Prologue

Chicago, 1865

Sophia eyed her own reflection skeptically. Her tattered old burgundy dress was certainly the worse for wear, but still holding up. The only problem was the sleeves. She had owned the dress – her favorite – for a while, and after a few times of having to turn back dirty, frayed cuffs, it was natural that the sleeves were now too short, exposing an inch or two of her wrists.

Other girls might only worry about the chill Chicago winters and clothes that let in the cold, but Sophia had other things to think about.

Namely, the ring of purpling bruises around her wrist, pockmarked with little red crescents where nails had dug into her skin. She tugged experimentally on her sleeves, trying to pull them down further. It was no good. The bruises were unashamedly on show. Sophia would have to think of something else.

And, of course, there was the rich purpling bruise near her eye. That would be much harder to hide, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. A layer or two of powder would hide the bruise in public, but Sophia had precious little powder left.

She heard a noise out in the hallway and hurriedly backed away from the mirror. She was supposed to be dusting in here, not eyeing her own reflection.

Sophia just had time to snatch up a duster before the parlor door opened. She immediately relaxed when she saw who was there.

“Jazzy, it’s you,” she sighed. “I thought it was… well.”

The two girls were so alike they were often taken for sisters. Sophia was tall, slim, dark-haired, and green eyed. Jasmine Hardy – or Jazzy, for short – was also dark-haired and light-eyed. She was much thinner than Sophia, and worryingly pale these days, but the resemblance was there.

They were not, in fact, sisters, or even cousins. Jazzy’s mother, Laura Hardy, had taken in Sophia six years ago, when Sophia’s mother died. It was an uncharacteristic flight of kindness, and one that Aunt Laura quite clearly regretted.

Six years. It felt like forever. Sophia still had scars from “Aunt” Laura’s original flights of temper. She’d insisted that Sophia call her Aunt Laura, as part of her pretense of kindness. Back then, Aunt Laura had tried to beat Sophia in a way that would keep the bruises and cuts hidden. She was less careful these days.

She hadn’t been at all happy at being obliged to take on her friend’s child, once she realized all the new responsibilities she’d have. The congratulations and attention that Aunt Laura received for her kindness quickly faded away, and she was left with a child that she didn’t want, not really. Another mouth to feed, another body to clothe, she’d screeched, not that she’d bothered to do either. She hadn’t kept quiet about her dissatisfaction. Unfortunately, Sophia’s only two options were to live with Jazzy’s mother or die on the street. Her father was long dead, and they had no friends to help them. She’d only been fourteen at the time.

Now Sophia was twenty, and no closer to escaping Aunt Laura’s talon-nailed clutches than when she was fourteen.

“I’m so sorry, Sophia,” Jazzy whispered, stepping inside and closing the door. “I was sleeping upstairs when I heard the commotion. What happened? Oh, your eye.”

Sophia automatically lifted her hand to touch her black eye, and the purple and yellow bruise blossoming across her cheek. It was throbbing, but she knew from experience it would be fading in a day or two.

Jazzy sighed, pulling out a clean cloth and a small bottle of ointment from her apron pocket. “Here, let me.”

Keeping one eye on the door, Sophia allowed herself to be maneuvered to one of the chairs. Jazzy pulled up a stool, sitting in front of Sophia, and poured out a little of the ointment on the cloth.

“This will sting a little,” Jazzy said, as if she and Sophia hadn’t gone through these routines countless times over the past six years. She held the cool cloth to Sophia’s cheek.

It did sting, but she was long used to it.

“Does it hurt?” Jazzy asked.

“A little.” Sophia kept her ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps along the hall. Aunt Laura always wore fine, heeled boots. They were expensive and very attractive, but the heels clicked loudly on the polished wood floors. Sophia would hear her coming.

Probably.

“So, what was it this time?” Jazzy continued; brow furrowed. She dabbed gently at Sophia’s bruised cheek. There was a thin, inch-long cut along her cheekbone, made by one of the prongs of one of Aunt Laura’s rings. It wasn’t a deep cut, thankfully.

“I oversalted the dinner,” Sophia said, hearing the bitterness in her own voice. “Apparently, anyway. It tasted fine to me.”

Jazzy pressed her lips together. “I heard her shouting upstairs. That’s what woke me. If I’d been down here, I could have stopped her. She won’t beat me.”

“I don’t want to risk it, Jazzy,” Sophia reached out, taking Jazzy’s hand. Her wrists were thinner and bonier than ever, and her megrims were back – hence the long naps. “I don’t want her to hurt you.”

“I don’t want her to hurt you,” Jazzy retorted. “Come upstairs, I’ve got something to show you. Quickly, Mama has just gone out. I saw her go from the upstairs window. I don’t know how long she’ll be.”

Sophia allowed Jazzy to tow her along upstairs. It was a fine, big house, with wood floors that Sophia meticulously swept and waxed, and dozens of expensive porcelain ornaments and lots of finely wrought wooden furniture that she polished diligently. The kitchen was another familiar place to Sophia. Aunt Laura had made it clear that she was to take over the business of cooking and cleaning when she first arrived. Sophia had not been a good cook, which had resulted in many beatings to begin with.

Her mother, Alison Cooper, had been an excellent cook, and never raised her hand to her daughter. Moving in with Aunt Laura had been something of a shock.

Jazzy was out of breath by the time she reached the top of the stairs, and Sophia frowned. The movement tugged at her bruised skin, and she winced, but Sophia was more focused on Jazzy, noticing how breathless she was, even after a short flight of stairs.

“Jazzy? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Come on, in here.”

She led the way into her bedroom. Sophia did not sleep upstairs with the family, of course. There was a freezing cold alcove off the side of the scullery, just large enough to fit a pallet bed, and Sophia slept there. She’d gotten used to the spiders and the occasional adventurous mouse.

Jazzy’s room, of course, was something different. It was warm and cozy, with well-swept floors, pretty curtains at the window, and a clean, comfortable bed. She had a few pieces of furniture and a few knick-knacks set out on the dresser.

Sophia stepped inside, sinking down onto the little stool in front of the writing desk. Jazzy crouched down to pull out a small box from under her bed. She stood, wincing as she did so.

“Jazzy, you don’t look well. You’re paler than ever. Have you had breakfast?”

“I wasn’t hungry, but I saved some for you. There, it’s on a plate on the dresser.”

Sophia snatched at the food despite herself. It wasn’t anything special, just fruit, bread, bacon, and some cheese. Sophia had always hated eggs of any description, so Aunt Laura made sure that Sophia was only permitted to eat a bowl of lukewarm scrambled eggs for breakfast. Just another small act of malice.

Sophia hadn’t eaten since supper last night, and that hadn’t been much. Jazzy ate like a bird, but Aunt Laura had a hearty appetite, and made sure that there was hardly any food left on the table by the time Sophia was permitted to sit down and eat.

She stuffed the bread in her mouth, savoring the rich butter on her tongue.

“What’s that?” she asked, with her mouth full, gesturing to the box. Jazzy flashed a smile at her and opened it.

It was full of letters.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jazzy said. “I want to get away from Mama, and I want you to get away from Mama. I’m unlikely to get married here in Chicago, what with my health being so bad. The doctor keeps saying that a warmer climate will suit me better, so I thought, why not try and kill two birds with one stone? I’ve been writing to a rancher in Colorado as a possible correspondence bride.”

Sophia froze mid-chew. “A correspondence bride? Jazzy, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

She shrugged. “Why not? Lots of women do it. There are too many unmarried women in places like Chicago, and too many unmarried men in places like Colorado. It’s perfect.”

“You can’t marry a man you’ve never met. You hardly know him.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Look at all these letters – we’ve been corresponding for nearly six months,” Jazzy held out the box, and Sophia snatched out a few letters at random.

She scanned the letters, concentrating on picking out details. His name was Nathan Rowe, apparently. Jazzy was right – they’d been exchanging letters for months. He wrote well, as far as Sophia could tell. He seemed intelligent, articulate, pleasant, and genuinely interested in Jazzy.

“Are you going to marry him?” Sophia asked nervously.

She knew it was wrong to be so selfish, but the idea of living here without Jazzy was unbearable.

Jazzy shrugged. “We’ve been talking about it. I’d say so, although we need to iron out the details of the actual wedding yet. We’re not in love, of course. These arrangements are never about love. They’re about friendship, mutual respect, and an arrangement that’s good for both parties.”

Sophia swallowed hard. She knew she should be happy for Jazzy. She was happy for her, but of course this meant that Jazzy was leaving. For good.

And, of course, there was an odd feeling of jealousy there, too. Opportunities would open up to Jazzy that Sophia could only dream of. Jazzy deserved them, of course, but… well, couldn’t they both be happy?

No, came the bitter answer. We can’t.

“Well, I suppose if that’s what you want…”

“It is,” Jazzy said, flushing. “I do want to be married, Sophia. I’d like to be in love, but I’d settle for a man I like and respect, who’s going to take care of me.”

“Of course, of course. Well, Jazzy, I’m happy for you. I’ll miss you, but I’m glad you’ve got this prospect ahead of you.”

“That’s just it,” Jazzy said, beaming. “You can come too! Not right away, I don’t think, but once I’m settled and married, I’ll send for you, if Mr. Rowe doesn’t mind.”

It was a tempting idea, but Sophia didn’t want to let herself get carried away. There’d been the occasional hopes over the years, holding out the prospect of getting away from Aunt Laura. Nothing had worked out, and Sophia had gradually come to abandon hope. This was her home now, and she’d better get used to it.

She could leave, of course, but where would that put her? She was unlikely to get a job in town, not with Aunt Laura so reluctant to lose her unpaid servant. That was what Sophia was now. She cooked, cleaned, did all the chores, maintained the house, and nursed Jazzy when necessary. Aunt Laura would do her best to scupper any chance Sophia would get of leaving. She could just walk out, but what then? She had no family, no friends, no money, nowhere to go.

There were worse places than Aunt Laura’s home.

She scanned the pages of unfamiliar, neat, close-packed writing, trying to get some hint as to what sort of man had written it.

“That seems like a lot to ask,” Sophia said carefully. “After all, Mr. Rowe doesn’t know me. Why would he agree to let me live in his house?”

“That’s just it – I thought you could help out in the house. You know I haven’t the strength to do much housework. But if you came, you could help. It would be much better than now – you’d be treated better, and fed better, and I can’t imagine the work would be any harder than what you do now. What’s more, we’d be together. Sisters by choice, if not by blood. That was what we said, wasn’t it?”

Jazzy reached out, taking Sophia’s hand. Sophia glanced up, seeing hope and anticipation and a little tinge of fear in Jazzy’s eyes.

“All right,” Sophia said. “Of course, I’ll come. We’re sisters, aren’t we?”

Chapter One

Two Weeks Later

Sophia stood in the kitchen doorway, peering out into the hallway. She could hear muffled voices upstairs. Doctor Preston hadn’t stopped to speak to Sophia, any more than he would acknowledge a servant. He was a friend of Aunt Laura’s.

Sophia had let him in, and he’d pushed past without a single glance at her. He’d hurried straight upstairs, face grim. He knew where Jazzy’s room was, of course, and Aunt Laura had greeted him on the landing. They spoke briefly in hushed tones that Sophia couldn’t hear, and then she heard the soft squeak of Jazzy’s bedroom door opening and closing.

That was at least an hour ago, and nobody had come downstairs since then.

There was an absolute mountain of work that Sophia should have been getting on with. She had luncheon to make, the kitchen to clean, the floors to sweep, and mending to finish. But Sophia couldn’t make herself do anything, not until she knew how Jazzy was.

Jazzy had been ill before. She’d had coughing fits that left her racked with pain, and days when she was too weak to get out bed. Sometimes she couldn’t sleep, and Sophia could creep upstairs and sit with her all night.

That was what sisters were for, wasn’t it?

The bedroom door opened, and Doctor Preston came striding across the landing and down the stairs, followed by Aunt Laura. Sophia just had time to dive back into the kitchen before they stepped down into the hallway.

“You mustn’t pamper the girl, Mrs. Hardy,” Doctor Preston said firmly. “These spells of melancholia are a symptom of a weak spirit. Her physical illness is exacerbated by lack of exercise and fresh air.”

“Are you sure?” Aunt Laura sounded genuinely frightened. “She looked so awful when she collapsed this morning. I didn’t know what to do. I… I thought she might die.”

“Quite sure. She is ill, of course, but I am a great believer in mind over matter, Mrs. Hardy. When you come over for supper tonight, we will discuss a further course of treatment.”

“Should I still come? Shouldn’t I stay with Jasmine?”

“What about that girl you have? She can watch her.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course, I am. Good day, Mrs. Hardy. I shall send my bill around this afternoon.”

Then he was gone, closing the door after him. Aunt Laura stood there for a moment or two, chewing one well-shaped nail and staring at the door. Then she abruptly turned around again, in time to see Sophia peering out of the doorway, and her face hardened.

Aunt Laura was around thirty-eight years old, widowed for many years. She had a decent fortune, but nothing too impressive. Not enough to guarantee that Jazzy could have a comfortable future.

Their future was as pallid and unconvincing as the false front of blonde curls that poked out from under her bonnet.

“What are you doing, lounging around? You lazy, wicked girl!” Aunt Laura hissed. “Get back in that kitchen and prepare luncheon. Hop to it, girl!”

Sophia dived back in the kitchen, half-expecting Aunt Laura to come racing after her, possibly armed with an umbrella or a wooden spoon to beat her with.

But nobody followed her, and Sophia was left to get on with her chores in peace.

She was terribly worried about Jazzy, of course. Her health had declined rapidly over the past two weeks, and Doctor Preston’s merciless recommendations of long walks and plenty of cold, fresh air had left her bedridden for most of the time. Her meager strength was all used up on the mandatory walks, and the cold air seemed to make her lungs seize up. Doctor Preston was the sort of man who didn’t believe in illness, which was not ideal in a family doctor.

I’ll go up and see Jazzy as soon as Aunt Laura goes, Sophia told herself. I’ll sit with her.