The morning of departure dawned grey and drizzly, as though the weather itself was reluctant to see them go. Vanessa dressed in her traveling clothes,a sensible dress of dark blue,a warm pelisse, sturdy boots for the inevitable moment when someone would have to step down into mud and surveyed her stripped chambers one final time.
Everything had been packed away and was ready. The writing box was safely tucked into her personal trunk, wrapped in a shawl for extra protection. In a few hours, she would be in London, embarking on yet another Season of balls and dinners and the endless performance of being Lady Vanessa Wayworth.
She was not certain whether to feel excited or exhausted.
"Vanessa!" Her mother's voice echoed up the staircase. "The carriages are ready. Do come down at once."
The journey to London was long and uncomfortable, as journeys to London inevitably were. The carriage was cramped, the roads were rutted, and Lady Wayworth had opinions about everything from the inadequacy of the springs to the moral failings of the younger generation.
"In my day, young ladies did not require half so many trunks," she declared, approximately two hours into the journey. "We made do with what we had and were grateful for it."
"Yes, Mama."
"And the roads were worse, too. Positively treacherous with Highwaymen around every corner."
"Yes, Mama."
"I do not know what this world is coming to, truly. Everything is changing so fast. Soon there will be no standards left at all."
Vanessa murmured appropriate agreement and stared out the window at the passing countryside. Beside her, Aunt Bertha had fallen asleep almost immediately upon settling into her seat, her head nodding gently with the motion of the carriage, her lavender shawls pulled up around her chin like a blanket.
Edward had chosen to ride alongside the carriage, ostensibly because he preferred fresh air and exercise, but more likelybecause he wished to escape their mother's commentary. Vanessa could hardly blame him. If she had possessed any riding skill whatsoever, she would have joined him.
The hours crawled by. Lady Wayworth exhausted her supply of complaints and turned to needlework, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric with aggressive precision. Aunt Bertha continued to doze, occasionally murmuring something incomprehensible about lavender and misplaced spectacles. Once, she said quite clearly, "Not the goat, Frederick," and then fell silent again.
Vanessa watched the world pass by and tried not to think about what awaited her in London.
The Season. The balls. The endless parade of eligible gentlemen and their equally endless parade of eligible qualities.
Martin.
She would see him again. It was inevitable, given the overlapping circles in which they moved. He would be at the Castleton ball, probably, charming every woman in sight. He would seek her out for a dance, because he always did, and he would call her "little Wayworth" and make some cutting remark that would leave her flustered and furious and wanting more.
The thought made her chest tight in ways she did not wish to examine.
She had Lord Deane now. Lord Deane, who was kind and attentive and genuinely interested in her thoughts and opinions. Lord Deane, who spoke of agricultural reform with passion and looked at her as though she were something worth looking at. Lord Deane, who might, with time and effort become something more than a pleasant prospect.
She would focus on Lord Deane. She would give him a fair chance, unburdened by comparisons to a man who had never wanted her in the first place.
She would be practical and sensible, everything her mother wanted her to be.
And if some small, treacherous part of her heart whispered that practical and sensible were not the same as happy, she would learn to ignore it.
She had been ignoring it for six years already. What was the rest of her life?
The carriage hit a particularly deep rut, jolting everyone awake. Aunt Bertha blinked rapidly, looking around with the confusion of someone who has forgotten where they are.
"Are we there yet?"
"We are perhaps halfway," Lady Wayworth said, not looking up from her needlework. "Another three hours, I should think. Possibly four, if these roads do not improve."
"Oh, good. Plenty of time for a nap." Aunt Bertha settled back into her corner, rearranging her shawls. "Wake me when we arrive. Or if there are highwaymen. I should like to see a highwayman before I die. They seem terribly romantic in novels."
"There are no highwaymen, Aunt Bertha."
"How disappointing." She closed her eyes. "Though I suppose it is just as well. I am far too old to be ravished by a dashing outlaw. It would probably throw my back out."
"Bertha!" Lady Wayworth's scandalised voice cut through the carriage. "Such talk is entirely inappropriate."
