Chapter One,

Carrisford Manor

It all seemed so long ago when Mr. Carrisford, or George as I am permitted to call him, took me away from the wretched existence in Miss Minchin's School for Girls in New York. I'd wanted to return to India, my childhood home, but George informed me that we were to journey to England, where some of the best finishing schools were, as my father stated in his last will. Becky came along with me, and was secured a position in George's vast and wondrous mansion, Carrisford Manor, in Kent.

The new school was called St. Mary's, and I was instructed in many things. I was considered one of the best French pupils, but I did not speak about my time in America, nor in India, for I did not want to appear to stick out as I once had. The school uniforms were an improvement, too—a simple gray or black floor-length gown, stockings, and black buckle shoes. On holidays—summers, Christmas, and Thanksgiving—I would journey from London back to Kent where I would attend grand parties held by the Carrisford family.

And then, suddenly, I was no longer a little girl anymore. Slowly but surely, my childhood and girlhood had ended, and I was fifteen years of age. I had returned home for Christmas having not seen George for a year, for my close friend, Charlotte, had invited me to come to her own home in Oxford for the summer holidays, her family treating me as if I was one of their own. Even now, knowing that I would see her again in approximately four weeks, I missed our lazy afternoons after final exams, walking through the park of our school, or simply sitting in the library reading.

I penned a letter to her as the carriage departed from London and into the swirling snow. I wrote that, thankfully, the wheels were not becoming wedged into the ice, like they had last Christmas, where I'd nearly gone into a ditch. I told her that I would ask George at once if she could come and stay with us during the following summer, pending her friendly father, Lord James, and her kindly mother, Lady Mary's, permission.

Lord James and Lady Mary were quite wonderful individuals who quite took me under their wing immediately as soon as Charlotte introduced me to them as her best friend. With their four other children: Jane, William, Henry, and Lydia, Charlotte was the only one currently in finishing school. Jane had gotten married and Lydia was too young. William was on tour in the army and Henry was studying law at Cambridge.

We drove through a small village where the carriage driver drove more slowly through the cobblestone streets. We stopped for a brief period to rest the horses and I went directly to the ladies' room of a grand hotel. I asked for a cup of hot tea while I opted not to sit by the fire, but remain by the window to watch the snow and finish my letter. A maid returned with my tea and half a dozen shortbread cookies on a plate. I thanked her and gave her a few shillings before returning to my letter, making sure I didn't get any ink blots anywhere. The lady brought me more cookies before I left and I tucked them into a handkerchief and gave them willingly to my carriage driver, who was grateful for something to eat.

I pulled the blanket of the carriage closer to me, and securely shut the windows in a wave of cold as we continued on through the village. I'd been sure to postmark the correct address within the letter, but thankfully the hotel clerk was willing to mail it to Charlotte for me. I mentally counted the days again, until Christmas would be over and I could return to school. It would be around thirty-one days before our reunion, and I hoped that she would keep me informed about her holiday.

We passed by a frozen lake about five miles east of the manor, and I wondered if the lake nearby would be safe enough to skate on. Given that my dear father left everything to me, and George himself was so wealthy, I'd grown up quite well and was permitted to take lessons in whatever I pleased. Languages, arts, dancing, singing, literature, mathematics, science, or instruments… The list went on and on, and I was unsure what, if anything, I was being prepared for, knowing that, if I chose to do so, that the subject of marriage would eventually be brought up.

We came to the manor and I peeked through the window, judging that it looked just as I remembered it. Looking up at what I once believed were imposing walls, now resembled old friends in their cherry-wood bricks. I stepped out of the Carrisford carriage and instructed the servants to take my bags to my rooms as Ram Dass, George's right-hand man, comes out of the house as the snow begins to swirl around us.

"Ram Dass!" I call out to him as I step forward, my fur-lined boots crunching on the falling snow. "I do hope you are well. Happy Christmas."

Ram Dass smiles, his kind, deep brown eyes taking me in. "You look wonderful, Miss Crewe," he says, kissing my hand politely before offering me his arm as his little monkey crawls onto his opposite shoulder. "Mr. Carrisford is awaiting you in the parlor."

I nod and take his arm as we walk through the grand double doors of the manor. I allow the housekeeper to remove my overcoat and boots and most gratefully slip my feet into house shoes. My fur-lined cap comes off next and my red-gold curls tumble down and frame my face. The housekeeper, Mrs. Fields, smiles indulgently and waves the pair of us into the parlor, where Ram Dass lets me go and walks to an opposite window to give me and George some privacy.

With a kind look from Ram Dass, I know I am permitted to speak. "George?" I say softly, stepping forward and sitting across from him.

His eyes light up when he sees me. Though it has been four years, George has the same face as he did when he first rescued me. "Ah, my dear, dear child," he says, holding out his hands towards me. "You will be perfect, Sara," he tells me, nodding.

I blink. I cannot understand what he is talking about. Surely, it has something to do with my schooling... "Perfect for what?" I ask.

"The queen is celebrating her Diamond Jubilee next summer. She will have been on the throne for sixty years. I've just received word that I will be one of the lucky gentleman to be knighted on this grand occasion."

"Knighted? George, that's wonderful!" I cry.

He nods. "Yes," he replies. "You shall come with me. You shall be sixteen by the time the ceremony happens, the proper time for a debut into society. You haven't been running around with boys, have you, Sara?"

"No," I say firmly, feeling uncomfortable at the very mention of discussing this particular topic with him. "Of course not."

"What do you spend your time at school doing?" he asked as our tea was brought in for the two of us. He took a piece of bread from the tray table and spread some fig jam onto it as he watched me with a kind smile, waiting for my answer. I watched and noticed how careful he with not getting any jam on burgundy silk tie, and wondered why he seemed to be questioning me about my activities. Perhaps the tie had been a gift from his dead son Ralph…

"Reading or speaking with Charlotte," I replied.

"Ah, yes, Miss Charlotte Lambert. I served with her father, Lord Lambert, in the

army days so very long ago."

"You know Lord James?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yes. Good man. Has two sons, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're not," I reply. "William and Henry are his sons."

He smiles. "William is serving as well?"

I nod, taking my cup of tea. "Yes, he's on tour now, I believe. Henry is studying law at Cambridge. Charlotte is going to see him."

"All on her own? That's not proper, even if he is her brother," George said, shaking his head as he chewed his bread.

"Lord James and Lady Mary are going with her," I reply.

"And what of their other children? They've got two other daughters, haven't they, Sara?" he asks.

"Yes. Jane and Lydia."

"And where are they this snowy day?"

"Lydia is accompanying Lord James and Lady Mary to Cambridge. It's her first time going to see Henry at school and, by all accounts, she's very excited to see the city."

"That will be good for her," George says, nodding in approval. "And what of the eldest daughter? Jane, is it?"

"Jane is married and lives in Ipswich," I reply. "Her husband is a doctor there on the coast. Lydia is staying with them for the holidays. Jane and her husband, Robert, are to have a baby very soon."

George looks uncomfortable at that, and I remember that, in proper conversation, that you didn't discuss such things with men. Lowering my eyes, I know he will know that I understand my faux pas, and he will dismiss it, for it was the gentlemanly thing to do. "You must be tired Sara."

I raise my eyes back to his. "Very much."

He nods. "Very well. You may journey upstairs. I'm sure Becky has begun to unpack your trunk. Why not go upstairs and assist her? I know you like to do that sort of thing."

I force myself not to breathe a sigh of relief. "Yes, thank you, George." Rising to my feet, I cross towards him to kiss his cheek. "I shall see you for supper, then?" I ask him.

He nods. "Yes. Go along upstairs now."

I turn and walk from the room, giving Ram Dass a quick smile as I go up the grand staircase, my shoes making no sound on the carpets. I go down the corridor and turn left and open the door to my suite of rooms, where I see Becky, now twenty years of age, unpacking my clothes. "Becky?"

She turns, smiling at me. She crosses the room and embraces me briefly before pulling back, which is when I get a look at her. "Becky!" I cry out. "You're to have another baby?"

She nods. "Yes. John and I are simply over the moon."

"How do Josephine and Thomas feel about it?" I ask, walking past her to hang one of my cloaks in my wardrobe.

She chuckles, her mind drifting to her five-year-old daughter and her three-year-old son. "Josephine is delighted, but Thomas doesn't fully understand what is going to happen."

I nod, returning to the side of my trunk and handing another cloak. "Charlotte is to go to Cambridge to see Henry," I say softly.

Becky grins. "Does Master Henry still write you letters?" she asks.

I feel my cheeks heat as I recall the summer before, where Henry stole a kiss from beneath an oak tree…

. . .

It had been such a sunny day, and Charlotte and I had been for a long walk on the grounds of her family home. She'd gone inside to get us lemonade, and I'd waited in the shade beneath the tree. Henry, home for two weeks from school, had discovered me there, a smile playing at his lips.

"Miss Sara Crewe," he said, looking me up and down.

"Master Henry," I replied, being sure to keep my voice clipped. "How are you this afternoon? Glad to be at home?"

He kept walking towards me, and I knew that, should we be discovered, it would have been a good and proper scolding for the both of us. "Miss Sara, you've grown up quite a bit since I saw you last. Tell me, now... How many years has it been since then? One? Two?"

"Three," I reply, remembering coming to the place shortly before my twelfth birthday, and being overjoyed when Lord James and Lady Mary organized a party for me. "I was twelve when you saw me last."

"Ah, yes, the birthday party," he says fondly. "I believe my mother and father gifted you with a pearl necklace, a new gown, seven bolts of fabric, a cloak, and a painting done of Her Majesty the queen."

I raised my eyebrows then at his recollection of a mere girls' birthday gifts; my birthday gifts. "Yes. Well, I was very grateful to them."

He proceeded to fiddle with his tennis racket, something that, by this point, had gone unnoticed on my part. "Charlotte tells me you lived in New York for nearly two years."

I nod, forcing myself not to bite my lip in a moment of pain. It was Henry's fault at not remembering the years, I decided. I'd told Charlotte on more than one occasion of the years I'd spent suffering in the dreary State of New York. I no longer spoke like a street urchin; rather, I spoke in a refined, upper-class English accent which was my pride and joy. "Four, actually, almost five. It was a troubling time for me."

"She said that you went to a boarding school there while your father fought in the war," he went on.

I nodded, not knowing why I was prolonging the conversation at all. "Yes. My headmistress was a cruel and brutal woman, virtually imprisoning me after my father's death. I was destitute for nearly one more year before George—Mr. Carrisford—took me in as his own."

"Do you know what you want to do, Sara? May I call you 'Sara'?" he asks, closing the distance between us even more. At my nod, he continues, "Do you know, Sara, what you wish to do? Do with your life, I mean. Have you given it any consideration?"

"Yes, of course," I reply, stung that he thought me a silly girl who had no notion as to what I wished the future to bring. "I suppose I shall want to be a teacher. I do love children dearly. I shall also want to tell stories."

"You are a storyteller?" he asks.

I smile up at him. "Yes. Living in India for the first seven years of my life, I learned much from the myths there."

"What is a myth to you, Sara?"

"Something that is not originally true, yet is made true by many people speaking of it," I reply, my voice catching in my throat then as he continued closer to me. "I suppose anything can begin as a myth."

He reaches out carefully and slowly, so as not to frighten me, and cups my cheek with one hand. "You care for my sister?"

"Of course I do. She is my dearest friend in all the world."

"I know Charlotte cares for you a great deal, Sara."

"As I do her," I reply.

"As I do you," he says.

I know we've strayed from the topic, and I know we must bring it back to the subject of myths, and quickly… "What do you think of myths as a subject, Henry? I am curious… Do you study them at Cambridge?"

"They are discussed, yes."

"And what, pray tell, is the main myth brought up in discussion?"

"The myth of love," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper and his lips come down then and make contact with mine.

I am numb, and I force myself not to move beneath him. I make no sound as he continues his kiss, and, though his hands stray for a moment to my waist, he does not push, and soon breaks it off. I lower my eyes, hoping that it will be he who speaks first. When he does not, I break the silence. "Love, sir? I am afraid I do not know what you mean."

"That," he says, taking his index finger and running it across my lips, "is, thus far, a deep secret."

I purse my lips. "Yes, I see…"

"May I write to you?"

It is such an unexpected statement that I cannot help but raise my eyes to him and in much more than a reserved tone, I say, "I—I don't…"

"May I write to you, Sara Crewe?"

I blink, shaking my head briefly at him. "A mere woman cannot stop a man from doing as he wants, Master Henry. The only woman who could is Queen Victoria. I am not a queen, nor called Victoria. If you wished to write to me, there is your answer, good sir."

He cups my cheek a final time before kissing it and darting back to the tennis courts to finish his game.

. . .

"Sara?" Becky's voice calls me back to the present and I quickly snap my gaze back to her. "Come on. We've got to finish this unpacking."

I sigh, shaking out another cloak and hanging it in the wardrobe. I tell her about my schooling and about Charlotte's plans—as well as Jane's condition—and soon we've finished. Becky returns to the kitchens to prepare supper while I cross to my window seat and watch the snow fall.

I know why George wished to bring me to the Diamond Jubilee with him. I knew that, other than a coming out, it was to be to discuss my prospects. As I would be sixteen, I was deemed on the lower spectrum of a marriageable age. I dreaded the thought and the constitution of marriage. I wondered if I was permitted not to marry at all, but the thought of never having children devastated me.

I rose from my window seat and walked towards my other door in my bedroom, which led to my library and sitting room. Crossing the vast space, I threw open the curtains so as I could still gaze at the falling snow, and so that I could watch it while reading a book. Feeling slightly chilled, I pulled the servant's bell and ordered a fire lit.

After it was lit, I stood before it for a moment, extending my fingers slightly forward to warm them just above the embers. I'd since removed my gloves, and the deliciousness of the fire's warmth managed to coax me from my fear at coming out in society, as well as my forthcoming marriage. Perhaps it wouldn't be so very bad after all. I could make a good match…

Two maids entered with a fair amount of wood and proceeded to leave even more firewood behind, before curtsying to me and withdrawing as I thanked them. I advanced towards the cherry wood bookshelf with the newest books—every few months, George would send away for books for me—and selected one called Ida Brandt. From whispered conversations at St. Mary's, I'd heard that it was about a young nurse who attempted to fit in with her colleagues.

I'd once considered being a nurse, so long ago, when I was finally let go by Miss Minchin, and permitted to be free. Now that I was in London, teaching was by far more appealing, and I considered becoming a governess to a rich family. What with my vast fortune—which would come to me on my eighteenth birthday if I was married, or my twenty-first birthday if I was not—I didn't really consider anything long-term.

Holding the book, I sat at the window seat again, watching the swirling snow cover everything in a vast whiteness. My eyelids grew heavy—as did the book in my lap —and slowly I fell asleep. I was awoken when the tips of the sky began to grow dark by Becky, who was instructed to change me into more appropriate attire before dinner.

I changed into a smart gray gown trimmed modestly with lace and journeyed downstairs with Ram Dass to the dining hall. I sat straight and erect beside George, for I'd never really liked the foot of the table. A pleasant-looking roast chicken was brought in, along with potatoes, greens, many kinds of bread, and more greens proceeded from the kitchens. George whispered that Cook was busy making my favorite cake—a light, white fluffy thing with raspberry filling.

I clapped my hands, along with George and Ram Dass, at the kitchen's dinner and thanked them all. I was served everything, and ate rather well. I told George my progress with languages—I'd mastered English and French at such a young age, along with Hindi—but he'd sought instruction for me in Latin, Greek, and Italian as well. I'd mastered Latin quickly, and Italian was becoming conversational, but I could not grasp Greek, no matter how hard I tried.

The cake was brought up merely a half an hour after the supper was brought, along with a letter on Mrs. Field's little silver platter, where all of George's letters came. I peeked and watched his reaction as he opened and read it, waiting to see if he would pull Ram Dass into another room, and leave me here at this vast cherry wood table to eat alone. I pretended to be fully absorbed in my cake, and watched as George nodded to Ram Dass, and pulled his head a little toward me. I knew then that the contents of the letter had to be about me, although good or bad I could not tell.

"Sara, as soon as you've finished with that, please come into the sitting room. I would like to have a word with you."

"Yes, George," I replied obediently, making doubly sure that my mouth wasn't full of cake.

George nodded and quickly withdrew in a sweep of deep blue velvet, Ram Dass remaining with me at the table.

"Was it about me?" I asked softly.

He sighed, not wanting to betray his master, yet wishing to inform me of its contents nonetheless. "It was, but that is all I will say, Miss Sara," he said in a neutral manner.

I nodded doubtfully, finishing my cake in record time and taking his offered arm to journey into the sitting room. I sat across from George, legs crossed accordingly, hands in my lap, waiting for him to speak. "George?" I asked when he said nothing, his head still bent over his letter. "I am here."

"To be sure," he said, straightening in his chair. "I've just received a letter from your headmistress, Mrs. Audley."

"Yes?" I asked, perplexed.

"She's informed me that your intelligence far surpasses any of the girls in any form they have to offer. After the holidays are over, you will conclude your time at the school, graduating with the winter class."

I lower my eyes, not expecting this, and dreading my time away from Charlotte. "I see," I reply. "Where shall I go after that?"

"Mrs. Audley is an old friend of Her Majesty. She's managed to get you an audience with Queen Victoria, who can perhaps come up with a worthy alternative."

I raise my eyes. "The queen! But…"

"What, Sara? Are you prepared to refuse this honor?"

"No, of course not, George. I…" I sigh, feeling foolish, but it must be said. "I have nothing appropriate to wear for such a thing…"

He nodded. "Of course. Dressmakers shall come here during the holidays and have you outfitted for the occasion. Charlotte's parents live in town during the main part of the year, do they not?"

I nod. "Yes. Their London house is fifteen minutes away from our school, and a mere twenty from Buckingham Palace."

George nodded a second time. "Good. I shall write to them and inform them of the news. I shall ask them if they wouldn't mind keeping you with them until your audience with the queen."

I bow my head. "As you like, George."

I manage to run from the room as soon as it is appropriate, and dash up the stairs, pausing momentarily upon the landing to catch my breath before darting into my rooms, shutting the door hastily, and remaining there for a moment, taking a bit of time to decide what I should do. In no time at all, I flit over to my desk and find parchment, ink, and a feather quill. Lighting my lamp, I dip the quill into the ink and hastily begin to write.

Charlotte—

I am terribly sorry, but the pleasantries will have to wait. I am shaking like a leaf at this unexpected news... Mrs. Audley has written to George and informed him that my schooling with her is now complete. She's spoken with Queen Victoria and asked her to have an audience with me, and I am so fearful that I shall say or do the wrong thing. It seems as if Queen Victoria shall determine my fate. I fear that I will not please her.

What shall I do, Charlotte? I cannot disappoint our sovereign! What if she marries me off to an elderly man because I displease her? What if she banishes me back to New York? You know as well as I do that she does not care for children, Charlotte, and perhaps I may still be considered a child to her, due to certain things involving my physicality... Do not disappoint me in the haste of your reply, my friend, for I would do very well by your hasty advice, especially in this matter.

Do send my best to your mother and father for me. They've always shown me such kindness and perhaps their kindness would assist me and keep me most mindful of the queen's likes and dislikes in this most troubling time. I cannot bear to even consider me bringing displeasure onto a ruler, for I know that, despite the fact that my fate rests with her, that she could and would wish to keep me away from her if displeasure occurs. Perhaps I should hide myself away for a time, and allow Her Majesty to forget all about me, though I know Mrs. Audley is a most determined woman who would not allow one of her charges not to act anything but ladylike. But perhaps some other young girl could come forth and distract her from planning my future—and, ultimately, my marriage and thus, my fate.

I don't bother signing it—Charlotte will recognize my urgent plea for help, as I'd been there for her when, unexpectedly last summer, a suitor came calling at her family home. Thankfully her father refused her to be married until she was at least sixteen years of age, for although her father so valued tradition, he knew full well how unready Charlotte herself was for such a life changing event. The man went away the following day, for to send a suitor away with an empty stomach would be considered doubly rude.

I managed hand the letter immediately off to Becky, who discreetly brings it to my private messenger and I wash the ink from the tips of my hands, lest someone else come to call upon me before bed. I tidy up my desk, corking the bottle of ink, and leaving my quill by the window to dry. I restack my papers and tuck them away inside the desk—valuing organization second only to honesty above all things—before going across the room and sitting down upon my bed.

I proceed to unlace my black shoes, but stop as I shake my head. "Sara Crewe

meeting the queen," I whisper to myself, and find myself chuckling at this, knowing that, such a short time ago, it seems, I was as thin as a reed and garbed in a plain, ratted black dress. And this all at the hands of the woman entrusted with my very person, and my education. "If Miss Minchin could see me now…"