Clouds Over the Sea

I woke with a silver spoon pressed against my cheek and a man in a black coat asking whether I could hear him. The spoon was cold. The man smelled faintly of smoke. Behind him, a fire crackled in a marble fireplace large enough to swallow my apartment's kitchen. "I can hear you," I said. "Thank God." He lowered the spoon. "You frightened us, Miss Hart." I stared at the candlelit room, the long windows, and the unfamiliar sleeves covering my hands. "Where am I?" "Greyhaven Hall." That answer told me nothing. I remembered a late-night drive, rain scattering headlights across the road, and the sharp, impossible sensation of the world turning inside out. I remembered being Mara Ellis, thirty-one years old, a fundraising coordinator who owned three plants and had never successfully kept any of them alive. I did not remember being Miss Hart. The man introduced himself as Mr. Finch, the house physician. When I asked what year it was, he gave me a worried look and said, "Eighteen seventy-three." I laughed because it was the only response that made sense. Then I saw his expression and stopped. I had once read enough costume novels to recognize a manor house when I woke in one. At first, I assumed I had been dropped into some elaborate historical reenactment. The plastered ceiling, the old-fashioned clothes, and the fact that someone had called me "Miss Hart" did not help. "Am I in England?" I asked. "Veyre," he said. "You have been here all your life." He said it with such confidence that I wondered if the fever had done more than rearrange my memories. By the time he left, I had learned that I was twenty-two, had lived at Greyhaven Hall for three years, and had recently suffered a fever. I had also learned that Lady Beatrice Vale, the dowager countess, was my aunt and legal guardian. A woman came in soon after, wrapped in dark blue silk. Lady Beatrice had a neat silver bun and a face that looked arranged rather than born. "You are well enough to sit up," she said. "I think so." "Then we can stop worrying. You have a full day tomorrow. Lord Ashcombe has accepted our invitation." I waited for an explanation. She gave me none. A servant brought a dress, and Lady Beatrice told me I would wear it at dinner. It was the sort of dress I had admired in museum exhibits, except now it was strapped over my ribs. I began to understand the rules before I understood the details. I was a gentlewoman without money, dependent on the woman who dressed me. If this really was 1873, there would be no quick trip home. There would be no phone call to a friend, no train ticket I could buy with my own bank card. I could either panic or find a way to survive. I chose survival. If I had truly fallen into the past, then the best options available to a penniless woman were narrow. I would have to be agreeable, presentable, and careful. I would need a husband. A title would be even better. I had no intention of making a romantic speech about it. I wanted safety, a room of my own, and the ability to say no without being sent away. If the price was a bit of smiling at dinner, I could manage that. The next evening, I met Lord Julian Vale. He was the Earl of Greyhaven, Lady Beatrice's son, and the man whose family owned the house, the land, and the seaside cliffs beyond the windows. He was thirty or so, tall, and dressed in a dark suit that fit him better than mine fit me. He greeted me with a quiet courtesy, then asked whether my fever had truly passed. "I believe it has," I said. "Good. My mother would be disappointed if you fainted before dessert." Lady Beatrice gave him a warning look. He lifted his wineglass, unbothered. I had expected a grand entrance from an earl. Instead, he looked like a man who had been awake too long and preferred the company of no one. I found that reassuring. I was not trying to be swept away. I was trying to be useful. Dinner brought the rest of the household into focus. Lord Julian's sister, Miss Rose Vale, sat beside me and quietly explained which forks were meant for what. Lady Beatrice held the table together with a series of gentle questions. Sir Lionel Creed, the invited guest, occupied the chair at her right. Sir Lionel was fifty-eight, with a smooth head, broad shoulders, and a smile that suggested he had never been told no by anyone who mattered. He watched me over the candles. "You have grown into a lovely young woman, Miss Hart," he said. "Your aunt has done well by you." I glanced at Lady Beatrice. Her smile stayed exactly where it was. After dinner, she took me to the blue drawing room. Sir Lionel had not joined us. "Lord Ashcombe is an important friend," she said. "He has offered you a very respectable future." "I see." "Sir Lionel's business interests are sound. He has a fine house. A wife would be treated with every consideration." The word wife landed like a lock clicking shut. "You mean he has proposed?" "He will. Your answer will be yes." I studied the woman who had been introduced to me as my aunt and guardian. "I thought I had a choice." "Choices are luxuries, Evelyn. You have been supported here for three years. Do not mistake kindness for obligation-free generosity." I lowered my eyes, because that was what a dutiful girl would do. Inside, the plans I had made on waking collapsed. I had wanted to find a husband. I had not meant to be handed over like a parcel.