Surviving Bessie

7. England 1723

After flying through the open ceiling of Angel Rachel’s office and across the sky, and losing contact with Miguelito, Ash finds herself floating down, down, down. With a soft thud, her feet hit hard earth. Her eyes dart around; she is all alone. No Miguelito, no Angel Rachel, no Angel Rocco anywhere.

She looks at her body to see she is wearing a full-length maroon dress in some strange heavy material. Her feet are encased in narrow, laced-up, black boots. She lifts one arm to discover long, puffy sleeves edged in lace. Her hands are wearing exquisite gloves. She examines them while realizing something weighs on her head. Reaching up one glove, she touches some sort of wide-brimmed hat that is tied under her chin with a satin ribbon.

The air is chilly and brisk. Mature trees line the drive that stretches some distance. Leaves are tinged with gold and red. It must be autumn, wherever this is. Glancing around her environment, she spies a massive square stone building about two hundred feet along a pathway. By the grand circular entrance, a carriage drawn by two horses seems to be awaiting its passengers.

“Come along, Caroline,” an older feminine voice shouts in a warbling British accent. “I fear we are late already.”

With a shock, Ash realizes the woman is talking to her! She is reliving a previous incarnation as someone named Caroline!

“Really, my dear, you can be so exasperating,” the woman whines, turning away to be handed into the carriage by a young man decked out in pantaloons, jacket, and vest.

Ash begins to step tentatively towards them, in awe of the building topped with turrets in each corner with little curved walkways on the third floor. A dog, some sort of hound, runs out to greet her, tearing around and around her feet.

As she nears the carriage, the young man gives her a slight smile. She returns it as he assists her in. “Milady,” he murmurs under his breath.

Once inside and the door closed, her companion complains, “You must do something about your tardiness. We mustn’t keep Lord Simpson waiting every time he invites us over for tea.”

“Indeed,” Ash-Caroline feels herself saying. “My apologies, Aunt Margaret.”

“Humph.” Margaret takes out an elaborate handkerchief. “I shouldn’t wonder if we are not on his list next time. If he wasn’t so taken with you and determined to make you his bride, I am very certain we would not receive a future invitation.”

With a jolt, the carriage takes off. Ash-Caroline is thrown backwards, wide-eyed. Staring out the window, she sees a country lane surrounded in rolling hills and forest. She turns to face her relative.

Aunt Margaret remarks, “And pinch your cheeks, my dear. You are entirely too pale.”

Ash-Caroline pulls off a glove and discovers with a shock that her skin is as white as ivory. She reaches up to squeeze her cheeks as instructed. As they continue their drive in silence, her Ash personality seems to fade away. She is comfortably Lady Caroline, remembering a privileged childhood. Her parents were drowned in a boating accident abroad. Soon afterwards, a stern but loving paternal aunt came to live with her on her father’s estate when she was just seven years old. The current year is 1723 and they live some sixty miles outside London.

The carriage turns onto a long driveway. Stately pines immaculately line the path. At the far end several other carriages are dispersing elegantly attired passengers in a circular entranceway where a doorman is assisting. Two large stone lions crouch on pedestals on each side of the main entrance.

Soon, it is the turn of the Ladies Caroline and Margaret. Their door opens. A white-haired man attends to their needs. Her aunt descends first, before rushing over to greet a woman friend. Caroline steps down. Glancing around, she sees a young man and knows his name – William.

Her heart begins to pound with a wild intensity. When their eyes meet, energy pulsates in waves between them. With a shock, Caroline knows she is in love with him, deeply and passionately, and has been for some time. As she stares into his watery blue eyes, another man approaches her, about ten years older. Although he resembles William, he is taller, leaner, and with a stern cast to his features.

“Lord Simpson,” she says as he bends to take her hand and kiss it gently.

“To you, I am always Colin, Lady Caroline,” he murmurs with a smile. “Fetching as always, my dear.” Ignoring his brother, Colin tucks her arm in his, leading her inside. Sneaking a look back, she sees William staring at them, his face blank with misery. He turns away.

“Leave that nonsense behind you,” hisses Aunt Margaret, who is suddenly beside her. “Your betrothal is being announced next Sunday.” With that, the trio enters the building.

But I love William to the core of my being!

But I love William to the core of my being!