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Overview
Marian Halcolmbe finds and marries her true love, Theo Camlet. But when Theo?ÇÖs first wife, who everyone believed to be dead, reappears, Marian and her brother in law Walter must delve into the darkest and most dangerous corners of London to save Theo from accusations of bigamy and murder, as well as the hangman?ÇÖs noose.
Victorian literature's most exciting heroine, Marian Halcombe, stars in Brenda Clough?ÇÖs thrilling and romantic sequel to Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White.
Praise for A Most Dangerous Woman:
Blending seamlessly with the end of Wilkie Collins's beloved The Woman in White, Brenda Clough's A Most Dangerous Woman takes one of the most fascinating female characters in Victorian literature and gives her the life she deserves. ?ÇöSherwood Smith, author of the Sartorias-deles series
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781682105368 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Realm |
| Publication date: | 08/18/2018 |
| Series: | A Most Dangerous Woman , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 277 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Marian Halcombe's journal
25 December 1856
I start this new volume of my diary rather early! All orderly minds would agree it would be more proper to begin it next week, on January first. But what is to be done? My dearest half-sister Laura's gift to me was this most wonderfully handsome blank journal. It is far more grand and expensive than my usual run of black cloth-bound Letts volumes. This book's luscious blue Morocco leather cover smells divine, simply begging to be opened, and the sleek, cream-colored paper implores the pen's ministrations. So I must begin.
Let me start this new volume as is proper for the new year, with a report on all our household.
Baby Walter—Wally—is now quite the young man! Almost five years old, my darling nephew is teethed, breeched and walking and climbing like a young monkey. His mother has been teaching him to pick out simple tunes upon the piano while I undertake the sterner task of introducing him to his letters. Alas, too often our alphabet blocks are requisitioned to become fortresses for his toy soldiers. But he grows in intelligence every day, the light of the household.
His father, my brother-in-law Walter Hartright the elder, has devoted his energies to mending fences with all our neighbors. During the residence of Laura's uncle, the late Mr. Frederick Fairlie, social martyrdom reigned. Relations with all the county were at best suffered to fall away to nothing; when Mr. Fairlie had the energy, or folk were so foolish as to actually call, he did not hesitate to offer direct insult. But now under Walter's head we have rejoined the community. We occupy the family pew in Limmeridge Church; we call and are called upon, dine and are dined with. Though he is an incomer to the district, and not born to the gentry, he has been so well received that there is talk of Walter standing for Parliament when the current incumbent, Sir Cedric Gratham, retires year after next. But when this is suggested he brushes it aside with a laugh, saying that his old friend Professor Pesca foresaw it, and therefore it cannot be.
But my happiest news is of my darling Laura. My sister could not thrive, all the years we lived in humble circumstances in London. Transplanted back to her native northern soil, surrounded by love and kindliness, Walter and I hoped she would gradually bloom again. How foolish we were, and how little we knew of her greatness of soul!
For what dear Laura needed was to serve others. Poor and ill, she could come to no one's aid. How well I remember her desire, even though she was barely restored to health, to assist in earning our daily crust! Now, chatelaine of Limmeridge, she is come at last into her own. She is the fond patroness of the village school, as our mother was before her. Mr. Frederick Fairlie had an abiding horror of children, but now he is gone we have revived the parish fête, giving over the garden and shrubberies once a year to the great benefit of the church.
And, thus nourished, Laura's energies and spirits have grown wonderfully. She is indefatigable in visiting the poor. If there is a lying-in or a sick child within twenty miles, young Mrs. Hartright is there on the instant with calf's-foot jelly, or some arrowroot, or a basket of baby linens. Already she is the acknowledged mercy angel of the district; I doubt not that before she dies she will be elevated to the rank of saint.
To see my dearest sister, the person I love most in all the world, flourishing like this fills me with joy. And, with another child on the way, she—and I—look to be happy and busy for years to come. So when she gave me this volume—oh, I must write it plainly and in order! Let me go back a little.
We were a merry party for Christmas. Walter's elderly mother and his sister Sarah had come up from town, escorted by his old friend Professor Pesca, the Italian tutor. Little Wally had received a stick horse for Christmas and was galloping and shouting up and down the halls.
Little Professor Pesca wore a silver basin on his head, a veritable Quixote, and waved a napkin for a banner. He pelted along behind on his short legs, singing some Italian patriotic anthem at the top of his lungs. Walter himself, between paroxysms of laughter, bestrode a dust mop liberated from a startled housemaid, bringing up the rear. Was it the battle of Waterloo, or the Charge of the Light Brigade? In any case the noise was immense.
"At least your floors are becoming cleaner," Sarah noted—we were observing from the safety of the stair. Old Mrs. Hartright sat on the landing and wiped tears of laughter away and Luna, Laura's pet miniature greyhound, trembled and cowered against her skirts at the tumult.
Laura smiled fondly down at husband and son. "I assure you, Sarah, that is the last thought in any of their minds. But, dear Marian—I almost forgot. I have a gift for you."
"What, in addition to Mrs. Yonge? We will begin reading The Daisy Chain aloud in the new year."
"Yes, yes. But come through into my sitting room—Wally's voice is so carrying."
We went into her little room, the same chamber that has been the scene of so many important conversations in our lives. We sat on the sofa by the window, which looked out over the wintry garden. In the watery sunshine Laura looked more happy and healthy than I have ever seen her. All the grace and affection of her character from girlhood were blended now with the mature and intelligent gentleness of a woman. She has blossomed and grown into all her promise; the beauteous rosebud, darling of the garden, is in full fragrant blow. "Love and happiness is good for you," I burst out. "I have not seen such bloom in your cheeks since we were girls."
"And that is what I wanted to say to you, my dear Marian. You will remember, always and forever, that I love you, won't you? And that your happiness is essential to my own?"
I was startled—how could there be any doubt of it, after all we have been through? It is family policy to never speak of the past. "Laura, is something wrong?"
"No indeed, Marian. It is because all is so right that I give you this." She put the Morocco volume, this very journal, into my hands. When I had finished exclaiming over it and thanking her she went on, "Marian, you are so clever and capable. Your life should be larger than that of a spinster aunt. You could be so much more."
"Oh, Laura, you know that is not a possibility." I did not need to glance at the square mirror propped on the mantel. From the moment of birth the two of us have been the most amusingly ill-assorted sisters: she fair and blessed as springtime, and I the impoverished harsh winter, with my dark hair and unharmonious features. All my life I have been compared to Laura, and am content to be forever second. "If your blessings of face and fortune are no guarantee of happiness, how can a person with neither hope for it?"
"But that is precisely my point, Marian. I am happy, after much storm and peril." She smiled, a smile of such bliss! "Once, in a moment of great distress—do you remember?—I made a foolish and unkind demand of you. I asked you to never marry and never to leave me."
"You did?"
"I'm sure you noted it in your journal—when you have leisure, go back and look. And today—now that we can both see how much Walter's love has done for me—I know that I was wrong. I had no right to make such a selfish demand even of the meanest servant. Love does not lay such requests upon the beloved. You are no slave in chains, but the dearest person in my heart. Surely only the overwhelming press of circumstance kept you from scolding me roundly on the spot for my childish unreasonableness. You pronounced no promise at that time. But if you made it silently, in the corridors of your heart, it was a noble sacrifice to my need. My dearest, dearest sister, now and for always: I absolve you of it. You are no prisoner. You are free. And this journal is the token of that. Let it be the next chapter in your life, Marian. Let it record a wider heart, a life fully lived."
"Laura! Walter spoke of this once. Are you—" I could not go on, my eyes filling with weak tears.
Quickly she put her own slender white hands over mine, which numbly clutched her gift. "Never, not for an instant. Your home shall always be with us if you wish it, and our lives shall always be entwined. Why, little Wally would never tolerate less! But . . . consider seeking more, Marian. Yes, it is a risk to change. To reach out, to grow. But you are not nervous, like me. You are a mighty oak. You do not have to linger always in a little clay flowerpot like Limmeridge. You are an eagle. If you spread your wings and fly, that is right and proper. And we, Walter and I, will watch you soar with shouts of joy."
From the open door, below in the hall, came those exact shouts of joy. "Oh, Laura," I choked. "How have I ever deserved a love so pure, so noble as yours?"
"Marian! When you have done so much for me? How can you say that? You deserve all good things, every joy in the world. And because I love you, I want them all for you."
Overwhelmed, I retired to my own room, and when I was more composed I sat at my writing desk and wrote all this down so that I may read it over again, and reflect upon Laura's words. She has not spoken words of rejection. She does not close a door on me. These are words of opening, of liberation. She wants the best for me, as I want it for her. What shall I do, my darling girl, if you become wise as well as good and happy?