Born of Persuasion Read online

  Praise for Jessica Dotta

  “With a voice you’ll love, Jessica Dotta paints a vivid portrait in words, drawing her readers through an unexpected maze of plot twists. Born of Persuasion is a story of betrayal and perseverance, rich with unforgettable characters.”

  CINDY WOODSMALL

  New York Times bestselling author of The Winnowing Season

  “A fascinating cast of characters and breathless twists and turns make this story anything but predictable. Mystery and romance, sins of the past and fears of the future all combine for a page-turning experience.”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS

  New York Times bestselling author of Mine Is the Night

  “Born of Persuasion is the sort of book in which readers of historical fiction long to lose themselves: rich with period detail and full of intrigue and deception. Jessica Dotta skillfully paints a vivid, moving portrait of a young woman who finds herself trapped in a perilous situation, facing surprises at every turn. Fans of Philippa Gregory and Sarah Dunant will fall in love with this arresting story.”

  TASHA ALEXANDER

  bestselling author of And Only to Deceive

  “Filled with romantic twists, social intrigue, and beautiful writing, Dotta’s Born of Persuasion is an alluring debut that will leave fans of Victorian fiction clamoring for more.”

  TOSCA LEE

  New York Times bestselling author

  “Born of Persuasion is among the best novels I’ve ever read. This allegory is beautifully developed and the story descriptive, suspenseful, and absolutely captivating. Her heroine is flawed and vulnerable and as unsure as the reader of what to believe. Not since Jane Eyre have I wanted to reread a story again and again. I fully expect Ms. Dotta to be a bestseller and her work to be counted among the classics of our time.”

  GINA HOLMES

  bestselling author of Crossing Oceans

  “Jessica Dotta is this generation’s Jane Austen but with a twenty-first-century voice, and Born of Persuasion is a riveting saga that will keep you turning page after page.”

  ANE MULLIGAN

  senior editor, Novel Rocket

  “Absolutely entertaining and brilliantly written! Lovable, flawed characters and witty dialogue open windows into a world of intriguing mystery as Jessica Dotta explores love, faith, and honor. Jane Austen fans will love this instant classic that dropped me into all the richness of the Regency/Victorian era. This author is one to watch.”

  THE BOOK CLUB NETWORK INC. (BOOKFUN.ORG)

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Jessica Dotta’s website at www.jessicadotta.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Born of Persuasion

  Copyright © 2013 by Jessica Dotta. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph taken by Steve Gardner, Pixelworks Studio. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of mansion copyright © ETIENjones/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover pattern copyright © Nataliia Litovchenko/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Author photo taken by Joshua MacLeod, copyright © 2013. All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Faceout Studio, Jeff Miller

  Interior designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary Inc., 2373 NW 185th Avenue, Suite 165, Hillsboro, OR 97124.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Born of Persuasion is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dotta, Jessica.

  Born of persuasion / Jessica Dotta.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7555-7 (sc)

  1. Orphans—Fiction. 2. Guardian and ward—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.O87B67 2013

  813'.6—dc23 2013010592

  ISBN 978-1-4143-8844-1 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8409-2 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8845-8 (Apple)

  Build: 2013-08-08 14:12:51

  To Mrs. Hall, my eleventh- and twelfth-grade English teacher. Thank you for being the first person to speak my dream aloud by pulling me aside before class to tell me that I had the makings of a writer.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter One from Mark of Distinction

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  LATER, WHEN I ALLOWED MYSELF to confront the memories, to dwell on the particulars, I realized my arrival at Am Meer marked the beginning.

  Not the mysterious letters that drained the life from Mama.

  Not her suicide.

  And not the two men arriving at dusk, stomping mud from their boots in the foyer, bearing ill tidings.

  Nay—not even the disconcerting news that I had a guardian, one who intended to keep me sequestered.

  For those happenings were not my story. I was sinless there. They were the end result of events set in motion long before I arrived at the cottage. I could no more have stopped their unfolding than I could have prevented my own birth.

  Those of you who were alive that year might well remember the early frost of 1838. My arrival coincided with the hardship faced by the farmers that August. Though harvest hadn’t quite begun, an overcast sky stretched over the rolling farmlands bringing a reminder of winter’s cruel bite. How well I remember the coach jostling down the familiar lane, its wheels grinding through the familiar ruts. I felt no premonition of danger, only relief, sharp and undefiled. At Am Meer, home of my dearest childhood memories, I hoped to find that which I needed most—a respite between the past and my uncertain future.

  The cottage stood beautiful as ever at the end of the pebbly drive. A thick, thatched roof covered grey stone walls with Breton blue shutters. Sleepy sunflowers nodded over amethyst larkspurs. Ivy and roses cambered over the sides of the house, rambling into holly bushes. For the first time in months, happiness swelled within my breast as I spied Mrs. Windham bustling about her herb garden.

  Above her, Elizabeth pushed open wooden shutters and leaned over the planter boxes filled with begonias. Her reddish-blonde hair glinted in the sunlight as she watched the coach. Uncertainty passed over her features before she disappeared, leaving the window open.

  There was scarce time to notice her dismay, much less interpret it, for the coach braked, swaying me forward. Without waiting for the coachman, I attempted escape and ended up clinging to the nickel-plated handle as I tripped up
on layers of petticoats. I hastily wiped away the tears that wet my cheeks.

  “Oh, Julia! Oh dear!” Mrs. Windham tottered down the stone pathway, holding scissors aloft. Beneath the crook of one elbow she clutched an oversized basket, and with her free hand, she clutched an apron full of clippings. Breathless, she reached over the wooden gate and unlatched it. Scatterings of rosemary and lavender fell about her feet, scenting the air. “Julia dear, what on earth? Tomorrow, tomorrow, not today. Depend upon you to come early. Oh, and I had such a lovely dinner of stewed pigeon planned, too. Now we shall have to eat rabbit pie and cold beef. Oh, it’s all been ruined.”

  Talc filled my senses as she clutched me to her overlarge bosom. I shut my eyes and forced back tears. Too soon, she held me at arm’s length and surveyed me. Wrinkles creased her forehead and her mouth pressed into a firm line. While I had never fulfilled her ideal of beauty—only Elizabeth, a younger version of herself, measured up in that regard—I knew why she frowned. Months of pacing empty rooms stagnant with grief had taken their toll on me.

  Since Mama’s death, I’d warded off callers, withstood Sarah’s fears that our crime would be discovered, and endured endless hours with the parish vicar, who gobbled up a day’s worth of food in one sitting as he lectured me on the danger of my eternal damnation.

  “Shame on you, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Windham twisted and looked over her shoulder as Elizabeth approached. “Hiding Julia’s intentions to arrive today. I thought you had outgrown such pranks.”

  “Mama, surely you don’t think I had an idea of this?” Elizabeth laced her fingers together.

  I gripped Mrs. Windham’s sleeve and silently entreated Elizabeth for news. Words were unnecessary. She knew the information I sought.

  Her gaze, however, shifted downwards and focused on a clump of woundwort, which she bent to harvest.

  “But, what on . . . ? Julia, where’s your carriage?” Mrs. Windham pulled me close and glared at the coachman untying the cords which held my trunks, as if he were to blame for my humble arrival. “Mercy! Tell me you haven’t travelled alone. And by coach! I cannot conceive it. Where is Sarah?”

  I shook my head. A lump in my throat rendered me unable to speak. Earlier that week, my guardian had discharged the woman who’d first been Mama’s nursemaid and then mine.

  Elizabeth noticed and took my hand. “How selfish we are. Poor Julia must have travelled through the night. You must feel exhausted.”

  “Selfish?” Mrs. Windham’s chest swelled. “I’ll have you know that I instructed Hannah just today to air my best wedding linens for her room and—”

  The driver approached, removing his hat, clearly expecting a tip. Color rose through my cheeks. Though I’d managed my fare yesterday, I had nothing left.

  “Harry,” Elizabeth called to the manservant who arrived to carry my trunks. “Run along and fetch a crown for the driver.” Her eyes widened with questions she did not ask. “Come, dearest.”

  “I am quite vexed with you.” Mrs. Windham placed a slice of lard cake on a plate. She eyed my dress hanging loosely over my frame, then added another sliver alongside a gooseberry tart. “Why did you not tell us your mother was ailing? Had I knowledge, I would have visited before she passed; indeed, I would have.”

  My hand faltered as I reached for the plate. While I’d known the topic of Mama’s death was unavoidable, I had not expected it so soon.

  “Mama.” Elizabeth cast her mother a disapproving look over the rim of her teacup. “You can scarcely blame Julia for it.”

  “Blame Julia?” Mrs. Windham dabbed her eyes with the corner of her gardening apron. “What a notion, child.” Then to me, “Did she linger in much pain? Did she send me remembrances? Did she call for me in her deep despair?”

  Tightness gathered in my chest as I sought for an explanation, knowing full well the Windhams wouldn’t be fooled into believing Mama had pined herself into an early grave over my father’s death.

  I placed the plate on my lap, then set about tearing the cake into bite-sized pieces. “She called for no one. The cholera took her quickly.”

  Elizabeth froze, midsip, as if detecting my lie. Mrs. Windham frowned, but I wasn’t certain whether she sensed deception or simply disliked being robbed of the notion that Mama had died crying out for her.

  Mrs. Windham turned toward the window, pressing her lace handkerchief against her mouth. “Well, if you’re going to try to spare me, I am sure there is nothing I can do.” Her voice trembled. “I have lost my dearest friend, but why should anyone consider me?”

  A long silence ensued, during which Elizabeth frowned and I twisted my cup in its saucer. We both knew trying to start a new conversation would be useless until her mother had been properly indulged.

  After a minute, Mrs. Windham’s mouth puckered. “Humph. Well, do not think yourself cleared on all accounts. I am even more outraged you agreed to have this . . . this guardian. I scarcely believed my own ears when I heard the tidings. Nothing, no, nothing, could have made me believe you would choose this person over me. Whatever are you thinking?”

  I tore the cake into yet smaller pieces.

  Elizabeth darted an apologetic look at me, wrapping her hands about her cup. “Mama, you can scarcely blame Julia for whom her parents selected as her guardian.”

  “What else am I to think? Especially when Lucy wrote me a mere month before her death begging me to care for Julia should this very thing happen. Well, all I can say is that Julia has certainly made it clear whom she prefers. Surely this person has no tie, no claim over you. I never heard of such an odd thing in all my life. Not give a name, indeed! And that man who came. That rude man! Is it so unreasonable to assume your guardian would have taken it into account that I have a daughter, and as such made allowances? Seen if I merit approval? Of all the insults.” She snorted into her half-empty cup.

  I shot Elizabeth a questioning look. She’d not written anything about my guardian sending someone to Am Meer. Instead of meeting my eyes, her gaze drifted to the open windows.

  “I never met such a rude man as that Simon.” Looking at my untouched food, Mrs. Windham fluttered her handkerchief at it. “Indeed, I wish we’d begun dining amongst higher spheres before I listed our acquaintances. That would have swept the smug look off that Simon’s face.”

  Elizabeth let out a short sigh. “His name was Simmons, not Simon.”

  “I think I should remember better than you, missy. I tell you it was Simon, and I cannot imagine a more disdainful or trying butler.”

  “Butler?” I asked, more perplexed than ever. “Are you saying my guardian’s butler came here?”

  “He was no butler, trust me,” Elizabeth said. “He dressed the part of a gentleman. I think he was a solicitor.”

  “You can hardly expect a butler to wear his black tie when travelling. Take my word, the man is a servant, one who holds much too high an opinion of himself.”

  “But, Mama, think upon it. What sort of person sends a servant to make those types of inquiries? Who would run the household during his absence?”

  “Are you never to tell me of what you are speaking?” I finally said. “What does this man and his lists of acquaintances have to do with my guardian?”

  Elizabeth gave her mother a look that plainly asked if she was satisfied now that I was upset. “Well, we were not supposed to mention the visit.” She glared a second longer at her mother. “Three months ago he arrived, stating he’d come to make certain Mama was a suitable chaperone for a visit.”

  “Very rude, he was, too. I should not have thought there was such a rude man in all of England.”

  Elizabeth took a sharp, annoyed intake of breath. “He gathered the names of all our acquaintances—”

  “He dared to ask what we required as compensation for keeping you here for a month or two. The very idea, expecting to be reimbursed for keeping Lucy’s child! He made it sound as though you were living on—” Mrs. Windham stopped suddenly and eyed the patch on my threadbare dress. T
he tinkling of the wind chimes was the only sound filling the space for a half minute.

  “I heard nothing about this visit,” I said, forcing an even tone. “Pray, did he happen to mention the name of my guardian?”

  “No, indeed. This is all very strange.” Mrs. Windham spooned more sugar into her tea. “I think your guardian must be very ill-mannered. What sense can there be in keeping one’s identity hidden, I ask?”

  She paused, eyeing me for all she was worth. But I had no suitable answer. I no longer even wanted to know about the man who’d been sent here. His visit only increased my unease, making it harder for me to find the nerve to do what I must. If I succeeded in accomplishing my goal, then this Simon or Simmons person mattered little.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted us.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Windham sank back into her chair, glaring. “What now?”

  “I beg pardon.” Their stout housekeeper managed to open the door and curtsy at the same time. “Only the room’s ready, and Miss Lizbeth asked me to come fetch her.”

  “Thank you, Hannah.” With undisguised relief, Elizabeth stood. “Mama, poor Julia must be exhausted. Surely you will excuse her.”

  Mrs. Windham waved me away with her handkerchief. “I have no wish to talk further regardless, what with her upsetting the household. My poor heart is pounding after such a distasteful tea. When you wake, I insist you write your guardian. Tell him this whole affair upsets my digestion, and that you wish to be transferred into my care. For I cannot conceive he wishes such vexations upon me. And—”

  “What shall we do about a lady’s maid for Julia?” Elizabeth had the mercy to interrupt. “Betsy scarcely has time in the mornings to arrange our toilette, much less someone else’s. What about that girl Nancy?”

  “Yes, yes, anyone will do,” agreed Mrs. Windham, picking up her teacup. “I am quite certain Julia shall not mind.”

  That night, I startled from my dreams to the sound of rain slashing against the window. I blinked at the tall furniture casting long shadows over the bed, trying to reorient myself. Then recalling I was safe at Am Meer, I turned over.