Prologue
Gwilym’s POV
Since my birth, I possessed everything—affluence, prestige, education, and a nurturing family. My position as Viscount Gwilym Ellsworth, the only son and heir of Earl Clement Ellsworth was one many envied. Nevertheless, I sensed an emptiness inside. A missing element, a subtle piece that would render me complete.
My early childhood memories are sparse, just fragments really. I recall them as happy times. Both father and mother appeared to be happy, and so was I. That changed on the morning I discovered my mother had eloped with a family servant, with whom she had been having an affair. From that day on, my father was a different man; he stopped smiling, laughing, and playing games with me.
Far from fun and games, my days were filled with back-to-back tutoring sessions. Laughter or tears would be met with scolding. Any mistake invited the cane. Unbeknownst to me, my father arranged for my transfer to Harrow School at thirteen. In exchange for sponsoring my tutors, he demanded they inform him of my conduct at the boarding school.
Seeking my father’s approval, I rose to become Head Boy, captained the cricket team, excelled academically, and gained acceptance into Oxford University, where my father is a distinguished patron. Yet, despite these achievements, they never appeared to fulfil his expectations.
During my time at Oxford, whenever friends introduced me to their female acquaintances, my father would invariably intervene.
“Women are vile creatures,” my father would often remark upon seeing me with a female companion. “They have you dancing in the palm of their hands, manipulating you to cater to their every whim. And when they grow tired of you, they will discard you like rubbish.”
It was evident that he wished to spare me the same misfortune as his marriage, so he arranged for me to wed the sole, albeit delicate, daughter of a wealthy family nearing bankruptcy. Thus, at the age of one-and-twenty, I married Miss Penelope Hamilton on September 16th, 1877. A year hence, she bore our first son, Hartley, inheriting her fragile constitution.
How unfortunate I was, having expended all my efforts to win my father’s affection, enduring five years of marriage to a woman I found displeasing, and contending with a frail heir. To escape these displeasures, I secluded myself in my study, immersing myself in work as a sanctuary.
Seeking respite from this domestic turmoil, I eagerly accepted party invitations in Oxford or London. Yet, my reluctance to engage with any woman but my wife left me uneasy in social settings. This persisted until an old university friend coaxed me into attending the annual Debutante Ball in London.
“It will be fun!” my friend James Bennett said. “A fresh batch of flowers is set to blossom this year! Banish your boredom and join me on a trip to London!”
I agreed, albeit reluctantly, as it was the only means to evade my father and my worthless wife. Thus, I found myself in the company of James, en route to London for the Debutante’s Ball. It is a significant event where debutantes are presented to society, ostensibly to find suitable marriage prospects that would ensure their family’s financial stability. This concept conjured up images of these young women being paraded like precious, priceless antiques.
I pondered to myself, “Their lives were likely as controlled as mine. How wonderful it would be to have the freedom to choose one’s own spouse...”
Meanwhile, James, oblivious to my muttered words, was engrossed in the company of several women, regardless of their marital status. I found myself envying James for his carefree upbringing. Would I be living James’ life now if I had been granted more freedom in my youth? These musings were cut short when I saw her.
A young woman with golden hair neatly tied into a bun, a fair and pale complexion, and glistening blue eyes resembling diamonds. Clad in white like her fellow debutantes, she bore the appearance of an angel descended from heaven. Her beauty was striking. The way her smile brightened her face, how her cheeks tinted with a blush of embarrassment, and her manner of mingling with the other guests captivated everyone around.
For the first time in my life, I felt exhilarated. Her presence brightened up my dull and grey world, painting my surroundings with colour. Was she the elusive piece necessary to make me whole?
“Gwilym!”
The sound of James’s voice made me jump, snapping me back to reality.
“Who were you looking at?” he inquired, gazing at my face with curiosity. “Let me guess, did one of those blossomed flowers catch your eye?”
“Who is that young woman over there?” I asked, slightly bewildered.
James followed my gaze and noticed the young woman who had captured my attention across the ballroom. She was in the company of a young man who seemed to be about my age. Despite the striking beauty, I observed some resemblance between the two; however, his hair was brunette, not golden. An older woman accompanied the pair, seemingly engaged in a serious conversation with the girl while the man watched on.
“Have you not heard of Mrs. Adeline Blackwell?” James exclaimed in astonishment. “She is the wealthy widow of the late Mr. Neville Blackwell. A well-known philanthropist. The young lady is her niece, Miss Laura Chynoweth. The anticipation to see Miss Chynoweth has been particularly high. Rumours of her incredible beauty have circulated, and now, witnessing it firsthand, I understand the reasons for such acclaim.”
“Indeed it is,” I replied.
Laura Chynoweth. A name so beautiful it echoed in my thoughts. I could not bear to let go of even a single syllable.
“What about the gentleman with brunette hair who is with them?” I asked, turning my attention to the man accompanying the girl and her aunt.
“That is Detective Inspector Alfred Chynoweth,” replied James. “He is Mrs. Blackwell’s nephew and Miss Chynoweth’s elder brother. It is said that they were orphaned at a young age due to their parents’ tragic demise. Mrs. Blackwell, their father’s younger sister, took them under her wing. Rumour has it that she was quite displeased when Alfred Chynoweth chose a career at Scotland Yard over becoming the heir to her estate.”
I clicked my tongue silently upon hearing what my friend had disclosed about Miss Chynoweth—rather, Laura’s older brother. I reminded myself to be wary of him, particularly because he held the position of Detective Inspector.
It was well past midnight by the time I returned to Whitemarsh Hall. As I entered, the butler and maid promptly took my coat and hat, and there, to my dismay, stood my wife at the top of the grand staircase.
“Gwilym!” she exclaimed, “Did you stay out all night again? Little Hartley had another asthma attack tonight, and it was worse than the last one. Would it not be better to spend more time with your son?”
“It is none of our concern!” I retorted sharply, “I will check on Hartley tomorrow, but I am utterly exhausted, woman!”
I briskly brushed past Penelope, eager to avoid further interaction with my wife. As I entered my room, I collapsed onto the bed, undoing my tie and unbuttoning my shirt, seeking comfort. Laura Chynoweth. Her remarkable visage was indelibly imprinted in my memory. How could I ever forget her golden hair, her fair complexion, and those sparkling blue eyes?
The image of Laura remained in my thoughts, starkly contrasting with the forlorn appearance of my wife. Her mousy brown hair, her delicate and slender figure, and the gentle timidity in her voice, except when anger or seriousness took hold. I stay with Penelope solely because of Hartley, a child who needs their mother.
“Laura Chynoweth,” I quietly repeated the name. “Who are you to disturb someone’s heart?”
At that moment, I realised I desired Laura Chynoweth for myself. Casting aside considerations of my father, my wife, and my responsibilities as an heir, I was determined to have her at any cost. Even if it meant descending into the depths of hell.
