“I detest the pink one,” I said as I stepped out of the bed. “I don’t think—”
“It’s not your job to think, Elizabeth. It’s your job to obey.”
How many times had I heard her tell me that?
The stark contrast between Abigail Wells and Theodosia Conant, my marked mother, had been jarring as a child. Where one was warm, loving, and understanding, the other was cold, distant, and impenetrable. I struggled to understand how the harsh and demanding Abigail Wells had ever captured the heart of the man I called Father. Adam Wells was as good as they came, a self-made man who had earned his fortune in shipping along the Mississippi River in St. Louis. He had moved to New York to further his interests when he met Abigail and fell in love. By the time I came along, they were already bitter toward one another. And while Father had been working to increase his wealth, Abigail had been working to increase her status. New money was not the same as old money, and no matter how large our homes on Fifth Avenue or in Newport, no matter how lavish our lifestyle, Abigail was still dirt beneath the feet of the old set.
And it drove her to distraction.
I was simply a rung on the ladder of Abigail’s success. A pawn to be used to further her ambitions. But I was not a pawn to Father. He adored me and I adored him, which was probably why Mother Wells hated me so much. Though Father was kind to Mother, he no longer looked at her with love. Time and circumstances had hardened their hearts toward one another, which was all the more reason I mourned leaving him behind. He would be alone with her, and the very thought made me want to weep.
Yet how was I supposed to stay when my family and my country needed me in 1774?
Soon Edith had me wrapped in the pink walking suit with a large hat upon my brown curls. The ensemble properly covered me from neck to foot. The dress was well-constructed and of the best quality, but it did not reflect my personality or my preferences. Though I could not deny it showed off every asset I possessed, which was Mother’s intent, no doubt. The hobbleskirt was so tight, I couldn’t imagine walking a great distance in the gown.
I stood in front of the mirror. I looked exactly the same in 1914 as I did in 1774. The same green eyes with heavy lashes, the same curly brown hair, the same cheekbones and slender waist. I was one person, one conscious mind, in a set of identical twin bodies. But what happened to me in one body did not happen to me in the other. If I was sick with influenza in 1914, I woke up perfectly healthy in 1774. If I broke my arm in 1774, I did not have the same affliction in 1914. It was simply my conscious mind that traveled back and forth, accumulating experiences from each time path to create one unique me.
In 1774, my name was Elizabeth Conant, but my mama had called me Libby from birth. In 1914, I was Anna Elizabeth Wells and had been called Anna until I was almost five, when I asked to be called Libby. Father had obliged, but Mother refused to call me anything other than Anna. After years of fighting with her, she had offered a rare concession and agreed to call me by my second name, Elizabeth. It was not what I wanted, but it was more than she usually gave.
I left my room and took small steps down the wide hall to the grand staircase. Our rented townhome was the best that money could buy, as was everything in our lives.
“The driver is waiting,” Mother said as she stood by the front door, gloves on, hat in place, and a fierce determination in her eyes. Her clothes were the height of fashion and expertly tailored. She was not a beautiful woman but merely average, which she detested, so she masked her plainness with style.
I still had no idea where we were going, but she would not tell me until she was ready for me to know.
We didn’t drive far before we stopped outside a townhouse very similar to our own. It had been less than a mile, but Mother would never deign to walk more than a city block. And withthe gown I was wearing, I was thankful. Though my bodices in 1774 were tight and constricting, at least my skirts were full and wide.
The driver helped us out of the automobile, and we crossed the short distance to the front door. Mother rang the bell and then pulled a calling card from her reticule.
“May I ask who we are meeting?” I said.
“Lady Paget, of course.”
Lady Paget? She was an American heiress who had married into the aristocracy. Her fame as a London socialite was well-documented in the New York newspapers. But why were we meeting with Lady Paget? Did Mother know her?
A butler appeared at the door and welcomed us into the foyer. He took Mother’s calling card and asked us to wait.
We stood in awkward silence, as we always did, and I bore up under her disapproving eye.
When I was a teenager, I had decided that Mother Wells was incapable of love. It was the only way I could ease the ache in my heart from her constant rejection and disappointment in me. I had to remind myself of it even now.
“Wipe that frown off your brow,” she told me, “and stand up straight. Really, Elizabeth.” She shook her head, her mouth tight with dismay. “Have I taught you nothing?”
I well remembered the straightening rod fashioned for me as a child and strapped to my back for hours on end. I still bore the scars from the chaffing along my lower back. I had often cried myself to sleep in those days—but Mama had always been there, on the other side of each day, to comfort and soothe me, promising that one day it would all end.
That thought gave me courage to endure today.
“Lady Paget will see you now,” the butler said as he appeared in the hall.
He led us to a sitting room facing the street. An older woman rose and greeted us.
“Hello, Mrs. Wells,” Lady Paget said. “How nice of you to come.”
“It was kind of you to agree to meet with us.”
“Anything for my American friends.” Lady Paget wore a pair of beautiful diamond earrings that looked out of place against the simple style of her morning gown. “And is this Miss Wells?”
“Yes, this is Anna Elizabeth.”
