We’re going to try something a little new here and release this chapter first to Patreon supporters and then after a month to everybody else. So hopefully if you’re seeing this in June, you’re a Patreon supporter (and thanks!). Otherwise I’ve flubbed up the settings somewhere…
Regardless, it’s the chapter where Amelia crosses paths with Anne Lister! It’s fun! I’m gonna stop talking now and let you read the chapter.
—
October 1812
The garden party spread out across the west lawn in a series of shining white pavillions and bleached wicker seating. The tableau of bright white on emerald green promised a bustling and expansive experience. In comparison, the house itself provided the barest lip of a patio. Since the lawn sloped down to the miniature lake at its foot, the patio afforded the two girls a good vantage from which to survey the party and the day ahead of them.
“You see?” Elizabeth was saying triumphantly. “Strangers, all. Well-dressed and a good spread of ages, I should think. Some our peers, many more our elders.” She leaned over to nudge Amelia’s shoulder with her own. The silk of their jackets—hers scarlet, Amelia’s pale blue—whispered against each other. “Think of them all as practice dummies.”
“Doctor Barry said something similar once,” the nervous girl murmured. “And you know no one here? No Uskweirs people?”
“We might as well be in a different country here; there’s precious little chance that we’ll encounter— oh shit.” Elizabeth seized on Amelia’s arm. “You see the young lady all in black? She just stepped out from behind the main tent.”
“In the riding coat? Striding across the lawn with such purpose, do you think there’s an emergency?”
“There’s no emergency; she’s just like that. Stay away from her,” Elizabeth advised. “You’re not ready.”
Amelia snorted, a little less delicately than she might have liked. “What, not ready to exchange pleasantries over cucumber sandwiches?”
“She will chew you up and spit you out,” her friend warned. “Then you’ll thank her for it and waste away pining after her.”
“You’re making her sound more intriguing than dangerous,” Amelia laughed. “Who is she?”
“Anne Lister,” Elizabeth answered with a sigh. She pulled Amelia close. “Promise me, Amelia; keep your distance. I— What is it?”
Because Amelia had gone white as a sheet, staring down the slope. Shakily she nodded down at one of the figures. “The tall, ruddy gentleman in the wine-colored vest, just stepping away from the musicians?” She paused until Elizabeth had spied him. “That’s my brother.”
Elizabeth did not quite gasp, but her sharp intake of breath whistled across her teeth. “Lord Marbury is your brother?”
Amelia’s stomach dropped. “You know him? CeeCee said none of my family attended Uskweirs.”
But Elizabeth shook her head. “I met him in Town. Last year, when I debuted.” She frowned softly, and shifted her grip on her friend to place a gentle hand on Amelia’s upper arm. “I can make excuses if you want to retire—”
“Elizabeth, Miss Wright!” It was Francis Harcourt, coming out of the house to join the party. “How is it that you’ve beaten me to the field?”
“Because we started getting ready hours ago,” Elizabeth replied, unable to keep a gleeful smile off her lips.
“Time well spent; you both look lovely,” he rejoined, although his admiring gaze slid off of Amelia and lingered on her friend. He gestured down to the party and playfully proferred both his arms. “May I introduce you to our hostess?”
Elizabeth slid her arm into his. “I’m afraid Miss Wright might—”
But Amelia took the man’s other arm and pasted on a fierce smile. “Lead the way, Mister Harcourt. We have practice dummies to meet.”
They descended into the party with an air of leisure which Amelia did not feel but gratefully employed to center herself. It had been months, she reminded herself. She walked completely differently, she talked completely differently, she dressed completely differently, she looked… mostly different. And besides, it was a large party; she could probably avoid her brother entirely. At a distance, she was certain, she was unrecognizable.
Harcourt led their trio to meet another trio, this one made up of a plump, mature woman and two reedy-looking young men. “Miss Crawley, may I introduce Miss Elizabeth Randall and Miss Amelia Wright.” He nodded at each of them in turn, and then reversed it all. “Misses Randall and Wright, may I introduce Miss Mathilda Crawley.”
Miss Crawley beamed in response. “Welcome, young people! More charming faces to add to the party. Splendid. And I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance for weeks, Miss Randall. Francis speaks of nothing else when he visits. These are my nephews,” she added, gesturing to either side of her. “Rawdon,” she said with a smile, which then drained off of her face, “…and Pitt.”
They exchanged pleasantries, recapping their trip from Monmouthshire, checking to see if their social circles overlapped at all, and asking about the health of relations. Neither of the nephews said much and let their aunt direct the flow of conversation.
Amelia almost felt like she had her feet underneath her when Miss Crawley said, “Oh, and here’s Lord Marbury. I’ll make introductions.”
Because her brother had crept up beside them, two glasses of sparkling wine in hand. The spare he handed to their host. “I’m not sure that’s necessary,” he told her with what Amelia well knew was false gaiety. “I know Mister Harcourt and Miss Randall, and…” His gaze settled on Amelia. “Do forgive me, but have we been introduced?”
Her heart pounding, Amelia dropped a curtsey and carefully positioned her lips and tongue to speak. “I don’t think we have. Milord.”
“Oh good, I’m of some use,” Miss Crawley chuckled. “Miss Wright, this is Eustace Sommerset, the Lord Marbury. Eustace, this is Miss Amelia Wright.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, then,” her brother replied, a strange look persisting across his features. A beat later, he asked, “Any relation to Professor Anthony Wright, at Cambridge?”
She was, in fact; both of them were. The professor was a favorite cousin and had been a frequent guest at the family home in their youth. She had always coveted his humble but industrious surname, and had subsequently stolen it. But she said, “If we are, I’m afraid it is a relation more distant than I can trace. There are many Wrights in the world.”
“May we all pray that our world has more rights than wrongs,” Harcourt quipped, to assorted groans, laughter, and a playful swat from Elizabeth. From there the conversation turned to Miss Crawley’s charity work, and thence to the comparative strengths of various northern towns. Francis played double duty engaging in the petty urban rivalries while also explaining the local humor to Elizabeth and Amelia.
But as the conversation rambled, Marbury’s participation went from gameful to distracted. Instead he stole quizzical looks at Amelia, first briefly but with increasing duration and intensity. More than once he had to be roused back into the ebb and flow of small talk. Amelia did her best to ignore what were becoming stares.
“We’ve been so miserly with your attention!” Miss Crawley exclaimed suddenly, and reached behind her to seize a nephew by the shoulder. “Pitt, I think Miss Wright requires refreshment. And some more introductions. Take her for a turn around the lawn, why don’t you.”
“I could—” Marbury began to say, but was cut off.
“You could tell me about this canal scheme of yours,” Crawley insisted. “We told you all about our towns and their industries, but you seek to knit them together, yes?” She turned towards Amelia’s brother while all but flinging the nephew at her.
Amelia grabbed for the man’s arm, in fact had to tug it into place at his side, and turned them both away from the others. A moment later he marshalled his legs into motion and they were slowly taking their leave.
“Thank you for showing me around the party, Mister Crawley,” she said, casting about for conversation to be made. “Tell me, what is Yorkshire society mostly concerned with?”
“I’m not sure I rightly know,” was his timid answer. “I’m no socialite. I spend most of my time at my father’s manor, conducting my inquiries and reviewing my papers.”
“Well that sounds more interesting than Yorkshire gossip, at least,” the girl replied with a laugh.
“I doubt you’ll find it so,” he dissembled. “It’s hardly a topic of interest to a lady such as yourself.”
“You hardly know me, Mister Crawley,” she chided playfully (and checked herself on accidentally playing more coy than she meant to). “Try me and let’s see if my interests align with yours.” (Nope, that was definitely a double entendre.)
But if he noticed he didn’t show any sign. Instead, he heaved a sigh. “I am preparing a pamphlet of scientific inquiry into…. into mould.” He cringed at his confession, as if expecting a blow.
That was hardly what Amelia was expecting, but it only took her a moment to respond, “Are you comparing rates of decomposition?”
Pitt’s eyebrows nearly flew off his face. “Yes!” he cried, then moderated his tone. “That is, yes, I am studying their rates of decomposition, especially in environments of different characteristics.” He explained his methods, his expectations, and his conclusions; Amelia asked questions as they occurred to her. His conversation was slow, and Amelia could not quite tell if it stemmed entirely from learned hesitation or was simply his nature.
“Oh dear Lord, mould again?” cried a matronly lady nearby. Their steps had brought them under the main pavillion and its many tables festooned with food and drink. A small knot of ladies stood at one corner of the tent, the most prominent of them scowling at Amelia’s companion. “Mister Crawley, you cannot subject young ladies to your tedious and disgusting hobbies. Now introduce us.”
He did so, almost fearfully, and once the job was done she glared at him until he retreated.
“There,” she sniffed, and nodded Amelia towards the buffet. “The ham is divine. Do come join us once you’ve filled a plate.”
Amelia did as she was told, uncertain if it was wise to do otherwise. There was no rescuing Pitt, so she might as well practice with this new set of training dummies. She helped herself to a demure collection of small square sandwiches, fruit, and stalks of asparagus. She then followed after the group of ladies, who had crossed to a neighboring tent of tables.
“…she is half-Indian and all brown,” the matronly lady was saying, “and I told her if she is to have any standing in life, she must make herself a spectacle of moral rectitude sufficient to offset her foreign characteristics. People will judge.” She nodded Amelia towards an empty chair, and explained, “My granddaughter. She has lost her parents and I am struggling to show her how to make a way through this world.”
“Poor thing,” Amelia answered automatically. “How lucky that she has you.”
“We shall see if she calls it luck by the time she is through,” another lady jibed. “It’s not an easy thing you’re asking her to do.”
“She was always going to be gossiped about,” said the grandmother with a diffident shrug. “This, at least, is gossip over which she can exert some control.”
The conversation lulled as the ladies considered the girl’s situation. Amelia cleared her throat. “Forgive me, milady, but I feel like I know your name but cannot place it.”
“Which lady?” one of the other ladies asked brightly.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear.” Amelia nodded to the grandmother. “Lady Gordon?”
“Perhaps because Crawley mangled it,” the lady in question groused. “It’s the Lady Cumming Gordon. Of Edinburgh.”
“Oh, you’re—” Amelia started, then stumbled to a stop. Lady Cumming Gordon, the lady who had pulled her granddaughter out of the school run by Marianne Woods and Jane Pirie, the lady who had destroyed their reputation by publicizing their lesbian love, the lady who had been taken to court for libel and lost. That Lady Cumming Gorden. But now after Amelia’s stutter, all the other ladies turned as one to regard her curiously. She couldn’t stop now. “Your granddaughter was… at that school.”
Lady Cumming Gordon nodded wearily. “She was. And she was too good for that school. That’s all I’m allowed to say on that.”
“It is positively unjust that you must seal your lips by legal decree,” cried another. “And that they’ll profit off of your bravery to speak out.”
But the silenced lady only shook her head. “I will appeal. Again. This time to the House of Lords.” She allowed herself a smile of grim satisfaction. “My lawyers are certain that we can draw it out for years. Those two will never see a penny, and in the mean time, my granddaughter, who will become recognized as the pious paragon fighting against immorality that she is, will marry well.”
Amelia scowled, and then heard herself say, “But is making those school teachers into casualties really necessary?”
“I wish it weren’t,” Lady Cumming Gordon replied diffidently, and then raised helpless hands before her. “For one to go up, others must go down. It’s a vicious world we live in.”
The ladies put up a murmured chorus of assent. Their exact words were inaudible, but the expressions on their faces ranged from resigned to vindictive.
“It’s true,” came a voice from behind Amelia. “It is a vicious world we live in.” The crowd of ladies looked past Amelia and their varied expressions all snapped into a unified front of disgust.
Amelia turned as gracefully as possible to see who was speaking. The lady at the table behind her had set down a dainty plate topped with a small mountain of ham sandwiches. She was clad all in black, with striking features. She could not have been older than her early twenties.
“I knew a girl once,” the young woman went on. “Brown like yours. Which is to say, I’m well aware of the difficulties that they face. It’s terrible. But it’s part and parcel, isn’t it, of our terrible world. Red in tooth and claw.” She selected a square sandwich, considered it for a moment, and popped it into her mouth.
“Are you going riding, Miss Lister?” asked Lady Cumming Gordon, steel alloyed into her voice. “You’re dressed for the hunt, not a garden party.”
Anne Lister met the older lady’s eye placidly, then slid her own gaze to Amelia. Her lips twitched minutely: a ghost of a smile. “Maybe I am on the hunt.” And then she looked back to the grandmother. “Red in tooth and claw, this world of ours,” she repeated. “Such a pity, don’t you think, that we can’t all choose to live peaceably with one other, in brotherly Christian love.” Her eyes slid back to Amelia. “Or sisterly love, as the case may be.”
Lady Cumming Gordon bolted to her feet, jostling the table as she did so. The sudden noise of rattling cutlery snapped Amelia’s head back around to the older lady, who seethed, “I will not stand here and be mocked.”
Lister took her time selecting another sandwich. “Well, you could sit back down.”
“I do not sit and eat with the likes of you,” the lady hissed in response. Amelia looked back and forth between the two of them, feeling like a puppet on strings tugged by a violent master. The other ladies were getting up, as well. While they collected themselves, Lady Cumming Gordon leaned over her table towards Lister and spat, “Hellion!”
Then she whirled and stalked off, followed by her coterie. They did not look back.
Lister let the silence stretch for a while before asking, “You’re not joining them?”
Amelia’s eyes watched the retreating ladies, but all her attention was behind her, on the woman who had chased them off. She wasn’t sure she could move. She now knew what it was like, she thought, to be a mouse quivering in a cluttered corner while a cat prowled a foot away. And now the cat had spoken to her and it would be rude not to reply, but that would give herself away, wouldn’t it? Then in a flash, Amelia realized that the mouse hoped that the cat wouldn’t see her, which was not her own situation at all, was it? She turned around.
“I think I prefer my present company,” she said lightly, and this time she put every effort into making her voice sound as coy as possible.
The other woman smiled, and for one brief moment Amelia contemplated a life dedicated to making that smile happen again and again. A distant, muted voice in the back of her head observed that Elizabeth’s warning was perfectly reasonable. When Lister suggested they take a turn around the lawn, Amelia could not have said no even if she wanted.
They exchanged names, where they had grown up, the sprawling networks of their family relations (Amelia’s carefully edited). She insisted that Amelia call her Anne; Amelia helplessly responded in kind. They talked about books. Anne had read and was excited about A Journal of a Tour in Iceland, which Amelia had all but memorized to bolster her letters home. They walked down the length of the lawn to the water’s edge.
They watched a game of croquet. Each of them claimed one of the players, complete strangers to both, to back in their private commentary on the progress of the game. Each of them lauded the incredible mastery of their player and derided their competition as sorry excuses who should by rights quit the field. Neither of their chosen players won. They stood side by side, close enough that their shoulders and the backs of their hands grazed each other.
Anne leaned over, her lips a few inches from Amelia’s ear. Warm breath tickled down her neck. Anne asked, “Forgive the question, Amelia, but do you happen to be engaged?”
“What? No,” she answered, as if denying a shameful rumor. “Not engaged, and… no plans to ever be engaged.”
Anne smiled in satisfaction. “That is good to hear. But it does leave open the question of the gentleman staring at us from across the hoops.”
The sound of frustrated disgust that came out of Amelia’s mouth surprised even her. “Lord Marbury.” She had been trying and failing to ignore her brother’s stares since they’d reached the water’s edge. “Also from Sussex. Here to seek investments for his canal scheme, as I understand it.”
“Is he bothering you? I can make him stop.” Anne’s voice was surprisingly hot and fierce. Something deep inside Amelia melted at the woman’s offer. But then the hellion added, “I can duel him.”
Amelia’s hands flew to Anne’s arm, as if to restrain her from drawing the sword she was not wearing. “Oh, that… that won’t be necessary.”
Anne looked down at Amelia’s restraining hand and, before she could withdraw it, covered it with her own. “Then let’s get you out of his sight, hm?”
Given that she suddenly lost the power of speech, Amelia simply nodded.
Anne guided the two of them along the lakeside, away from the party. Shortly they were behind the draping cover of the willows that grew along the water’s edge. The air was cool and smelled of green things. The murmur of the party’s conversation faded away to nothing. Somewhere along the walk, their arms had become intertwined.
“Ah, there it is,” Anne exclaimed, pointing to an older tree, sitting atop a mossy rise beside the placid water. Its broad and gnarled trunk was barely visible through the curtain of its own leaves. “I must show you this. Someone, generations back, carved the cleverest little face into the trunk…” She pulled Amelia under the whispering green canopy.
“It’s hard to spot,” she said, loosing Amelia’s arm to gesture. “You go around that way and I’ll go around this way; look carefully.”
Confused, bemused, and missing the warm touch of Anne’s arm, Amelia complied with a giggle. She made a slow circuit around the trunk, scouring its surface to find the carving. But she came all the way around the tree without finding anything. She turned towards Anne to report as much and found the lady standing just behind her, looking down at her with a wolfish smile.
“I must confess something,” the lady in black murmured, leaning forward. Amelia tried to step back to give the other woman space but the uneven surface of the trunk pressed up against her rump. A miniscule gasp escaped her, which only curled the corners of Anne’s lips. She purred, “There’s nothing carved into this tree. Yet.”
Amelia bid farewell to caution. She licked her lips, smiled up into Anne’s face, and said, “Then I invite you to make your mark.” And if that was not clear enough, she wrapped her arms around the other woman’s neck.
Anne descended, her hands landing on Amelia’s waist, her lips crushing against her mouth. The kiss was hungry: testing and demanding more and more. Anne pulled her close and hard. Amelia yielded like a rag doll into her grip, holding on as best she could while the rest of her body unraveled into the cool, moist air.
It was not Amelia’s first kiss, but it was the first time she had been kissed. She told the voice in the back of her head musing about grammar to be quiet. And it was the first time, the voice went on, that the kisses were applied to her own face, not the mask she had worn all her life. She tried very hard to ignore the analytical voice, but it persisted. This was very nice, but it was going to be so much nicer when it was Theresa Chesterley doing the kissing.
Which is when Amelia’s whole body froze, pulling everything back from the heady hazy feeling of dissolving into the damp air. Her arms around Anne’s neck quavered.
Anne pulled back, looking concerned. “What was that?” When all Amelia could do is stammer, the lady in black stood up straighter, pulling out of her tangled arms.
“That was… that was very nice,” Amelia said, well aware that she made it sound like an apology. “But… I don’t think… my heart is in it.” She staggered a few steps away from Anne and the tree, wrapping her arms around herself for lack of anything else to do with them.
The other lady regarded her for a long moment. Finally, she asked, “Is there another?”
“Yes, or rather… not really,” Amelia groaned. “I don’t know.” She tilted her head for Anne to follow and then slipped out of the willow canopy. They walked a few paces in silence as Amelia tried to find words. Finally she settled on saying, “It’s nothing… official.”
“The likes of you and I are not afforded the dignity of official love,” Anne observed gravely, walking alongside her. “I’ve found it’s best to take what we can get when we can get it.”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t think of her when I kiss you. It’s not fair to you.”
Anne chuckled. “Miss Wright, I certainly don’t mind.”
“Amelia,” she corrected with a glance back and an apologetic smile. “I hope we can remain friends?”
“We can be whatever you like,” came her smiling reply. She was about to say more, but instead said, “Lord Marbury.”
They were just about to break out of the willows; Amelia’s brother was striding into them. He came up short at the sight of the two ladies. “Ah. Excuse me, I… was hoping to have a word with Miss Wright.”
Despite everything else, Anne stepped up alongside her, chest puffed out like a gamecock. Amelia threw up her hands and dragged her back. If this was going to happen, there was nothing that either of them could do about it. But Anne didn’t need to get caught up in Amelia’s brother confronting her about her new life living as a woman, or her old life mistaken as a man. She shooed the other woman away. “It’s fine, Anne.”
Anne regarded her for a long moment. How much of Amelia’s disquiet was legible to her? Impossible to tell. Finally, she said, “Crawley’s put me up in the Stanhope room, on the third floor, if you want to continue our conversation.” Amelia marveled how she managed to make it sound perfectly innocent. “I’ll walk with you both until you’re within sight of the party?”
Her brother turned on his heel to walk alongside them both, out of the seclusion of the willows. Amelia hesitated for only a moment before following. She’d rather hoped to have this confrontation in private. Perhaps they might step out into view of the crowd while still remaining out of earshot.
But it was not to be. Once they were in the sunshine, Anne peeled away towards the nearest buffet pavillion and he kept going. More than once Amelia slowed her steps, trying to guide her brother into stopping to “have a word,” but he seemed intent on walking them both into the thick of the party.
Amelia swallowed her panic, casting about. Anne was already gone. She spied Elizabeth within casual hailing distance; in fact the other girl waved cheerily. Did Amelia want to call her over to participate in the explosion of scandal? She didn’t want her friend to become collateral damage. She waved back with a smile she hoped looked genuine at a distance.
Finally he stopped and turned to face her. Amelia couldn’t help but notice that Mathilda Crawley was in easy earshot. Here it was, then.
“Miss Wright, I owe you an apology,” said her brother, with his best look of contrition. The same one he’d wheel out for Mother when she was upset. “I’ve behaved abominably and no measure of my confusion excuses the lack of courtesy and consideration that I showed you. I’m sure you are a charming, lovely, and innocent girl. It would aggrieve me no end if my behaviour today did anything to besmirch your character.”
Amelia stood stunned. The conversation around them had dropped down to a murmur as everyone within range of her brother’s baritone eavesdropped shamelessly. Now the chatter around them rebounded to a little louder than its former level. Out of the corner of her eye, Amelia spied Miss Crawley giving her brother a gentle, approving nod.
“Thank you,” she finally stammered, “Lord Marbury. I’m sure you bore me no untoward attention. Sometimes people just… look strangely familiar. I think everyone has been confounded by that feeling before.” She paused a beat, and then extended her hand, palm down. “But you need not worry any further. I accept your apology.”
He grasped her hand lightly and gave her a short nod. She walked away towards Elizabeth, who looked ready to explode from giddiness over the drama. The other girl squeezed her hand and pulled her close to put her lips up to Amelia’s ear. There she repeated her brother’s words back in a giggling whisper, the same words that echoed in Amelia’s head: “I’m sure you are a charming, lovely, and innocent girl.”
