CHAPTER 1

      May 1905

      Hampshire, England

      “Americans are different, Mother.”

      Lyndy pulled on the lapels of his morning coat and paced the room, studying the portraits lining the walls, as he had since childhood. The pale faces stared down at him with disapproval, or so he always thought. Some wore lace ruffs; others, long curly wigs; two were in full dress uniform; and one countess clutched a silver, pearl-encrusted cross. All his ancestors, God forbid, dour and boring to the last. Not unlike the many prospects his parents had paraded past him during the Season in London over the years. Was different too much to hope for?

      “Not this one. I have your father’s assurances.”

      Papa looked up from the map he’d spread out on the small satinwood inlaid table between the French windows, the vase of pink peonies he’d displaced near his feet on the floor. Lyndy glanced over his father’s shoulder at the map, a partial sketch of a region in the American West called Wyoming.

      “Yes, Frances. She’s quite the young lady, or so I’ve been told.” Lord of the manor he may be, but Papa was far too willing to give Mother her assurances.

      “Perhaps Miss Kendrick will be one of these radical Americans we’ve all heard of,” Lyndy said, peering out the window. A pair of ponies emerged from the woodland and drank from the grassy edge of the pond. “Maybe she’ll drink Irish whiskey instead of coffee after dinner.” That would be a bit much even for Lyndy, but Mother needn’t know that.

      Papa, bent over, studying his map again, laughed.

      “I don’t know how you can find any of this humorous, William. If it were not for your . . . hobbies”—Mother waved an accusing finger at Papa’s map—“we might not be in this predicament.”

      “The boy was only joking.”

      “Was I?”

      Mother raised her eyes, appealing to a higher power for forbearance.

      What would be so wrong with a woman taking a sip of whiskey now and then? Like so many of society’s rules, it seemed archaic. Like the one not allowing them to sell any land. It was their land, wasn’t it? Or the one enabling his parents to determine his fate. It was his life, wasn’t it?

      “Lyndy, why must you always—” Mother began.

      “My lord, the guests have arrived.” Another quarrel averted. Fulton always did have impeccable timing.

      * * *

      “Move over,” Daddy grumbled. “You’re too far to the left.”

      Stella ignored him. She was having too much fun. Digging her heel in, she lifted as far out of her seat as she could. The chimneys of Morrington Hall, reflecting in the first rays of sun in days, jutted up in the distance, above the ancient trees, and she wanted to see more.

      But Stella wasn’t used to driving from the right side of the car. Feeling the wheels pull toward the middle of the road again, she steered sharply to the right, instead of the left. The vehicle swerved to the right, crossed the lane, and headed straight for the open heathland, a rolling patchwork of ferns, heather, bright green grazing lawns, and yellow flowering gorse bushes, before she corrected the wheel.

      “For God’s sake, sit down!”

      Stella plopped back down into the black leather seat of the brand-new 22 hp Daimler automobile and stole a glance at Daddy. He stared straight ahead, nose in the air, gray hairs protruding out of his ears. With his bottom waistcoat button undone to accommodate his considerable girth, he clutched his leather bag tighter to his chest. Too bad she wasn’t leaving him at Morrington Hall instead of Tully. She sighed.

      Oh, Tully.

      Pushing aside the pale pink motoring veil billowing around her face, she pictured the parade of wagons following her. Daddy had spared no expense in assuring the comfort and safety of his prize thoroughbreds: fresh air and fresh hay on the ship; a refitted first-class carriage on the train; the customized ambulance wagons for the trip from Southampton; and a groom, Roy, to tend to them personally. She’d enjoyed every minute of the ten-day trip from Bronson Ridge Farm, their home in Kentucky. It was her first trip to England. It was her first trip anywhere besides New York and Newport. But the adventure was bittersweet. Even now, with Morrington Hall within sight, she couldn’t reconcile losing her best friend. When she returned home, she’d be leaving her horse behind.

      “Watch out for that buggy up ahead,” Daddy warned.

      Orson, the stallion inside the lead wagon, snorted and stomped as the skittish bay mare pulled the buggy past. Stella waved, but the buggy’s driver scowled at the strange conveyance.

      “Tell me again why you’re giving Orson, Tupper, and Tully to this viscount, Lord Lyndhurst?” Stella asked.

      “If Cicero wins the Derby at Epsom this week, Orson, being his sire, will be the most valuable stud in England.”

      “Then why give him away? And why give up Tupper? You expected her to win the Belmont Stakes this year.” Daddy might breed some of the best racehorses in the world, but even so, prospects like Tupper were rare.

      “Because it suits me.”

      “But why Tully, Daddy?” He knew she was Stella’s favorite.

      Silence.

      Stella gripped the steering wheel as tightly as she could. The automobile glided down the wooded lane, its blue metallic fenders gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. Gnarled oak, redwood, ancient beech, yew, and holly towered above them. Silence. Having lost all feeling in her fingers, Stella loosened her grip and inhaled. The air smelled fresh, earthy, and sweet after the morning’s rain. How could she be upset on a day like this?

      “Don’t you want to ride Tully while you’re here?” Daddy said.

      “You know I do.” Could Daddy have brought the horse to please her? “You’re not giving Tully to the viscount?”

      “Why would I do that?”

      Truly? The kind gesture was so unlike him. But then, so was inviting her to accompany him on this trip. What brought about this change? Whatever it was, she couldn’t be more grateful for it.

      “I haven’t thanked you for bringing me along on this trip, Daddy.”

      “No need. Just drive,” Daddy said as Stella smiled at him. Daddy had never been one for any demonstration of affection.

      “Like this?” Stella, biting her lip, pushed down on the accelerator. How fast could this car go?

      Stella laughed as she caught a glimpse in her side-view mirror of Great-Aunt Rachel in the backseat. The old lady, wrinkles deep around her puckered mouth, clutched her hat, the plume of black ostrich feathers flapping in the breeze. Her squinting eyes—dark blue, like Stella’s own—popped open.

      “Whoa,