Page 1 of On a Midsummer Night
Prologue
Bristol, 1852
Satisfaction pulsed through Henry’s veins like a heady drug. It was impossible to keep a smile off his face.
After taking off his jacket and tossing it onto a hook near the door, Henry unfurled his cravat as he grinned stupidly at his reflection in the mirror. At this time tomorrow, he would be officially courting Beth Dalton. Lord, but his mother would adore her kind heart, and he was certain his father would observe her sharp wit and charm and know Henry had been helpless not to fall for the girl. Just thinking of their delighted reactions made him chuckle.
Oh, Henry knew the idea of marriage sparked terror in many of his friends, but the thought of the vivacious and clever Beth as his wife made his chest tight and his cock hard.
He jumped in alarm at the sharp rap on the door.
Henry frowned. He wasn’t expecting a guest, so who could be calling?
The knocks started again in earnest, louder this time, and he gritted his teeth at how the sounds echoed through his head.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, Henry then yanked open the door, his annoyance abruptly turning to puzzlement when his gaze landed on the guesthouse proprietor.
“This note arrived for you by courier. I was told it should be given to you posthaste,” the man said, thrusting it into Henry’s hand.
Before he had a chance to respond, the proprietor walked away, leaving Henry to stare down in trepidation at the folded square of parchment. Once he’d turned it over, he spied his father’s seal pressed carefully into the melted wax.
Henry stepped back into the room and shut the door. He crossed to the side table to light another lamp, and when the flame sparked to life and illuminated the space, he plucked his father’s seal free and unfolded the sheet. His breath hitched in his chest when the sight of his mother’s penmanship,nothis father’s, met his eye.
Within a quarter of an hour, Henry was on the back of his horse, the beast’s swiftly pounding hooves carrying him toward the train station. He’d left a hastily scribbled note for Oliver and arranged to have the rest of his belongings delivered to his rooms in London later in the week. All these tasks had been completed with rote movements, his thoughts consumed with endless “what if” possibilities, each too horrible to contemplate. And yet he must if his mother’s words were any indication. A lump had lodged in his throat, and try as he might, Henry could not swallow it down. His heart raced to the tune of his mount’s strides and slowed a fraction when the train station came into view.
The station building was closed; the first train to London did not depart for several more hours. Hours Henry could not afford. Rushing around the side of the building, he spied by the glow of several lanterns a handful of station employees loading various crates onto a freight car.
“Where’s the engineer?” he asked, his voice hoarse. Henry knew he was being discourteous, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Foreheads furrowed, and glances were exchanged before the oldest gentleman in the lot propped a hand on his hip and said, “He’s checking the manifest in the other car.”
Without deigning a response, Henry turned away, his gaze seeking for the engineer. His search was not long, for he found an older gentleman holding up a lantern to survey the load within a freight car.
“Sir, my name is Henry Ramsgate, and I need a spot on your next train to London.”
The man pivoted to inspect another stack of crates. “This is a cargo train, son, not a passenger train. You’ll have to wait for the next departure at ten o’clock.”
“I know it’s a cargo train. I helped design the locomotive’s schematics.”
The older gentleman swung the lantern in Henry’s direction, his critical blue eyes scanning Henry from the tip of his head to his dust-coated boots.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Henry Ramsgate, sir. I work with Mr. Gooch.”
The engineer’s eyes went wide at the mention of the locomotive superintendent’s name. “Right. And you need to get to London?”
“With all haste.”
The older man nodded, setting down his lantern to study a manifest. “We leave in a quarter of an hour.”
Hints of pink and gold were beginning to streak across the horizon when the train pulled into the Waterloo station in London. Henry was running down the wooden platform before the train had stopped. A hackney delivered him to his parents’ house on Bedford Place, and Henry wasted no time dashing through the front door, not even waiting for the butler to take his coat and hat before he raced up the staircase to his parents’ room.
Several servants held vigil outside the door, avoiding his gaze as he approached. Henry hesitated on the threshold, a cascade of emotions crashing over him, fear being the only one he was able to grasp. Fear at what he would see when he stepped into the room. Fear at the changes looming on the horizon, unwanted and unavoidable. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to live up to the expectations that would be placed on his twenty-four-year-old shoulders.
Clenching his eyes closed, Henry prayed for strength. For his mother. For his sister. To deal with everything that would come after this terrible moment.
Henry reached up and swiped his hat from his head, handing it with a nod to a maid who lingered nearby. Setting his jaw, he advanced into the room.
