Across the Ages (Across the Ages Book One) (2 page)

SECTION ONE

ONE

TO CATCH A HUSBAND

London, England 1815

AMIDST THE
crushing parties of Almack’s, the afternoon carriage rides, and the changing necklines and hemlines of the
ton
, one thing remained the same. During the early months of the year hopeful girls and their calculating mothers prepared for the Season in London with singular purpose: to catch a husband.

At the moment though Lucy was only concerned with catching the mouse that kept shredding pages from her books and using them to make a nest in the back of her wardrobe.

She got down on hands and knees, holding in one hand a pillowcase she’d fashioned into a trap. The gray mouse was pressed against the back wall, his little whiskers twitching nervously.

“Harriet, get off that chair you scaredy-cat. The poor mouse is more afraid of you than you are of it. I need you to bring over that platter of food.” Lucy pointed to the tray sitting on her bed. Her appetite wasn’t what it used to be. And who could blame her? A husband had already been caught for her. Tonight, at the ball to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, her father would announce her engagement to Dashel Rothchild.

“Harriet,” she hollered, more insistent.

Her lady’s maid carefully climbed off the chair and tiptoed over to the bed where she picked up the tray filled with biscuits, preserves and cheese. “Here you are, Miss.” She set it on the wood floor next to Lucy before jumping back on the chair.

“Thank you,” Lucy said with an exasperated laugh. Harriet was a dear girl but she lacked Lucy’s fortitude. “Look what I have for you, mouse.” She broke off a piece of cheese and tossed it softly toward the mouse in the wardrobe.

Its nose and whiskers moved quickly as it assessed the treat Lucy had thrown it.

“Come on, troublemaker, lest you make me late to my own engagement.” Under her breath, she added, “Not that I mind.”

The mouse took a hesitant step forward, picked up the cheese in its tiny pink paws and began eating.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” She kept her voice soft and soothing, like when she talked to a new horse. “Here’s a bit more.” She tore off another chunk and threw it in. The mouse stuffed the remainder of the first piece in its mouth and moved to the newest piece. He sniffed before picking it up and eating.

Lucy clapped quietly, proud that her plan seemed to be working. “You are handling the situation marvelously, mouse. Just a little closer and I’ll put you in this pillowcase. But fear not,” she continued, tearing another piece of cheese and throwing it in. “I won’t hurt you, I’m only going to send you outside.” She watched the mouse eat. Glancing at Harriet, who looked ready to faint, she went on, “He’s kind of cute. You’ve no need to be frightened.”

“You donna’ understand, Miss. They like to climb in my hair.”

Lucy thought about that. “I’m sorry, Harriet. If I had a mouse climb in my hair that would frighten me as well.”

“That’s alright. Shall I run down and fetch Patrick? He could have the mouse caught n’ killed in no time.”

Lucy placed the final piece of cheese on the edge of the wardrobe. “That’s precisely the reason you mustn’t summon Patrick. I do not wish the mouse dead, only out of my wardrobe.”

Lucy ever so slowly lifted the pillowcase to the edge. If the mouse became frightened it would run. She needed to be quick. As the mouse ambled near the edge, it sniffed the air. Perhaps checking for danger.

“You’re safe, little mouse. Just pick up the cheese.”

The mouse studied her with its glassy black eyes. After several long moments, it must’ve decided it wanted the cheese more than it worried about Lucy. The mouse picked up the cheese and began to nibble.

Lucy threw the pillowcase, but the mouse was too quick and dashed under it, onto the floor and then ran under Lucy’s bed.

“Blast,” Lucy shouted, standing.

Harriet squealed, hugging the hem of her dress to her chest. “Are you going after it?” Harriet asked.

Lucy peered under her bed where she could see the shine of the mouse’s eyes. “Little trickster, you’re safe for now.” She stood, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror standing next to her wardrobe. She had on her chemise, stay, petticoat, and silk stockings. “I suppose I should find something to wear. Dashel isn’t going to get engaged by himself.”

“You’re right, Miss. To catch yerself a husband yer hav’n to have the proper trap.” She grinned at her cleverness.

Lucy smiled. Harriet was two years younger than herself, but she seemed more astute in the ways of the world. “You know good and well he is already caught, but he is not my match.” She picked through the brand new gowns in her wardrobe. Her mother had been adamant she have the best of everything and several of each style for whatever the occasion. Lucy had morning gowns, visiting gowns, walking gowns, promenade dresses, carriage dresses, two riding habits, four dinner dresses, and twenty ball gowns as well as three incredibly fancy dresses to be used when she was presented to the Queen. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to be seen in the same gown twice. Lucy knew the small fortune her mother spent had nothing to do with love of her daughter and everything to do with how she would be portrayed in society. Her mother was always very conscious about appearances. Very little was ever focused on the soul. 

There’d been a time when Lucy’s greatest wish had been to marry, like her mother. She’d spent hours lying in the clover meadow behind her house in Sothersby, staring up at the overcast sky, and imagining her perfect husband. He would be tall. Irresistibly handsome. His hair would be well kept, his lips full, but not thick. She would imagine the dashing way he wore his breeches, jacket, and cravat. When the time was right, she and her fiancé would marry in front of three hundred of their dearest friends. Afterward, they would vacation along the Thames for six months, and then move into their London home. Theirs would be the hub of all the best social gatherings. Occasionally they’d make an appearance at the most fashionable parties—she in a beautiful gown and he in his finest dress coat. She would smile demurely behind her fan as she listened to gossip about her and her husband. People would say things like: “I hear he brings her flowers every day,” and, “It’s scandalous the way her husband looks at her.” He would be kind, well educated, driven, and self-assured.

Lucy had indulged in such daydreams when she’d been young, too young to understand the reason her mother, Lady Kathryn Channing often cried or why her father, the Earl of Sothersby drank port until his face turned red and his belly grew large. Today though she was eighteen, and no longer a child. No longer naïve in the ways of the world.

Lucy understood her parents didn’t love each other. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, based on barely contained tolerance. That apathy translated to their eldest daughter. She was a means to increase the family’s standing. And her parents, not given to wasting time, had already found her a suitable match. Tonight would be her birthday celebration, her coming out ball, and her engagement announcement.

The problem as Lucy saw it, was that she didn’t love her soon-to-be intended. As she pulled dress after gorgeous dress from her closet and then tossed them on her bed, she wished she could go back to that innocent time when she believed her life had limitless potential and that one day her prince would come.

“Is there a particular dress you’re looking for, Miss?” Harriet asked. The young girl wrung her hands, fretting over Lucy’s dithering.

“I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it, Harriet.” Having never been to a ball, one might believe Lucy would be brimming with excitement at the prospect of attending. Not so. She was being led like a lamb to the slaughter and there wasn’t a blasted thing she could do about it. The invitations had been sent weeks ago and most everyone had accepted. Her party was sure to be a great success and the talk of London, but Lucy didn’t care.

Lucy was a young woman of intellect who enjoyed her studies immensely, especially the sciences. She could speak French, Italian, and Spanish. She was also adept at oil painting, loved to play the pianoforte, and excelled at reading and writing. She especially loved to read the provocative (according to her mother) new works of Jane Austen while wandering through family’s rose gardens or sitting in their cemetery. Lucy knew it would seem morbid to most, but there was something comforting about being near her deceased ancestors. Large trees surrounded the area and in the summer some of the branches nearly touched the ground as though they were hugging the dead, keeping them safe.

Three months ago, over a supper of roasted pork and boiled potatoes, her father broke the news that the family was nearly out of money. Lucy was to be their savior. It was her responsibility to marry Dashel Rothchild, the Earl of Westington. To keep up appearances they would take up residence in London for the Season so Lucy could be properly presented into society.

“My life is over,” Lucy moaned, dramatically flinging herself into a chair.

“Whatever do you mean, Miss? Your life is magical.” Harriet picked up a gown, ignoring Lucy’s theatrics. “How about this lovely red one? It’ll bring out the creaminess of your skin,” she said holding it up to Lucy’s chin.

Lucy crinkled her nose, a face she was sure her mother would say was unbecoming of the future wife of an Earl.

Harriet rehung the dress back in the wardrobe and pulled out a lilac one. “This one will really bring out your eyes,” she continued.

Lucy turned away. “No.” She knew she was being difficult, and if she didn’t get ready soon her mother would come up to her bedroom and then she’d have the devil to pay.

Her lady’s maid sighed. “Your party has already started. If’n you don’t hurry, the Mistress will turn me out minus a letter o’ recommendation. I’ll be destitute, Miss.” Her words came out with at least as much dramatic flair as Lucy’s had done.

Lucy sat up. “You needn’t concern yourself, Harriet. My mother knows I cannot get by without you.” She picked through the gowns she’d tossed on her bed. Each had been made to fit Lucy’s slim form perfectly. The dressmaker, the self-proclaimed Great Harry DeVent, claimed Lucy would be the talk of the London Season, declaring her waist length dark brown curls, violet eyes and lithe figure were all the rage. He went on to exclaim that with his dresses on her she would capture the heart of every eligible male of worth and predicted she would be engaged and the banns posted before the Season was finished.

Lucy and her mother had simply smiled, as was proper for two ladies of breeding. The official announcement would be posted in the
Gazette
.

When the gowns were delivered earlier in the week Lucy had been coerced into trying a few on. Even she had to admit the Great Harry DeVent had outdone himself. She felt more confident and beautiful in his dresses, but that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want tonight to happen.

It wasn’t that she disliked the Earl of Westington. He was nice enough, even handsome. Dashel was tall, with deep brown hair that was styled in the modern fashion. His eyes were a creamy chocolate. He had a strong jawline, and stood like a man filled with self-assurance. Lucy knew all the eligible ladies would be vying for his attention, and she knew that they would instantly hate her when they found out he was already taken.

All of the Earl’s qualities meant little to Lucy, because despite Dashel’s merits, she didn’t love him, at least not the way she believed a wife should love her husband. It was plain and simple. He was a dear friend and had been so for many years. They’d played together as children. He’d tugged on her hair when she was little. They’d gone riding together when she was twelve and thirteen, and he’d even taught her to play cards last summer.

Dashel felt the same way about Lucy. They were both being forced into a marriage they didn’t want for the sake of their parents. It burned her up inside.

“It just isn’t fair. Why can’t I love who I want, when I want?” She found herself tightening her fists around a soft lavender gown with pink rosettes all along the rounded collar.

TWO

A LADY OF BREEDING

HARRIET RESCUED
the material from Lucy’s hands, hanging it back in the closet. “The Earl of Westington is very handsome,” she said meekly.

Lucy turned in time to see a slight blush creep up her maid’s lovely cheeks. She smiled. “Yes, he is. But we don’t love each other. Surely you can understand why I’m vexed.”

Her maid lowered her eyes. “If’n I may be so bold, my mum says that sometimes love must be pruned and managed, that it takes time for a great love to grow.”

Lucy pressed her lips together. “I appreciate the sentiment, but Dashel and I have had years to develop feelings for each other. It hasn’t happened.”

“Beg pardon, Miss.” Harriet picked up another gown, this one in fuchsia, and put it away. She knew she’d already crossed the line and wouldn’t say anymore.

Lucy wanted to marry for love. She wanted what her grandmother, the Countess of Polenska had had with her husband, God rest his soul. Lucy couldn’t remember much about her grandfather and her mother wouldn’t speak of him, but it didn’t matter. All she had to do was look at her grandmother to know she still carried around an abiding love in her heart.

“Lucy, the guests are arriving,” Ellen said from the doorway. Ellen was Lucy’s younger sister. At fourteen she seemed much wiser than Lucy in some ways. “Mother wants you to hurry.

Lucy sighed. The inevitable couldn’t be put off any longer. “Which gown should I wear?” she asked Ellen, slumping onto her bed. Ellen had a great fashion sense. Not like Lucy. Most of the time she wished she could wear trousers the way men did.

“I like this one,” Ellen said, picking up a gown with an empire waist. It was made of ivory silk and adorned with tiny blush pink flowers. The rounded collar was lined with matching pink velvet and the short sleeves were puffed with intricate detail. A thick pink ribbon cupped under the bodice and tied in the back. It was simple, elegant and pretty. Decidedly not what the other girls would be wearing. But according to the Great Harry DeVent, the high waistline would take Lucy to the height of fashion, making her the envy of every young lady. Lucy had thought the low collar and the high waist slightly vulgar, but her mother insisted she wear them.

“A lovely choice,” Lucy said, knowing any of the dresses would do. Ellen and Harriet helped her slip it over her head. She tugged it over her underclothes. “Will you fasten it?” she asked Ellen, knowing her sister liked to help.

“Of course.” Ellen pulled the fabric together and fastened the buttons. Then tied the ribbon. “You look exquisite.”

“It really is delectable, isn’t it?” Lucy responded, admiring the way the dress fell against her body.

“Now if we can do something with your mop of hair, I’ll feel truly sorry for the other girls attending your ball tonight. No one will even notice them.”

“I don’t know about that,” Lucy said, but she appreciated the compliment. She sat in front of her dressing table. The lamp flickered, casting shadows against the wall.

Lucy glanced at her reflection. Her hair had been tied in rags the night before. The effect of all the white twisted in her hair did kind of make her head look like a mop. “My hair is not a mop.”

“Is too,” Ellen argued.

Lucy stuck out her tongue. Ellen reciprocated. And then they both giggled.

Harriet came over. “Would you like me to do that, Miss Ellen?”

“No, but I appreciate you asking. Why don’t you take a break?” Ellen was very strong-minded. She believed in equal rights and didn’t like to have the maids do anything for her. She was also a twin. Her twin’s name was Beaufort, though he went by Beau. He was born four minutes ahead of Ellen and loved to rub her nose in the fact that he was older. They both had light brown hair like their mother’s, along with storm gray eyes, and freckled skin, the same as their father.

Ellen shook her head as she made quick work of untying the rags. Lucy watched her work in the mirror, studying their differences. Ellen was already taller than Lucy, as was Beaufort.

When the rags were all out, Ellen brushed through Lucy’s curls, loosening them. “So beautiful,” she said, pinning Lucy’s hair in a bun at the base of her neck. Once her hair was secure, Ellen pulled some tendrils of hair on either side of Lucy’s face. “Pinch your cheeks and you’ll look perfect.”

Lucy pinched and then applied a bit of color to her lips.

“Let’s put some of Dashel’s flowers in your hair.” Ellen went over to the large bouquet Lucy received from him earlier in the day. Lucy knew the card said, “Here’s to at least eighteen more.”

At the thought of Dashel’s cheeky note, Lucy smiled. “That would be nice, but only use the daisies. Those are my favorite.”

Ellen cut the daisies and arranged them in Lucy’s bun. She came around and checked her work. “You look wonderful,” she squealed, clapping her hands.

“Thanks to you.” Lucy gave herself a quick once over as Harriet brought over her matching ivory white slippers. Lucy put them on. “Do you think I should wear a necklace?” Lucy eyed the pearls hanging to her left.

“No, you look beautiful just as you are.”

“Your gloves, Miss. And your fan,” Harriet added, holding them out for Lucy to take.

Lucy pulled on the long ivory white gloves. Then she took the fan. “Thank you, Harriet.”

Her maid blushed and bobbed a curtsy. “Anything for you, Miss.”

“I guess we’d better get downstairs.”

Ellen smiled as she slipped a hand into the crook of Lucy’s elbow. “It might be the best night of your life, you know.”

Lucy didn’t argue, but she thought it highly unlikely.