In any large gathering-be it a market, a theater, a ballroom-she had a tendency to freeze, almost literally. More to the point, she didn’t do anything in crowds. Instead, she was stuck with a very different sort of stepmother-one eager to dress her in silks, send her to dances, and thrust her into the arms of an unsuspecting prince.Īt best, Maddie was expected to fetch a third son with aspirations to the Church, or perhaps an insolvent baronet. Maddie would have been thrilled to have a wicked stepmother lock her in the tower while everyone else went to the ball. Oh, to be Cinderella in all her soot-smeared, rag-clad misery. One a mere eight years older than Maddie herself.

When she had time to ramble out of doors, anything in Nature was fair game-from the shoots of clover between her toes to any cloud that meandered overhead.Īnd thus, at sixteen years old, she found herself staring down her first London season with approximately as much joy as one might anticipate a dose of purgative.Īfter many years as a widower, Papa had taken a new wife. She sketched songbirds when she was supposed to be minding her lessons, and she sketched church mice when she was meant to be at prayer. She kept them tucked in her apron pockets and speared in her upswept dark hair, and sometimes-when she needed all her limbs for climbing a tree or vaulting a fence rail-clenched in her teeth.Īnd she wore them down to nubs. In fact, she usually carried two or three. She only knew she could not recall a time she’d been without one. Maddie could not remember the first time she’d held a drawing pencil.

This will come as a shock, I fear, but you fell deeply in love with me when we did not cross paths in Brighton. The greatest ninny to ever draw breath in England. And that is that you, my dear delusion, do not exist to read it.īut I run ahead of myself. There is but one consolation in writing this absurd letter.

When a scot ties a knot