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Grandmother gestured at the pile of letters on the table. “There is a letter for you there. From London. Read it and leave me alone for a few minutes.”

I picked up the letter and walked to the window, letting the sunlight fall on the familiar handwriting. When Papa had brought me to Bath, he had found an even more suitable situation for my twin sister, Cecily. She had been staying with our cousin Edith in London for the past fourteen months and seemed to have enjoyed every moment of it.

For being twins, Cecily and I were remarkably different. She excelled me in every womanly art. She was much more beautiful and refined. She played the pianoforte and sang like an angel. She flirted easily with gentlemen. She liked town life and had dreams of marrying a man with a title. She was ambitious.

My ambitions were quite different from hers. I wanted to live in the country, to ride my horse, to sit in an orchard and paint, to take care of my father, to feel that I belonged, to do something useful and good with my time. But most of all, I wanted to be loved for who I was.