Chapter 1: Sworn In and Secrets Awaken

In 1851, fifteen-year-old Harrison Whitmore was sworn in as the new governor of Illinois—a kid thrown into a grown-up’s game.

The marble rotunda echoed with the deep voices of men twice his age, their glances shifting between skepticism and a kind of amused curiosity as the young governor took his oath. Harrison’s hand trembled just a bit as he pressed it to the thick, leather-bound Bible, but his jaw set the way his late father’s used to when he dug in his heels. The air in the chamber was heavy with pipe smoke and the scent of winter wool. Harrison felt it settle on his shoulders—thick, inescapable. Then the applause broke out, loud and sudden, and in that moment, he realized his childhood was truly over. Somewhere in the crowd, he caught the brief, proud smile of his older sister, Victoria, and for just a second, he felt a little less alone in the world.

He couldn’t have known that his older sister, Victoria Langley, over at Maple Heights, was caught up in a family drama straight out of a novel. Life had a way of turning, and somewhere not far from the capitol, trouble was brewing in the most elegant of homes.

Maple Heights stood high above the Sangamon River, its white columns shining in the pale morning light, ringed by sprawling oaks and carriage wheels crunching over gravel in the distance. The estate’s wide porches and sunlit parlors were usually alive with the laughter of cousins and the rustle of silk skirts. But lately, a hush had settled. Downstairs, the kitchen buzzed with gossip. Upstairs, secrets flickered between sisters by candlelight. The Langleys always held their heads high, proud of their reputation. But even the grandest homes have shadows in the corners.

His brother-in-law, Charles Morgan—a direct descendant of a Revolutionary War hero—had inherited the estate at Maple Heights. Most days, he had to borrow a few hands from his other properties out in the country just to keep things running at home.

Charles Morgan wore his heritage like a badge of honor. His portrait hung in the study, right beside his ancestor’s faded regimental flag—a daily reminder of the family’s legacy. The estate, impressive as it was, cost a fortune to maintain, and Charles was always writing letters—always asking cousins for the loan of a cook or a stable boy, always chasing after some missing account. He ran the household with the same sharp eye he used on his ledgers. But even Charles couldn’t keep track of every heart and secret that moved through those halls.

Among this rotating crew of borrowed help was Daniel Harper. Strikingly handsome. Quick on the uptake. He got along with everyone.

Daniel had an easy grin—the kind that could melt away a bad mood—and a knack for remembering everyone’s favorite pie. He could split wood with the best of them. But he also had a way of charming the ladies in the laundry with stories from Lincoln County, and not once did he track mud onto the floorboards. The housemaids giggled behind their aprons when he walked by, and even old Mrs. Agnes Wheeler, the head housekeeper, would shake her head and say he was a rare one. In the evenings, Daniel sometimes played fiddle tunes on the back porch, letting the music drift over the fields and mingle with the honeysuckle. Some nights, it almost felt like summer would never end.

As the months rolled on, a housemaid named Sarah Wheeler found herself falling for him. And eventually, they crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.

Sarah was quiet, clever with her hands, soft-voiced. But her eyes always found Daniel. Their glances lingered, their laughter softened, and on one warm summer night—while the rest of the house slept—they gave in to temptation under the old magnolia tree, its branches heavy with scent. After, Sarah lay awake, her heart pounding wild with hope and fear. Daniel stared up at the ceiling, the weight of what he'd done settling in.

When Sarah missed her next cycle, a tiny, fragile hope started to grow inside her, even as dread crept in around the edges.