I turned and found my friend, Sophia Charlton, looking in the same direction.
“I don’t believe anything I haven’t read in the newspapers,” I said with a cheeky smile, torn between wanting to know what she’d heard and not wanting to spread gossip. But I was the newspaper editor, and it was my job to know everything, was it not? “What have you heard?”
“That Governor Dunmore has chosen a husband for his eldest daughter, Lady Catherine.” Sophia’s dark brown eyes were almost black as she waited for my reaction.
“She’s but fourteen.”
“Are you not curious who the groom shall be?”
“What does it matter?” I tried to appear uninterested, yet I had already heard the rumors and knew her answer would matter a great deal.
“’Tis Henry Montgomery.”
I did not respond for a moment, praying the rumor was not true yet unable to deny what I had long suspected. “But he is three and twenty,” I said as a way to cover my true feelings.
“And what is nine years?” Sophia asked, lifting her bare shoulder. “Henry is one of the youngest burgesses ever to grace the house—not to mention a newly elected assembly clerk—and Governor Dunmore has high hopes for him. There are tight bonds between their families that transcend the age difference.”
“She’s still a child.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew they would mean nothing to Sophia. We both knew of younger girls marrying. At the age of nineteen—almosttwenty—I was deemed an old maid, but there had been little time to worry about such things while running the printing press.
“I have heard they intend to wait,” Sophia said, “for a year or more, until this business with the rebels dies down.”
A year? How I wished to tell Sophia that we would not see the end of the rebellion for almost a decade, but of course I could not.
“Do you think they’re discussing the terms of the agreement now?” Sophia asked as she tipped her head in contemplation. “He does not look pleased, if they are.”
No, Henry did not look pleased. His eyes were hooded, and his forehead was pressed into a frown. How I wished to ask him if it were true. It would make sense for their families’ sakes, but it went against everything that made sense to me.
Henry’s gaze locked on mine, and his countenance softened. I longed to tell him he did not have to do anything he did not want to do, but I wasn’t foolish. How many of us were allowed to do the things we truly wanted? Even in my 1914 life, I was rarely at my leisure to go and do as I pleased. Mama claimed that in the 1990s, things were much different. Women were doctors and lawyers and professors. Some were even in the clergy—had even gone to outer space, though I could hardly believe such a thing. In the future, people were not dependent on one another for their lives like we were in 1774 and even 1914. Marriage was a necessity to boost one’s social standing, to solidify family ties, to have security and purpose—all things Henry’s family would desire for him.
“It looks as if he’s coming this way.” Sophia ran her gloved hand down the stiff stomacher of her rose-colored silk gown. It was flawless, just as she was flawless, her curls in perfect order.
Henry crossed the ballroom toward us. The violinist was tuning his strings, and Lord Dunmore was escorting his wife into the middle of the room to open the ball with a minuet.
Henry came to stop in front of us. While he bowed, Sophia and I offered curtsies.
“Good evening,” he said. “How do you do, Miss Charlton?”
“I’m well, my lord,” Sophia said as she straightened from her curtsy. She addressed Henry properly, though I knew how much he detested such things. He had been born and raised on American soil, and his heart belonged to her cause. Ever since I could remember, he had made his position on the nobility plain—at least to me. He felt, like many others, that there was no place for the aristocracy in America.
I agreed, which made my path in 1914 all the more ironic and disheartening.
Henry turned to me. “I believe I requested the honor of a dance, Miss Conant. Will you allow me the pleasure?”
My smile was quick and, I daresay, radiant. The first dance of the evening was the most important for status and social standing. It would be led by Governor Dunmore and his wife, and each couple would follow them in descending order of importance. Henry would be near the front of the line. To be asked by him was truly an honor. “Indeed, I will.”
He took my hand and led me to the center of the room, the full skirts of my gown brushing against his legs as we went. Governor and Lady Dunmore looked in our direction, as did Henry’s parents, who had also joined the dance. Governor Dunmore raised his eyebrow at me, while Lady Dunmore’s look was more curious than condescending. I was sure they did not know me, since we had not had an occasion to cross paths.
But Henry’s parents did know me—had known me since I was a child.
And they did not look pleased to see me on Henry’s arm.
2
LONDON, ENGLAND
MAY 5, 1914
The following morning, I lay in bed for several minutes with my eyes closed, not wanting to open them and face the day ahead. I languished in the thick feather bed, remembering Henry’s brilliant blue eyes as he smiled at me throughout the previous evening. Ours was a deep friendship that had spanned a lifetime and came easily to us both. There were very few relationships I found as easy to navigate as ours.
