PART ONE

Chapter 1

Everything was in disarray at the Cartwright mansion in Charleston. Mrs. Susan Cartwright had uncovered her husband’s secret affair with a young Frenchwoman, once their children’s governess. She had bluntly informed William that she could no longer bear to live under the same roof as him. For three long days, this tension filled the grand halls, and it was palpable to everyone in the household. Not only William and Susan, but the children, servants, and even the occasional visitor sensed that the house was no longer a home. It felt more like a stranger’s inn where each guest was a fleeting passerby, bound by nothing but circumstance.

Susan had confined herself to her bedroom, refusing to see anyone, while William had vanished from the house, leaving the family to its own chaos. The children, without supervision, roamed wildly through the gardens and corridors. The English governess had quarreled bitterly with the housekeeper and penned a letter to a friend, seeking a new position far from Charleston. The cook had left abruptly the previous evening, just before supper, and both the coachman and the kitchen maid had given their notices.

On the third morning after the quarrel, William Cartwright—known simply as William in Charleston society—awoke at his usual hour, eight o’clock, not in his wife’s bedchamber, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He stirred, his body sinking into the plush leather as if he could drift back into a deeper sleep, clutching his pillow and burying his face in it. But suddenly, he bolted upright, blinking into the morning light.

“Yes, yes... what was it now?” he thought, trying to piece together his fading dream. “Oh yes! Alabin was hosting a grand supper in Savannah... no, it wasn’t Savannah, it was something far grander—New Orleans! Yes, yes, the supper was in New Orleans. Alabin had glass tables, and the tables themselves sang...” His eyes twinkled at the memory, and a contented smile crept across his lips. “Yes, it was marvelous. There was so much more, but I can’t quite recall it now. Dreams are funny that way.”

Sunlight spilled through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a golden sliver on the floor. With a sigh, William swung his feet over the side of the sofa, searching for his slippers. They were a birthday gift from Susan—delicately embroidered with gold thread on soft morocco leather. Like every morning for the past nine years, he reached out instinctively toward the place where his dressing gown hung—except today, it wasn’t there. Reality hit him like a tidal wave: he wasn’t in his wife’s room. He was in his study. And he remembered why.

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The smile evaporated from his face, his brow furrowing as the weight of his circumstances came crashing down.

“Ah, damn it...” he muttered, rubbing his temples as the events of the last few days played in his mind like a bad play, one where he was both the villain and the fool. Every detail of their argument was seared into his memory, and the worst part of it all was that he knew it was his fault. All of it.

“She won’t forgive me... and how could she?” he thought bitterly. “It’s all my doing, though I didn’t mean for things to end up this way. That’s what makes this so hopeless.”

He groaned, running his hands through his tousled hair, recalling the scene with painful clarity. He had returned from the theater that night, in high spirits, holding a ripe pear for Susan, thinking it would amuse her. He had walked into the drawing room, surprised not to find her there, then wandered into the study, and finally, he had found her—sitting silently in her room. She wasn’t fussing over some household issue, as she normally would. No, this time, she was holding that damned letter. The letter that had exposed everything.

His Susan, usually so small-minded in his opinion, so wrapped up in trivial matters, was sitting completely still, the letter grasped tightly in her hand. Her face was pale, her eyes burning with disbelief, rage, and betrayal.

“What is this?” she had asked, her voice barely above a whisper but sharp enough to cut through him like glass.

And as William relived that moment, he felt a familiar surge of shame. Not for what he had done, but for how he had responded. Instead of denying it, or defending himself, or even apologizing—anything would have been better—he had smiled. That same idiotic, good-natured smile he wore in society, the one that came to his face without any thought at all.

He could never forgive himself for that smile. The moment Susan saw it, she had flinched as if struck, then her temper had flared. She had screamed, letting loose a torrent of bitter words, and stormed out of the room. Since that moment, she had refused to see him.

“That damn smile,” William thought bitterly, clenching his fists. “It’s what ruined everything. But what now? What can I do to fix this?”

And once again, no answer came.

Lord, what a mess, he thought bitterly. What a damned mess.