knew nothing of her. There had been no answers there.

Gloomy though Winter always was, it had appeared to be a brighter place very briefly, in the autumn of the previous year. The harvest winds had brought Maeve to Winter.

Her mother had been pleased there would be another young woman—just two years older than Catherine’s nineteen years—in the house, since she had decreed it was not healthy Catherine spent so much time alone in the library, and thought an acquaintance with a more normal woman would lift her spirits. Then Maeve Greville, who had recently come to reside with her uncle—who lived nearby and frequently went grouse shooting with her own father—arrived to take afternoon tea with Catherine and her mother.

When she entered the hallway, where Catherine waited to greet her, the breeze carried a flutter of brown and yellowed leaves in with her. Maeve could have been a pagan goddess of autumn. Her hair, swept loosely back in two braids secured at the back of her head, was flaming red, her skin pale and delicately freckled. She was an extraordinary sight. She removed a fairly conventional—though longer than was fashionable—outer jacket, and Catherine was astonished to see she appeared to wear no crinoline or hoops at all. Her gown hung loose and narrow. Though her waist was slender, it did not have the artificial dimensions of a corset. In contrast to Catherine’s richly dyed blue silk gown, Maeve’s was delicately coloured in shades of peach and simply styled, apart from the intricate embroidery which decorated the neckline. There was something archaic, almost medieval, about her appearance, yet to Catherine she was a revelation. She’d never seen a woman like Maeve in all her years. Catherine stared, open-mouthed, until alerted by the curious look of Rosie, the housemaid who had opened the door and taken Maeve’s coat, that her behaviour was not polite.

“You’re most welcome to Winter, Miss Greville,” Catherine said, attempting to collect herself.

“Miss Richmond?” Maeve enquired, and receiving an affirmative nod, said, “You must call me Maeve, of course. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends.”

“Of course. You may call me Catherine.” Catherine smiled broadly at such an open declaration of the desire for friendship. She felt her burden of loneliness shift almost instantly, and looking into Maeve’s clear hazel eyes, she was certain that they would indeed be friends forever. A kindred spirit was what she had always longed for. Maeve would be the person with whom she finally found that connection.

Catherine’s mother had been equally taken aback by Maeve’s unusual appearance when they had sat down to tea in the Blue Drawing Room, but her expression showed disapproval rather than admiration.

“You have a beautiful house,” Maeve said, after the introductions, and though Kitty Richmond had smiled graciously and thanked her, her immediate condemnation of Maeve Greville was evident enough in her countenance to make Catherine wince and hope Maeve, being unfamiliar with her mother, would not notice. The conversation was faltering, as they ate salmon sandwiches, buttered crumpets, and almond frangipanes. Catherine had watched Maeve as she ate, taking note of the delicate way she nibbled her sandwiches, how graceful her hands were, with their slender fingers. Now in the warmth, close to the blazing fire in the hearth, her pale white skin grew rosy.

Though naturally shy, Catherine did not usually struggle to make polite conversation with new acquaintances. However, words with which to address Maeve Greville had abandoned her entirely. It was so important that Maeve not think badly of her, that she notice the potential for a very meaningful friendship between them. The tension of creating the impression she desired made it difficult not only to talk, but even to eat the food in front of her.

While they were sipping their second cups of tea, Maeve caused the conversation to take an unexpected turn. “So, Catherine,” she began, leaning towards Catherine in a familiar way, “what do you do all day?”

“What do I do?” Catherine replied, startled, for surely all women of her age and class passed their days in a similar fashion. Avoiding the controversial topic of the science books, she said, “I like to read, and of course I sew. I practise my piano, and I like to take an occasional turn in the park.”

“Oh, I never sew and I can’t get a decent tune from any instrument,” Maeve replied flippantly. “I do read though, some wonderful books. Given the choice, I like to write too.”

“You write?” Catherine asked, surprised and impressed.

“Yes. Poetry mostly, but I am trying my hand at a short novel.”

“You must tell me about it.” Catherine’s enthusiasm was almost a surprise to herself. Her mother glanced at her disapprovingly.

“Miss Greville must have better ways to pass her time than talking about her hobbies with you Catherine,” she said, her smile stiff.

“Actually, no, I love to talk about my writing,” Maeve said. “And one day I hope it will be more than a hobby.”

“You intend to be published?” Catherine asked, excitement suffusing her features.

“I do,” Maeve replied. “I think it would be ever so thrilling to see my name in print and to know that people out there are reading my words.”

Catherine felt almost breathless. “I’ve tried to write, once or twice,” she replied impulsively.

“You must show me,” Maeve replied. That was when Mrs. Richmond interrupted their conversation again.

“Really, Miss Greville, you mustn’t encourage Catherine in such pursuits.”

“Oh,” Maeve said, pausing for a moment and looking thoughtful and knowing at once. “How about painting then? I’m rather fond of all the arts.”

“Do you paint landscape or still life?” Mrs. Richmond asked, apparently relieved.

“Actually, I prefer to study the human form.” Catherine did not miss the flash of defiance in Maeve’s eyes.

“How interesting,” Catherine’s mother said, failing to hide her dismay. “You don’t sew?”

“Not if I can help it.” Maeve shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I assumed you had made your gown yourself. It is so…unusual.” Mrs. Richmond made the word unusual sound like the worst possible condemnation.

“You wonder perhaps, Mrs. Richmond, why I should choose to dress in this fashion?”

“Yes, Miss Greville, I confess I do.” Catherine flushed with embarrassment at her mother’s tone but turned her gaze towards Maeve, curious as to what her explanation would be. It was impossible not to be impressed by how undaunted Maeve was by Kitty Richmond’s disapproval.

“I dislike fashion,” Maeve said simply, at first. She smiled slightly and then enlightened them further. “Corsets and crinolines are so dishonest. They make all of us women into liars. Uncomfortable liars.” Her tone was conspiratorial, as though she expected Catherine and her mother to agree with her. Catherine looked into her hazel eyes and knew she would agree with every word Maeve uttered, even if she declared the sky to be green and the grass blue. However, her mother was clearly not at all impressed.

“You think us dishonest, Miss Greville?” she enquired coldly.

“No, Mrs. Richmond, I don’t mean any offence to be taken. I simply think the demands of high fashion are rather more than any woman should be asked to bear. What, after all, is wrong with the female form that we should have to constrict it here and accentuate it there, beyond all natural proportions? Nor do we need excessive decoration, which, after all, detracts from our God-given beauty.”

“These are highly unusual opinions you hold with, Miss Greville,” Catherine’s mother said with as much politeness as she could muster, which was not a great deal.

“Not so unusual amongst many of my acquaintance, Mrs. Richmond,” Maeve replied evenly. “I suppose it depends upon which circles you move in, does it not?”

“Yes. I cannot imagine yours is a very large circle.” Kitty Richmond’s tone was biting now.

“Larger than you would expect. There are many artists and poets who think in a very similar way to me.”

“It sounds so fascinating,” Catherine said dreamily, picturing such a world of art, and revolutionary views, and poetry. Everyone in that world—men and women both—would be as beautiful as Maeve. They would dress naturally as she did and spend their days composing poetry, or in fierce debates, while others painted their lives away, fingers constantly smeared with oils, little regard paid to the smudges on their clothes and noses.

“Nonsense, Catherine,” Mrs. Richmond snapped sharply, breaking into Catherine’s reverie. Her mother composed her features into a serene smile once again. “I mean, these things are all well and good for someone like Miss Greville, but they’d never suit a girl like you.”

Catherine’s face flushed. To be spoken to like a child in front of Maeve was mortifying. She sipped her tea in silence, her blood on fire as she had never felt it before. She looked at her mother and fury stoked the flames, but when she turned her gaze instead on Maeve, searching for relief, the burning simply grew worse.

Mrs. Richmond brought tea to a close rather earlier than was usual and withdrew to her chamber hurriedly, claiming the onset of a headache. As Maeve prepared to leave, Catherine followed her through the hallway and to the door. “You will come back, won’t you?”

Maeve turned and took Catherine’s hand in cool fingers. Catherine felt frozen to the spot under her touch. “Dear Catherine. I don’t think your mother will like that.”

“For me,” Catherine said, knowing she sounded quite ridiculous but somehow unable to help herself. “You must come here as my guest and visit me. We can walk in the park perhaps—mother won’t even know you’re here.” She could barely believe she’d suggested such deceit, but could not bring herself to retract the suggestion once it had been spoken.

“You would keep me as your secret?” Maeve said, raising her eyebrows.

Catherine blushed and looked at the tiles of the floor. “I wish you would call again,” she said awkwardly, unable to understand why she felt so extraordinarily shy.

Maeve’s fingers squeezed her own. “Then I will, Catherine dear. For you. Until then.” She smiled widely at Catherine, and then turned and made her way down the steps. Halfway down she turned back, glancing at the statue which stood there. “And I’d love to draw this statue,” she called. “Maybe when I return.” Catherine looked at the half-naked stone woman and her throat felt tight. There was no reasonable answer, so she simply let Maeve’s comment hang in the air and drift away on the autumn breeze.

Maeve walked in the direction of the beech avenue. Her carriage waited for her at the end of the driveway, since she claimed it was a shame to deprive herself of the walk on such a lovely evening. Soon she was among the trees with their russet and gold leaves, her glorious red hair, the soft peach of her skirts, and the warm brown of her coat making her appear part of the scene, at one with nature. Catherine watched until she had disappeared.

That night, Catherine could not sleep. She stared at the heavy canopy over her bed and listened to the wood crackling in the hearth. She turned her pillow over and over, needing the cool fabric against her hot face. It felt unnaturally warm in the room and her heartbeat was unusually loud, too thunderous to allow slumber. The image of Maeve filled her mind, no matter how hard she tried to focus on her mother’s righteous disapproval of their unusual visitor. That such a woman existed turned the world upside down. She presented a challenge to everything: the possibilities that lay before her, her sense of her place in the world, the rules of respectability. In such a short amount of time, Maeve had destroyed Catherine’s cloistered yet bewildered perspective on the world, and Catherine could barely contain her impatience to see the beautiful destroyer again.

Maeve was true to her word and visited again the very next week. She delivered a card to the door, which was brought to Catherine as she attempted to read in the library just after lunch. On the back of the calling card was written in flowing handwriting: Come outside, meet me in the park. M. Catherine’s heart beat faster as she read the words. The notion that Maeve had returned, especially to see her, was thrilling enough. The necessity of their meeting being kept a secret simply added to the peculiar excitement beginning to throb through her body. She called for her outdoor coat and bonnet at once and told Rosie the maid, whose loyalty she trusted, to inform her mother she had elected to take a turn in the park for the sake of the fresh air.

That walk with Maeve in the park was to be the first of many. They began to arrange times to meet in advance, to save Maeve the need of coming to the house at all, since Catherine’s subtle questioning of her mother had revealed the “quite improper” Miss Greville was not at all welcome as a visitor at Winter again.

Maeve and Catherine would stroll arm in arm towards the river, even as the air grew frosty and Christmas drew nearer. There were endless topics to discuss, and Catherine always had new questions for Maeve. They talked about poetry and art, artists and nature, and Catherine was delighted to find her knowledge of the sciences, far from meeting with disapproval, actually was a subject of continuing fascination for Maeve.

The days and hours between their last parting and the next time she would see Maeve felt interminable to Catherine. Nothing was the same for her any longer; even the books in the library could not hold her interest. Her life was empty, only those few stolen hours with Maeve felt full and worthwhile. Maeve’s ideas were constantly in her mind, and she imagined she could feel her consciousness expanding with every new topic they broached.

One day, at the beginning of December, they had walked down to the bridge over the river, crossed it, and climbed a little way up the gradual slope of the meadow on the other side. From there they could see the tree-lined river, the bridge, and back up the slight hill to Winter itself. There had been a hard frost that night, and the grass and leaves were still glistening brightly. They paused next to a bush bearing bright red berries and gazed back at the picture before them.

“It’s beautiful from here,” Maeve said. “It could almost inspire me to paint a landscape with Winter as the focal point.”

“Yes. Who’d ever think it was such a prison?” Catherine was used, by now, to expressing her innermost feelings to Maeve and had made no secret of how she felt increasingly trapped in the house.

“People and ideas keep you trapped, Catherine, not the house.” Maeve told her, not for the first time.

“I know. If it was just walls, then I could escape.”

“You’ve escaped in your mind. That’s a very good place to start,” Maeve said, touching her arm lightly. As always, Catherine felt the tension grow through her whole body at the feel of Maeve’s hand. Suddenly hot despite the chill of the day, she tugged uncomfortably at the thick ribbons which held her bonnet in place beneath her chin.

“Why don’t you take that thing off?” Maeve, who wore a loose fur-trimmed hood herself, suggested. “You’re so trussed up against the cold I’m surprised you can breathe at all.”

“I didn’t want to catch a chill,” Catherine replied, thinking it sounded quite a pathetic excuse.

“I promise you won’t die if you take your bonnet off outside, Catherine,” Maeve said, her voice filled with laughter. “Have you ever actually felt the breeze blowing through your hair?”

“Not that I recall.” Catherine removed her gloves hurriedly and reached up to the bow beneath her chin. That loosened, she unfastened the strings concealed beneath it, which actually kept the hat secure, and removed it. The air felt very cold where it crept over her exposed head. She felt as though she had woken up after a long sleep and washed her face in icy water.

“You might as well be wearing another hat! Loosen your hair,” Maeve instructed, eyeing Catherine’s braided locks and the practical snood which covered the back of her head. Catherine smiled and did as she was told, removing the pins that held the snood in place and releasing the length of her hair from the fine netting. This done, she allowed the braids to fall forwards and untwisted them, until her hair fell in a solid dark brown curtain around her face and shoulders.

“Don’t you feel liberated?” Maeve reached for Catherine’s hair and took several locks between her fingers, lifting them and allowing them to fall back into place slowly. “You have beautiful hair.”

Catherine felt the liberation Maeve talked of. It grew, as Maeve’s fingers slid through the waves of her hair, into an exultation. In these moments it was as though she knew herself for the first time, she was only just seeing the world in all its colours and brightness. The brightest point of all was Maeve, whose beautiful pale face, flushed slightly pink, was only inches away from hers, smiling at the beauty of her hair. Her mind was blank, her body seemed to act on its own impulse, as she leaned closer to Maeve and pressed her lips against her friend’s pink, smiling mouth.

As though she was not at all surprised, Maeve kissed her back without hesitation, and it seemed to Catherine their lips were made to fit together. Heat surged through her, sensations she’d never known pulsed through her veins. For those seconds, everything that had ever been wrong in her world was put right, and there was nothing but the power of the emotions that drew her to Maeve. They were kindred spirits, and more.

Too quickly, Maeve pulled back from her. Catherine reached for her to draw her back, but Maeve pushed her hands away gently. The haze cleared, and Catherine’s vision became suddenly, brutally, clear once more. Maeve was looking back at her with something like fear in her expression. Catherine had never seen her appear so uncertain, and as she read the confusion in those beloved hazel eyes, the ground fell away from beneath her feet.

“Maeve?” Catherine yearned to break the tension between them. “Maeve? Say something.”

“What can I say, Catherine?” Catherine wished she’d never demanded Maeve speak. The confusion in Maeve’s expression transformed into intense sadness. Catherine had no idea how to soothe such pain.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Maeve turned and hurried away in the direction of the house. Catherine felt rooted to the spot, sick to her stomach. Horror froze the blood in her veins but was abruptly replaced by terror that worse was to come. She could not lose Maeve. She forced her feet to move, to hurry after the rapidly retreating figure.

“Maeve, I’m sorry!” she called desperately as she drew closer, her loose hair flying wildly behind her. “I don’t understand what happened, but it doesn’t have to happen again.” She was level with Maeve now, but the other woman did not turn to look at her, merely stared resolutely ahead and kept up her pace. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave, Maeve. I need you. We’re friends.”

At that Maeve stopped abruptly. Catherine stood opposite her and waited, barely daring to breathe. Slowly, carefully, Maeve leaned towards her and brushed the slightest of kisses onto her cheek. Catherine fought back the tears. This was not a goodbye. It could not be. They’d shared too much, Maeve possessed too much of her soul for their friendship to be over now. “Dear Catherine. I’ve loved you so much,” Maeve whispered. “But we can’t. Go back into the house now. Don’t follow me.” Then she turned once more and walked away, in the direction of the driveway. Catherine watched her and waited for her to turn. If she turned Catherine would run to her and beg Maeve not to abandon her. But Maeve did not turn. She was out of sight within minutes.

Numb, Catherine forced her bonnet back onto her head and returned to the confines of Winter, sure her life was over.

The long winter months were giving way to spring before she began to recover. At first she thought her heart was broken beyond all hope of mending. She found her mother’s company insufferable now, and her father’s clear disapproval of her new habit of keeping to her chamber until early afternoon and of her lack of interest in everything weighed her down every time she was in his company.

Gradually, though, she began to resign herself to the realities of her life. Knowing Maeve had been her one brief moment in the sunshine, the rest of her existence would not be so bright. She could still be content, knowing that her mind had expanded beyond its previous constraints as a consequence of her friendship with Maeve. Of the feelings Maeve had inspired in her, she tried not to think.

This partial recovery was decimated in early April, when Catherine’s older brother, Francis, who had been at Oxford, announced his intentions of returning to Winter and bringing with him his new fiancée. Kitty Richmond was tremulous with excitement at the prospect of having her elder child—her son—under her roof again, and more thrilled still with the notion that he was bringing home the woman with whom he would be continuing the family line. Catherine would be pleased to see her brother again, but did not relish having to form a new friendship with her future sister-in-law.

When her brother entered the hallway a week later in the mid-afternoon, Catherine greeted him warmly and then turned her eyes to the woman who followed him meekly. She wore a broad-brimmed bonnet piled with silk flowers, and a wide crinoline. Her skirts were crimson silk, looped up to show the contrasting violet silk underneath. For a moment she was entirely unfamiliar. And then Catherine looked into her eyes.

Maeve.

The room whirled around her as she stared at the woman she’d thought she would never see again. It was surely a terrible trick. Maeve removed her ornate bonnet and looked nervously between Mrs. Richmond and Catherine.

“Hello, again.” There were dark shadows beneath her eyes where there had been none before, and her skin was even paler, if that was possible.

“Miss Greville!” Catherine’s mother exclaimed. “Francis? What does this mean?”

“Oh, Mother,” Francis said, smiling as he brushed a hand through his brown hair and tried to appear entirely relaxed, “when we met at a reading in Oxford, Maeve said you’d encountered each other once before and didn’t quite see eye to eye, but I told her everything would be perfectly fine. Now she’s here as my fiancée.”

Mrs. Richmond had little option but to smile weakly and bend to kiss Maeve lightly on the cheek. Catherine watched her mother run her gaze over Maeve’s transformed appearance and relax perceptibly. Meanwhile, her own heart was lying exposed on the floor, and Maeve was about to stamp her foot down on it and kill her.

“Catherine. How do you do?” Maeve said, showing no trace of their former intimacy in her expression. No one knew how much they’d shared, and now Catherine might as well have dreamt it all alone.

“I’m well, Maeve, thank you. I trust that you are too.” Such a desperate effort just to form the words.

“Yes, thank you. It’s wonderful to be back at Winter.” Just before she turned her gaze away to focus with apparent adoration on her husband-to-be, there was the faintest acknowledgement, deep in her eyes, of what had passed between them before. And then it was gone.

Maeve and Francis, who had encountered each other while Maeve was visiting her cousins in Oxford, would be married in late May, and take their honeymoon on the Continent. Until then, they would stay at Winter, within easy visiting distance of Maeve’s uncle. Though they had just arrived, Catherine longed for the day when they would depart Winter. Every time she saw Maeve, the pain came again, as raw as it had been on that last day near the bridge, when Maeve had walked away from her.

*

Unable to bear it, bewildered by this new turn of events, and wondering how Maeve could subject her to such torture, Catherine avoided being alone with Maeve for the rest of that week, leaving the room if they happened to find themselves together. But on one rainy day, they both left their chambers and found themselves in the upstairs passageway at the same moment. Discomfort turned to alarm, turned to irresistible elation as Maeve wordlessly, unexpectedly, took Catherine by the arm and drew her into her chamber. Before Catherine could think, Maeve’s lips were hot against hers. With her heart swelling as if it might burst, thundering in her ears, Catherine held the kiss. But when Maeve eventually pulled back, she was reminded of the day by the bridge, of the chilling reality that Maeve was engaged to Francis now, and she looked at her with bewildered, frightened eyes. How could Maeve taunt her like this?

“What are you doing?” she demanded, ashamed to hear her voice tremble.

“It’s what we both want, isn’t it Catherine?” Maeve’s eyes were intent on hers, the passion in them unmistakeable. “Don’t tell me you’ve stopped loving me already.”

Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes. She knew Maeve would never truly comprehend just how much she loved her. “You broke my heart, Maeve.”

“I’m so sorry, Catherine, dearest,” Maeve said, reaching up to stroke her face and smooth the tears away. “Your heart is so precious to me. Is it possible I can mend it, do you think?”

Catherine gazed into Maeve’s hazel eyes and tried to make sense of the words she was hearing. The worst of it was the hope fluttering in her heart, the compulsion to kiss Maeve again. “How on earth can you mend my heart, Maeve?” she asked, her words infused with her pain.

“Don’t you see? I’ve come back to you, Catherine.”

Catherine swallowed hard and wondered if Maeve was really suggesting what she seemed to be. “You’re engaged to my brother,” she said plainly. “You’re going to marry my brother. You’re in my house, but you’ve not come back to me.”

Maeve took Catherine’s face in both of her hands and looked imploringly into her eyes. “Yes, yes, I have Catherine! Do you think I could really love Francis? Do you think for a moment I really want to wear these ridiculous clothes? It’s all for you, Catherine, I’ve come back for you.”

“You don’t love Francis?” Catherine ached on her brother’s behalf, still trying to comprehend the remainder of Maeve’s words.

“Not as a wife. He’s dear to me because he’s your brother, of course.”

“Then you cannot marry him, Maeve, it’s too cruel,” Catherine protested.

“I only said yes to him because I knew it would bring me back to you, Catherine. Just think, after we are married, we’ll have all the time we want to be together, alone.”

The extent of what Maeve had planned, expected her to be complicit in, was clear to Catherine finally. She pulled in a strangled breath, forcing the throb of hope away. Too much. It was impossible. “Live a life of lies? Betray Francis?” Yet her heart bled with how much she wanted to consent to any deceit, just to be with Maeve. “And what about the risks? If anyone ever knew...”

“I love you, Catherine. That’s the most important.”

“And I love you, Maeve. So much it nearly killed me.” She paused to draw on her last lingering vestige of strength. “But I cannot be so selfish or so cruel. I did not think you could be. All your talk about freedom and creativity, and you want to reduce our love to something sordid and deceitful!” Catherine was beginning to sob now, because the temptation of what Maeve offered was so great, and her disappointment in Maeve for suggesting it was so profound.

“But for love, Catherine, dear.” Maeve leaned in to kiss Catherine again. Catherine pulled back before their lips met.

“Don’t, Maeve! It’s too much. Marry my brother if you will, I would not have you let him down now. But expect nothing of me beyond sisterhood. My heart has been broken once. I will not risk it again.”

“But Catherine, this is all for you—”

“It is all for yourself, Maeve, don’t you see that? How could you think this is what I’d want?”

“You love me.”

“Yes. I will love you as my sister. But there can be nothing else.” Catherine was astounded by her own resolution, her ability to speak the words so definitely, as her heart strained towards Maeve. She could stand the conversation no longer. She reached up briefly to stroke Maeve’s smooth, pale cheek, pushed past her quickly, and fled to her own chamber, where she gave in to the sobs that tore her throat and chest apart. Maeve did not follow her.

*

This evening, Catherine had been forced to escape to the window seat in the Long Gallery. In the Music Room, Francis was demonstrating his accomplishments on the piano, Maeve gazing at him with eyes full of a love Catherine knew she did not feel. Her mother had been swayed very quickly in favour of the apparently reformed and now charming Maeve Greville, and even her stern father seemed drawn to Maeve’s charms. Only Catherine sat restlessly, the music tormenting her senses, as she watched Maeve, remembering what those lips had felt like against hers, unable to shake herself free of her fascination.

 Worse still, she knew the secrets of Maeve’s heart, understood too well the real reason Maeve was now at Winter. Her brother was so happy, and for that she was glad Maeve had chosen to stay despite her own refusal to succumb to her entreaties. But to live her life with Maeve as her sister, as nothing more, knowing her brother’s marriage could not be a happy one, struck her as worse than being sentenced to all the fires of hell.

She’d left the room hurriedly and escaped to the dark, quiet Long Gallery, with only her oil-painted ancestors for company. Surely none of them had ever felt the sort of sadness she experienced now. She was certain it would press the life from her before too long. Perhaps she would haunt the Long Gallery, crying from a broken heart she could not mend.

*

Later that night, Maeve Greville sat beside the bureau in her chamber, her writing case in front of her. She stroked her fingers over the place where her brass initials, M.G., were inlayed. Not her initials for much longer. Soon she would be Maeve Richmond. It was impossible to conceive of it. Francis was a good man, a truly good man who loved her, but she could not imagine him as a husband. Catherine’s resolute words, her rejection, had shattered her tenuous dream, and now she felt like a predator, but one who had trapped herself in the course of the hunt.

Catherine had spurned her. Her reprimands had stung because they were true. Catherine was disappointed in her, and Maeve knew she had betrayed their pure love that she had treasured above all. She would never have Catherine now. Should she torture both of them by lingering here, going ahead with a marriage she had only ever viewed as means to an end? Could she survive in the dark rooms of Winter Manor, with its fine carpets and heavy curtains, its oppressive tapestries and wallpapers, the disapproving portraits and air of strict moral conduct, haunted by desires she could never act upon? It was a ghastly thing to contemplate. Impossible.

Maeve opened her writing chest and took out a sheet of creamy paper. She reached into the blue velvet lining and drew out a pen and nib, and opened the crystal inkwell. The writing chest had been a gift from her mother the year before she died, and it was one of the most beautiful of her possessions. She dipped the nib of the pen into the ink and began to write.

*

Catherine did not sleep well that night. She awoke long before her maid came to help her dress. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she saw a white envelope on the crimson carpet close to the door. With a feeling of cold dread filling her, she padded over in her bare feet and picked it up, quickly tearing it open.

Dearest Catherine,

I know that you will not allow this letter to be read by any eyes other than your own. By slipping it beneath your door before I depart, I hope it will fall into no other hands.

As you read this, I will already have departed from Winter. I believe I will go to Darlington and travel by train from there to London. Wish me well. I have a fancy I may become an artist’s model, and maybe even a painter myself. I hope you are laughing at me now, Catherine, can you see me sitting still for long enough to be a model?

Oh, Catherine, there are no words for our final goodbye. Your words found their mark in the deepest recesses of my heart, my dear. I cannot be dishonest and marry your brother, whom I do not love as a wife should. I cannot expect you to behave in a manner I now realise would have been not only improper, but quite against your beautiful nature. I have no choice, I must leave Winter. It does me no good to remain here, and it is of even less benefit to you. But knowing we shall not meet again is a pain that is hard to bear.

 I write it now so you might be sure of what I have already confessed. I love you, Catherine. I craved your sweetness in the time we were apart over the winter. I hope you will forgive what I have done, in the knowledge I acted out of love.

I know now that it is not our time, my sweet love. I am sorry that I made you love me in return and for any pain I have caused you. Who would have thought you would turn out to be the wise one of the two of us?

I have quite taken your words to heart, Catherine, and you must know thoughts of you, and your goodness, will guide me through the rest of my life. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross again someday and we will see each other happy, and laugh at all that passed between us? If not, in another place, in another time, maybe our kindred souls will find each other and finally merge together and create a perfect whole. But it is not here and now, and I am afraid we must continue into the world incomplete.

 I will never forget you. When I write or paint, Catherine, you will be my Muse and in my every stroke of the pen or brush.

Now I must leave, whilst Winter still sleeps.

Goodbye, my love. Remember me, if I may ask such a favour.

With the whole of my heart, and hopes for your future happiness,

Your Maeve.

Minutes later, tears she could not hide streaming over her cheeks, Catherine flew, still in her nightgown, along the passageway to Maeve’s chamber. The door was ajar. She opened it gently and peered inside. Francis was sitting on the edge of the bed, a piece of paper in his hand. His expression matched her own, and she swallowed her emotions, for fear of them being discovered.

Maeve was gone. The room was littered with traces of her, the objects she could not carry or had not wished to take. Several gowns were still in the wardrobe, a fan and a pair of gloves were on the foot of the bed, and her writing chest, its inlayed initials a lingering echo of her presence, remained on the mahogany bureau. Even the muted linear elegance of the bureau, a remnant of earlier this century, seemed to mock the turbulence and loss of control she felt in her heart.

“She’s gone, Catherine,” Francis said numbly.

Wordlessly, Catherine walked to her brother and gathered him in her embrace. His heart would heal, in time, she was sure. But nothing had prepared her for the sudden departure of Maeve from her life again, despite her rejection of the impossible subterfuge Maeve had offered. Confronted by her absence, love surged in her contrary heart for the woman who had altered her entire existence. She could not bring herself to regret that alteration, even as her spirit ached now. Knowing Maeve was somewhere in the world, holding her in her heart and loving her still, would have to sustain her. Her love for Maeve would be her guiding light for the rest of her life. Catherine knew nothing nor anyone would ever outshine her.