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unpleasant process. And afterward came her father’s long decline, fueled by various complaints that had led him to waste away to nothing.
    Amanda had borne the load entirely on her own. Her sisters had been too busy with their own families to offer any assistance, and most friends and relatives had assured themselves that Amanda was competent to handle everything unaided. She was a spinster—what else was there for her to do?
    One well-meaning aunt had even told Amanda of her belief that the Lord had kept her from marrying solely to provide someone to take care of her ailing parents. Amanda would have preferred the Almighty had made other arrangements. Apparently it had not occurred to anyone that Amanda might have caught a husband, had the remaining years of her youth not been expended in caring for her mother and father.
    The years had been difficult emotionally and physically. Her mother, who had always been sharp-tongued and difficult to please, had suffered the ravages of consumption with a quiet dignity that had amazed Amanda. Near the end, her mother had been more loving and gentle-natured than Amanda could ever remember, and the day of her passing had been a wrenching one.
    Her father, by contrast, had changed from a cheerful man to the most exasperating patient imaginable. Amanda ran constantly to fetch things for him, to prepare meals that he never failed to criticize, to satisfy hundreds of querulous demands that kept her too busy to do anything for herself.
    Rather than allow herself to be poisoned with her own frustration, however, Amanda had started to write in the late evenings and early mornings. It had begun merely as a way to entertain herself, but with each page she had hoped her novel might be worthy of publication.
    With two books published and both her parents gone, Amanda was free to do as she pleased. Her last years would be spent in the busiest, largest city in the world, among the million and a half people who populated it. Using the two thousand pounds left to her in her father’s will, as well as the money from the sale of the house, Amanda took a small but elegant town house on the west side of London. She brought the two family servants with her—the footman, Charles, and a housemaid, Sukey—and hired a cook, Violet, once they arrived.
    London was everything she had hoped it would be, and more. Now, after six months of living in the city, Amanda still awakened each morning with a sense of pleased surprise. She loved the dirt and clutter and bewildering fast pace of London, the way each day began with the raucous cries of street vendors outside and ended with the sounds of carriages and hacks rattling across the cobblestones to convey people to their evening pursuits. She loved the fact that on any night of the week she could attend one of many supper-parties, private dramatic readings, or literary discussions.
    To her surprise, she was a recognizable figure in the literary culture of London. Many publishers, poets, journalists, and other novelists seemed to know her name, and to have read her work. Back in Windsor, acquaintances had regarded her writing as frivolous. Certainly no one had approved of the kind of novels she wrote, hinting that they were too vulgar for decent folk to read.
    Amanda herself couldn’t understand why her writing was so different from her own personality. Her pen seemed to take on a life of its own when she sat before a sheaf of blank parchment paper. She wrote about characters unlike any people she had ever known…sometimes violent, brutal, always passionate; some who came to ruin and some who even triumphed in spite of their own lack of morality. Since she had no actual pattern on which to base these fictional characters, Amanda realized that their feelings, their passions, could only have come from inside herself. If she allowed herself to dwell on this notion, she could easily become alarmed.
    Silver-fork novels, Jack had mentioned to