February 1, 1889

SINCE SHE WAS SMALL, SLEIGH rides in the country had been her favorite winter frolic. Swathed in furs, the rush of the wind against her cheek, the muffled clomp of hooves in the snow, the gaiety of her companions—all pure joy. Pure freedom. Why, then, could she not abandon herself, if only for a few moments? Why must fear intrude, even here?

She had been resolute in her determination to forget. If she willed it never to have happened, it would not have. And so, she had said nothing and shown nothing, not to family, not to friends. She had thrown herself into the season. No one had sparkled more at balls, had shown more wit or enthusiasm for the theater, museums, or exhibitions.

And then she was late.

At first, she would not think about it, could not confront it. When she did, the horror overwhelmed her. Private shame might be borne, but public disgrace was unthinkable. Her position and that of her family would be forever sullied. For the remainder of her life, she would be unable to look anyone in the eye and not see her shame reflected back at her. But worst of all, by far worst of all, was that all this must be endured not for the one she loved but rather for the one she loathed.

As the sleigh emerged from the wood onto an open field, she looked up at the sun, dulled by a gray sky. Perhaps it would still come. Perhaps she might still bury the incident within her. Yes, certainly. It would all come out right in the end. It had to.