Hidden | Anthony Bridgerton

Prologue

Before | Oxford, 1804

I shouldn't be here. Not in this town, not attending the university that would never approve of me had they known I am a woman. Not in this dark alley, not during the night. I definitely shouldn't be holding a half-empty bottle of cheap alcohol in my hand, wearing trousers and a dirty shirt, my boots lost somewhere along the way.

And yet, it might be the happiest I remember myself being.

The streets of Oxford smell horribly, and walking them in the dark is scary at the very least; but there's this euphoric feeling of freedom that comes with each step I make, knowing that no one would ever approve, knowing how many rules of the ridiculous society I'm breaking each second. I'm drunk, clumsy, dirty, dressed in man's clothes, alone in the dark and it's exhilarating.

A laughter breaks from my throat.

No one reasonable would call a woman such as myself fortunate in this situation; I'm all alone in this world, forced to fend for myself, to work for myself, to spend hours over books, studies and experiments, not remembering the last time I got any sleep in a small bedroom I rent, not remembering the last time I ate, not having much money for that. But, oh, how fortunate I am indeed. I'm free. I can learn. I can do what I most love about life, unbothered by a child, by stupid rules of high society, by some corsète constructed to choke me.

In my pocket lies a promise; the small piece of hope I cannot bear to rid myself of. A gift from my mother, and my most valued possession. Not because of its expense; the ring is old and made of nothing more than wood, but because somehow, the words written on the inside are everything. Everything I'd strive to have. Everything I'll never have.

To this day, I have the ring with me at all times; and each time my fingers touch the wooden surface in the pocket of my coat, I'm reminded of the words and the meaning they hold, and a smile creeps its way onto my face.

„May you love last until the last breath"

It's a stupid wish; one that seems so far detached. A wish so unlikely for a woman such as me, unwilling to give up her freedom. One with an uncommon mind, education and a purpose. One so alone in this world.

Of course, I have longed for it, as one does. A true love, born from friendship, not marriage, affection, not duty. A love that doesn't leave, doesn't forget, doesn't stop. Most of all, a love that lasts.

But I know it's a love I may never have. I know I mustn't think of it, and so I tell myself I enjoy loneliness, compare it to freedom. For the most part, it works. I'm alone, because I'm well off by myself, I say. Because I've always been alone, and I've gotten bloody good at it. So much that it protects me, it is the only way I can be.

I know better, and yet, together with the ring, the fool's - which I can hardly call myself - hope stays. It seems to be the one thing I cannot bear to rid myself of.

Even if, above the inscription, painted are initials of my parents that screw the message into a threat, a cruel play of my mother.

What they had - I thank God every night it didn't last.

"Oh, bloody hell!" I cannot help but scream as I suddenly plummet onto the hard and dirty ground, my ankle twisting in a peculiar way, "No, no, no."

I don't want to look at it - the aching is enough to suggest a serious injury, and my broad knowledge in biology is enough to tell me I've probably twisted it.