A knock at the door was all the warning my lady’s maid, Edith, offered before she entered my well-appointed bedchamber.
“Good morning,” she said in her cheerful Irish lilt. “I’ve brought the post, and there’s a letter from your father.”
I opened my eyes at the news. My bedroom in the rented townhouse on Berkeley Square was lavish. The four-poster bed was tall and imposing, yet its size did not dominate the large room.
Edith presented the letter to me with a grin, knowing how much I would enjoy a message from Father. I took it, eager to hear news from home. While I tore open the seal, she broughtmy breakfast tray to the bed and placed it over my lap, humming an Irish folk song I had heard before. The tray was laden with fresh tea, steaming scones, and strawberry jam. My life in 1914 was so different from my life in 1774. Here, I was waited upon by servants and spent my days pursuing pointless social obligations. Though some might imagine the life I led was delightful, I longed for a purpose like I had in Williamsburg.
As Edith left my bedside to choose the gown I would wear that day, I savored Father’s words.
April 29, 1914
My Dearest Libby,
I received the telegram that you and Mother arrived safely in London. I am relieved to hear the news. I had so hoped to spend the summer in Newport with you, picking seashells as we used to do when you were small, but I understand your mother’s desire to have a season in London after your two successful seasons in New York. We must strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. I hope you enjoy yourself and bring back many wonderful memories to cherish in your heart for all time. Please greet your mother for me and enjoy your adventures.
Lovingly, Father
It was a short note, quickly scrawled. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks, not since we left New York City on the RMSLusitania, and I missed him already.
“Is it good news?” Edith asked as she came out of my closet with a gown in hand.
“He wishes me well and is pleased to hear that we’ve arrived safely.”
Her smile was warm as she made her way back into the closet. Edith had a soft spot in her heart for my father, as did most of the staff.
I folded his letter and gently returned it to its envelope. My heart squeezed at the knowledge that in just thirteen months’ time, on my twenty-first birthday, I would leave him forever. To those in this life, I would simply die. My 1914 body would remain here, while my consciousness would return to 1774 and stay there for good. It was a strange reality, but one I had been aware of since I was very small.
I didn’t want to think about that today—or any other day, for that matter. Father and Edith would mourn my death, but what was I to do? I was desperately needed in 1774. My mama and sisters depended upon me, and I longed to be part of a life that truly mattered.
Unlike this existence, where I was pampered, pressed, and polished to perfection—with little purpose beyond being an ornament.
My bedroom door opened for the second time that morning, and Mother Wells entered. She was my second birth mother, though she was not a time-crosser. She had no idea who I truly was, nor did she ever stop to care. I was her only child, and I had always known I was a great disappointment to her. I should have been born a male to take over my father’s business and fortune, but I was not. So she made do with what she’d been given.
I sat up straighter at her arrival. “I did not expect to see you this early.”
“Good morning, my pet,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her grey eyes. “I’m here to hurry Edith along.”
Edith must have heard our exchange, because she exited my dressing room with a pair of shoes in her hands. Her sweet smile had dimmed.
“There you are,” Mother said to her. “I need Elizabeth tobe ready in an hour. We have a full schedule today and cannot be late for our first meeting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Edith curtsied timidly, the tune gone from her lips. She lifted the gown she had selected. “Will this do?”
Mother shook her head. “I’d like her to wear the pink walking suit today.”
Edith nodded once and scurried back to my closet. She’d been afraid of my mother since she’d come to work for us as an orphan at the age of twelve. Mother did not encourage any familiarity or affection with the staff and treated them with the same cool indifference she showed me. Edith had been serving us for over ten years and had become my lady’s maid when I turned eighteen.
Mother approached the bed and lifted the breakfast tray off my lap.
I reached for one of the biscuits. “I’ve not finished my break—”
“We don’t have time to dawdle this morning.” Mother set the tray on a nearby table and then pulled the blankets off me, tossing them at my feet.
The chill penetrated my thin nightgown. “Where are we going?”
“You needn’t worry about that now.” Mother went to my vanity and pushed things around until she found the hairbrush. “We don’t have time to chat either.”
Edith brought out the pink walking suit, the one I hated above all the other gowns Mother had ordered for me before we left New York. Thirty-five gowns had packed my steamer trunks, with matching stockings, hats, gloves, and jewels. They were extravagant and excessive—nothing like my gowns in 1774.
