Silverswept

For

Ronnie and Kay King

and Julie and Jennifer

Prologue

Cornwall, England

April 5, 1811

From Alysson Tyler's position atop a craggy boulder, she could hear the riotous roar of the mighty Atlantic surf pounding the cliffs behind her, but she paid it little heed, intent upon fastening Mathilde's best woolen shawl at an effective angle around her slender shoulders. When it was tied just right, she straightened the worn brown muslin skirt she wore, then pushed her long hair over her shoulders. Her hair was her one pride, and in truth, there were few who could disagree that the rich, softly curling tresses that hung well below her waist were not most beautiful. She threaded her fingers through the honey-colored strands that glinted with golden lights when touched by the sun. Although she usually wore it braided into a long queue down her back, today she was Juliet Capulet, and she wanted it loose and shining for her Romeo.

For pity's sake, Aly, I'm a tired of standin’ here waitin'! What are you doin’ up there anyway?

Alysson glanced down at the eleven-year-old boy who stood complaining on the ground below her perch.

I am preparing myself for my soliloquy, of course. All actresses have to forget who they are and become their part, and besides, this is the first time Juliet and Romeo are alone together.

Well, hurry up. Mama's cooking the rabbit I caught yesterday, and I'm a hungry!

Alysson ignored the last, turning clear green eyes to the far horizon where the barren hills were just becoming green. She knew the play by heart, every line of every part, but she stood motionless for another moment. Her fine-boned profile was tilted to an elegant angle that accentuated her delicate features as she thought about the words she was about to recite.

How would it feel to fall in love with your father's enemy? She pondered, pursing her full pink lips. Her answer came without hesitation. She would love her father's enemy just for being such. She hated her father more than any living creature on earth. Teeth clenching at the mere thought of Daniel Tyler, she shook her thoughts away, concentrating again on the coming scene. After another moment, she leaned gracefully over a fiat rock before her, pretending it was a balustrade. Young Frederick scowled up at her.

'Ay me!' she breathed, setting her face in melancholy lines, then waited for Freddie to speak his part. But he only shifted his bare feet in the dust, frowning down at the small book he held.

Go ahead, Freddie, say your lines.

Hold on to yourself, I lost my place again!

Alysson sighed, exasperated with him.

'O, speak again, bright angel!’...she prompted him impatiently. And do what I told you with your hat!

Freddie pulled off his cap, revealing an unruly thatch of tan hair, then started off haltingly, the hat held awkwardly over his heart in the way Alysson had taught him.

'O, speak again, bright angel!' he began, his freckled face intent, his tone of voice leaving no doubt that he had been badgered into speaking the lines at all, 'for thou art as glorious as this night—’

"'To this night,’ Freddie!"

'To this night, being over me—’

'O'er my head.’

Freddie glared up at her then, his fists on his hips.

I don't wanna do this anymore, Aly. I don't even know what I'm a sayin'.

You're talking about me, silly, about your true love, Juliet. Surely you can imagine how it feels to be in love with a girl!

No I can't, Freddie defended himself quickly. And neither can you, I wager. You ain't had a beau either, and you're almost grown-up.

It was a sore point with Alysson, because she was almost eighteen, but she couldn't deny it since there were only a handful of men around, and most of them were farmers with wives and broods.

You just have to read books like I do and think how it must feel, that's all. It's a feeling up here in your mind. She tapped her temple with one slender forefinger, but Freddie didn't look particularly impressed.

Aw, criminy, Aly, I don't even like girls. They giggle and act dumb all the time—except for you, he added quickly, not ready to offend his best friend. Anyway, we've been doin’ this old play all day, and we should be gettin’ back home. Your mama's gonna wake up and she'll be all upset if you ain't there.

Oh, all right, Alysson answered, turning to climb down the rocks to where he stood.

He was right about her mother. Even though Mama had been better lately, sometimes lucid for hours, she did get agitated and worried if Alysson wasn't there to soothe her. The darker times when she sank into her private world of the past were still frequent but not as lengthy. Just the other night Mama had laughed aloud when Alysson had mimicked the shrill voice and pinched-nose expression of hateful old Parson Clements of the Anglican Church. Alysson smiled at the memory.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder when she reached Freddie, braiding it with quick, deft fingers, then handed Freddie her prized scarlet ribbon to tie it for her. The ribbon had been a gift from a traveling peddler in return for a hot meal, and Alysson treasured it.

Give me the book, Freddie, so you won't lose it, she said as he finished tying the bow, and he complied gladly.

Alysson stuffed it in her skirt pocket as they began to make their way down a rocky ravine to the stone cottage in which they lived with their mothers. Frederick's mother, Mathilde, was from the Hesse-Darmstadt region of Germany and was their only servant, but Alysson considered both Mathilde and her son as part of her family. She loved them more than she had ever loved the man who had sired her.

How about us playin’ pirates down at the caves after you take your mother on her walk, Freddie suggested, brown eyes alight with his newest idea.

I'm too old for that.

No you're not, and besides, that's not fair. I play Romeo and that little elf—what's his name—when you want me to, but when I want you to do something you always say you're too old!

His name is Puck, Alysson said, but seeing the disappointment on her young friend's face, she relented. Oh, all right, I will, but it will have to be later.

They say there's treasure buried around here, you know, Freddie called back as he ran ahead and sent a rock hurling out over the rocky hill. From when the storms drove the Great Armada of Spain into the cliffs. Maybe we'll find it someday and become as rich as kings! Then I could buy my own ship and we'd be real pirates!

Alysson smiled at the way Freddie's eyes had grown round with excitement.

You could take Mama and me to America to find Adam Sinclair. She would be happy again if she were with him—he was her one true love, you know. And I would become a famous actress.

You will anyway, Aly. You're already better than those players who came through at Christmastide. None of them could mimic the voices of other people like you can, and even they applauded when you made your voice come from somewhere else.

Alysson felt a warm glow of pleasure at his compliments. She was proud of her gift for mimicry and throwing her voice. She had discovered it when she was barely eight years old, the day her grandfather Laurence had roared with laughter when she made her dog talk like their prim little butler.

Pain clouded her face. It was only the year after that he had died and Alysson's father had sent them away from their beautiful London house to live alone here in the country. She shook off such memories, not liking to think about them, as they came upon a succession of flat red rocks. She stopped there and looked down at the cottage below with its steep-pitched thatch roof and the curling plume of gray smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. She raised her gaze to the vast view of Cornwall, and her eyes sharpened as a black carriage rolled into sight on the serpentine dirt road from the village of Penzance. She froze; her heart plummeted to her toes.

Oh, no, Freddie, he's coming!

Freddie looked up fearfully and fixed his eyes on the coach, traveling at a high rate of speed toward the lane to their farmhouse.

You've got to stop him, Freddie! So I can get to Mama first. Put something in the road so his driver will have to get out and move it! And shut the gate!

Freddie was already off, scrambling and sliding on his backside down a steep hill that led to the road, and Alysson ran in the opposite direction, leaping from boulder to boulder until she reached the point where the cliffs began to level into barren fields of tan grasses. Able to run faster now, her feet flew over the well-worn path, and all the while she berated herself for wandering so far from the house. If only she had known he was coming! Then they could have gotten her mother away from the cottage and well hidden! He hadn't come in over a year now, and she had grown complacent about his visits.

A low stone wall traversed the eastern edge of the small copse, the crumbling rocks nearly covered with weeds, and Alysson leapt it at a run, frightening Minerva where she grazed nearby. The old brood mare jerked away, then trotted off indignantly, but Alysson wasted no thoughts on the horse as she darted through the trees to their front garden, where Mathilde somehow managed to coax wild flowers and vegetables from the rocky ground.

Always fleet of foot and agile, Alysson burst through the wood-slatted gate, which squealed on rusty hinges before banging shut behind her. She bounded up the pebbled path then into the kitchen door, startling Mathilde where she stood before a black kettle suspended over the brick hearth. The sturdy German woman jerked around, her long wooden spoon in hand. Her wide, smooth face was ruddy and flushed from hovering so near the bubbling stew, but she recovered her shock as Alysson ran past her, thundering up the crude steps that led to the second-floor bedchambers.

"What ye be thinkin’ ta do, Fräulein?" Mathilde began, shaking her head with its braided crown of gray hair. Her English was heavily accented, and she finished by a warning shake of the utensil in her fist. Yer mudder still be asleepin'! Do ye wanta be wakin’ her with yer racket?

He's coming, Mathilde! Freddie's gone to latch the carriage gate!

The stern expression on Mathilde's face fled abruptly, and she paled, dropping the spoon to the table. Without a word, she rushed toward the front parlor to set the bolt, well rehearsed in the precautions taken when the master decided to visit his wife.

Alysson took the rest of the steep stairs two at a time, swinging around the newel post on the upstairs landing, the rickety banister wobbling precariously as she let it go. She ran down the narrow, low-ceilinged hallway to her mother's bedchamber door. Panting hard from her run, she drew up for an instant to catch her breath. Please, Lord, let her be in her right mind, please, Alysson prayed silently. She must not frighten Mama, or she would begin to scream; then they would never get her to a hiding place. Forcing a bright smile, she turned the door handle and peeked inside.

Mama? Are you awake?

The frail and wasted shell of a woman lying in the bed started slightly at the sound of Alysson's low voice, then pushed herself up on one elbow to stare at Alysson out of faded blue eyes.

Who are you?

The question was hesitant, and Alysson groaned in dismay, glancing toward the casement windows which had been opened for the warm spring weather. Was that the rattle of his carriage she heard? She moved forward quickly, a thread of urgency roughening her voice despite her attempt to hide her anxiety.

Mama, it's me, Alysson, your daughter. You know that. We go on walks together every day. Remember, we fed a carrot to Minerva yesterday, just before it rained.

Judith Hampstead Tyler's eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, twisting a long strand of graying blond hair around her finger as she tried to remember the slim young girl before her. She frowned slightly, slender fingers trembling as she pressed them against her wrinkled cheeks.

My daughter? Are you really?

Yes, Mama, of course I am, but we must hurry now, Alysson murmured in the crooning voice that she and Mathilde had learned to use when Mama was frightened. She took hold of her mother's thin arm and helped Judith from the bed. She kept her voice low and gentle as she guided one thin arm into the sleeve of a faded silk robe.

All the wild flowers are blooming now, Mama, the gorse is all yellow and bright. We'll pick some if you like, but we must hurry.

Judith giggled, the high-pitched sound that only the mad could make, and Alysson gasped, trying to stifle it with her palm.

Sssh, Mama, please, she whispered as they made their way into the dusky corridor. They stopped in their tracks as a feared masculine voice bellowed Judith's name from somewhere below. Judith's whole body went rigid, and Alysson tried to support her mother's weight when she suddenly went limp. Alysson looked around frantically as booted feet clomped with heavy tread upon the steps, and Judith sank to her knees and whimpered, her eyes dark with fear.

Daniel Tyler appeared on the stairs before Alysson could move, first his head with its slicked-back dark brown hair, then his powerful shoulders encased in an expensive navy blue cape. He turned his head and Alysson shivered as his steely blue-gray eyes trapped her where she stood. His face was long and thin, and though not particularly ugly, it was offensive to look upon—a face perpetually flushed, reflecting a life of debauchery, and cold eyes, lacking any semblance of compassion. He smiled at them, an evil, malignant show of teeth, and Alysson's eyes dropped to the short black riding crop he gripped tightly in one strong, black-gloved hand. He slapped it threateningly against his thigh, in a way that Alysson knew very well, and her stomach twisted with terror and great, loathing hatred.

Daniel climbed the last two steps, his eyes never leaving his daughter's.

You weren't so clever this time, girl, were you now? My dear little Judith will have to enjoy my husbandly attentions after all.

A low moan came from deep inside Judith's throat, a terrible, pathetic trapped sound, as Daniel Tyler crossed his arms over his chest, his whip held idly in his right hand. He laughed softly as his wife hid her face in the folds of her daughter's skirt. When he took a step toward them, Alysson moved protectively in front of her mother.

I won't let you beat her, Papa, she said, her own voice trembling so much that her words wavered together. Judith's hands clutched tighter at the back of Alysson's skirt.

Daniel stopped, his lips curving in an amused twist, and his words came low and oil smooth. Do you defy me, Alysson?

Alysson could not speak, remembering other times he had used that tone, and she had to exert a conscious effort not to sprint away from him. He still grinned at her, and Alysson gasped when he moved so quickly that she couldn't dodge. Hurting hands clamped over her arm, twisting it cruelly behind her back before he gave her a hard shove. She grunted with pain as her shoulder hit the wall, and she crumpled to her knees as her father loomed over her, the whip raised above his head.

She tried to elude the blow as it whistled downward but could not, and it landed against her back with a biting explosion of pain. She screamed in agony and tried to scrabble away as he raised it again, but his arm froze in midair as Judith jumped to her feet from where she had cringed near the banister. Shrieking words of insane hatred, she flew at her husband, clawing at his face.

Daniel dropped the whip as her long nails raked down the side of his face, drawing blood, then he bellowed an enraged curse, drawing back one meaty fist and sending it against Judith's fragile cheekbone. The immense blow sent Judith flying backward into the railing, and Alysson screamed in absolute horror as the balustrade cracked and gave way, hurtling her mother to the floor below.

Alysson ran to the top of the steps, moaning as she saw her mother sprawled lifelessly on the kitchen flagstones, her head at an impossible angle. A sob caught in Alysson's throat as she ran down the steps to kneel at her mother's side.

Blood trickled in an obscene crimson path from the corner of Judith's mouth, and Alysson began to weep as she gently lifted a thin, limp hand and held it against her cheek.

Daniel Tyler moved down the steps to stand just behind his daughter. His words were indifferent.

If the bitch is dead, get her out of here.

Judith Hampstead Tyler was buried the next afternoon. The lovely spring weather that had visited the countryside fled, as if consoling those who mourned her death, and rain threatened with swift-moving gray clouds that hung over the landscape until pushed out to sea by howling, moaning winds. The willow tree near the front windows of the cottage was tossed and shaken by gusts, flinging spattering rain to run in forking rivulets down the oval casement windows. In the small parlor, a plain wooden box had been placed upon a long trestle table that had been dragged in from the kitchen.

Alysson sat with Mathilde and Frederick on a short bench in front of the coffin, and Daniel Tyler surveyed the three contemptuously as he retrieved his small gold snuffbox from his coat pocket. He opened the lid and pinched a bit of the tobacco between his thumb and forefinger. He pushed it into his nostril, breathing deeply to draw the potent substance into his thin, aristocratic nose. After the sneeze that followed, he leaned back in the shabby wing chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He wished the damned parson would be done with the ridiculous mumble-jumble that he was spewing forth in his irritating nasal voice. Judith's death had indeed been fortuitous, though he had not intended to kill her. But it worked well with his plans, the only nuisance being that he was forced to stay an extra day to see her put into the ground. Pressing matters awaited him in London, especially now that Donovan MacBride was in England, trying to block the wedding.

His eyes hardened as he watched Alysson wipe her tears with a lacy white handkerchief while the old German woman tried to comfort her. The little chit legally bore his name, but he had never known for sure if she was his. His teeth came together as the bitter memory punctured his mind like so many steel spikes. Twenty years had gone by since Judith Hampstead had humiliated him by running off with another man while she was betrothed to him—with a nobody, a penniless actor from the American colonies. He had never allowed her to forget the embarrassment she had caused him.

He had never really loved her anyway, of course. Their engagement had been arranged by Judith's father, Laurence Hampstead, and it was the Tyler name and title that Laurence had wanted, and the respectability and prestige that went with it. Daniel himself had been more than willing to marry into the wealthy merchant family. Judith's dowry alone had replenished his dwindling coffers. Laurence Hampstead had been enraged when his carefully drawn plans were thwarted by Judith's elopement, and it had been he who had hired men to bring her back. Their marriage had been performed the same day she returned, and when Judith had become pregnant at once, Daniel was never quite sure if she carried her lover's seed or his own. It galled him to this day that he had not been able to force the name of the man out of Judith, not even after Laurence Hampstead had died ten years ago and left both Judith and Alysson in his complete control, as well as the vast Hampstead fortune. It gradually had grown to the point where he couldn't stand the sight of her, and he had sent her here to Cornwall where he wouldn't have to abide her or her brat. But now she was dead, and it would be easier for him to force Alysson to marry the American.

He stared at his daughter a moment, objectively assessing her appearance. She had inherited her mother's hair, a rich red-gold that gleamed even now beneath the black woolen veil she wore. She was a beauty, as Judith had been before she began to age and lose her mind. Alysson's eyes were particularly lovely, as green as emeralds, breathtaking against her smooth white skin. He smiled. Donovan MacBride had tried for over a year to get out of the marriage contract he had signed years ago in a business deal with Laurence Hampstead, but perhaps when MacBride saw Alysson with his own eyes he might change his mind.

Daniel sat up as the parson finally ended his droning eulogy and stepped forward to pat Alysson's arm. Daniel signaled with a jerk of his head, and the two grave diggers he had hired clumped from the back of the room in their shabby homespun coats and mud-caked boots. They picked up the casket, both men casting compassionate glances at the beautiful girl weeping so pitiably. He stood as they passed him, swirling his heavy wool cape over his shoulders.

Outside, a fine steady drizzle drenched the ground, making it difficult to walk, and Daniel kept his regard on Alysson's trim figure as they walked slowly through the soggy yard to the gravesite on a hill behind the cottage. He had never paid much attention to her in her childhood years, and it mattered little to her since her grandfather Hampstead had fawned over her every word and action. It was Laurence's love for the girl that had prompted him to secure her future with the American, that and the lucrative business contract that went along with it. Laurence Hampstead had not been a man who neglected his business interests.

Daniel had spent those years working with the anti-American factions in Parliament. He had hated the upstart Americans with their talk of freedom and equality even before Judith had run away with one of them, and he was still ready to do anything in his power to see the United States brought back into the British harness. Now Alysson had become a very important, if unwitting, pawn to accomplish just that, and her beauty would be an extra enticement to persuade MacBride to honor the agreement. He really had no choice, anyway; he had been legally bound to Alysson since he had penned his name beneath Laurence Hampstead's signature.

Daniel chuckled to himself, pulling his cape tighter at the throat as wind drove stinging gusts to strike his face. He hadn't been able to believe his good fortune the day Laurence Hampstead's solicitors had presented him with the betrothal agreement between MacBride and Alysson. He had recognized the name at once. His informants in America knew MacBride well and had even heard rumors that he was involved in American espionage. If so, all the better, and if not, MacBride was still a prominent New York patriot and businessman. But even more important to Daniel and his agents, MacBride had high connections in the American Congress and even with President Madison himself. With Alysson married into such a household, Daniel's agents in New York would have legitimate social connections to the inner circle of American politics. With war about to erupt between England and America, he wanted Alysson there and married to MacBride, and he would see it done, by God, no matter what he had to do to accomplish it.

Alysson watched with hollow eyes as the coffin was lowered into the rectangular black hole to settle at the bottom, the ropes slapping against the wooden sides as they were pulled out again. Poor Mama, she thought with aching heart. Perhaps she was at peace at last. That's what Mathilde had said. She blinked back a fresh wave of tears, her fingers groping for the dainty cross of intricately wrought silver filigree where it hung around her neck. Adam Sinclair had given the necklace to her mother before Alysson had been born, and Judith had never taken it off, not until yesterday when Mathilde had removed it to prepare her body for burial. Now it was all Alysson had left of her mother.

A clod of dirt hit the top of the casket with a dull, final thud, and Alysson watched silently as the two men built a mound of red mud shovelful by shovelful. She felt Mathilde's arm around her shoulders, urging her to her feet, and she stood, moving to the grave to lay upon it the small bouquet of wild daisies that Freddie had picked early that morning. She turned to leave, but cruel fingers settled in a painful grip on her arm.

Prepare yourself to come to London with me, girl, her father's detested voice said close to her ear. You are to be wed there.

Alysson jerked away from his touch, her face twisted with hatred. Daniel flinched at the look in her green eyes.

Never, she said through gritted teeth. I will never marry and let myself be beaten and abused by a man as you did to Mother.

Daniel's initial surprise at her defiance turned to pure rage, and he swung the back of his hand at her face. Alysson groaned and fell sideways against her mother's grave, tasting the metallic tang of blood as it welled from her split lip.

You'll do as I say, girl, or you'll end up in a hole like your whoring mother.

Mathilde began to cry as he strode away with long angry strides, then knelt by Alysson, dabbing gently at the blood oozing from the cut at the corner of her mouth.

I won't do it, Alysson murmured, her small chin rising with a determination that rose from the very core of her soul. "Never. I would rather be dead than do his bidding."

Chapter 1

The dainty ivory and ormolu clock on the mantel ticked softly, the only sound in the spacious bedchamber with its white canopy bed and lace-draped windows. It was the very room Alysson had occupied as a child before she was abruptly uprooted and transplanted to the wilds of the Cornish coast, and during the month that she had been back in London, she had slept there again, painfully reliving the happy days before her grandfather had died.

Now, as she stood motionless beside her chamber door, she had but one purpose in mind. Turning the polished brass handle ever so slowly, she peeked out into the marble-tiled hallway. The footman who had been instructed to guard her room sat in his place, his straight-backed velvet chair propped against the wall beside the door. He idly flipped a penny off his thumb and tried to catch it atop his other wrist as Alysson silently closed the door and slid the bolt into place.

The time had come to make her escape. After days of pretending to have resigned herself to the forthcoming marriage, she would flee her father's house forever. She moved quickly across the mauve and royal blue oriental carpet to where a tall lancet window opened out over the rear lawns. Twin pale blue satin settees flanked the window, and she stepped up on the cushions of one to reach the high window latch. The window swung easily outward, a warm May breeze fanning the loose tendrils around Alysson's face as she leaned out over the sheer three-story drop to the ground.

Dusk was settling silently over the gardens and walkways of the Tyler ancestral mansion, but the cobbled drives were deserted since the servant staff were supping in their dining hall in the south wing. Daniel Tyler was busy in his study off the entry foyer with his solicitor, no doubt seeing to the final embellishments on the wedding between her and the unknown Donovan MacBride. This very night she had been scheduled to meet the bridegroom at his home, so it was imperative for her to be off the estate and lost in the crowded streets of London before anyone found out her escape plans.

Alysson's soft lips curved into a bitter smile as she envisioned the look on her father's face when he found her gone. The imagined visage also brought a shudder undulating down her back, and eager to be away, she picked up the small bag she had packed. She looked around again, then dropped it, watching as it fell into a box hedge growing against the first-floor windows. She let fall her heavy black cape next, then, without hesitation, she pulled the back of her dark blue silk skirt up between her legs and tucked it into the front of her bodice. That done, she climbed with the utmost self-confidence out upon the high window ledge.

She was not afraid of the drop yawning menacingly beneath her. She and Freddie had climbed down cliffs higher than that to reach the ocean caves, where the sea had thundered with magnificent echoes. She allowed herself a pang of regret at the thought of Freddie and Mathilde, wondering if they had made it safely to the village of Standington, where Mathilde's kin lived, after Alysson's father had callously cast them out of the farmhouse. She hoped they fared well, but now she couldn't let herself worry about anything but her escape.

Leaning around, she grasped the sturdy vines covering the outside wall, pulling down to test them with her weight. The glossy green leaves of the ivy held firm, inexorably tangled after a hundred years of steady growth on the facade of the red-brick house. She held on tightly, finding a foothold, then carefully began her descent, avoiding the windows. Three feet from the ground she let go, landing in a squatting position behind a fragrant oleander bush. She waited an instant, listening. There was no sound other than the trilling of songbirds in search of a night roost, and she struggled to part the hedge in order to retrieve her bag. Once she had it, the first wave of elation shot through her.

She was out of the house! She pulled on the cape and her heart sped wildly as she tiptoed along the side of the house behind the bushes. Like a dark wraith, she crossed a pebbled path and melted into another hedgerow that led to the rear wall of the estate where the rose gardens were laid out.

Long ago, when she had been five years old, she had discovered a crumbling portion of the high outer wall while playing hide-and-seek with her mother. It was well hidden by