Diamond Soldiers

by Pinki Parks

  ~

  The studio was gone, and in its place, she found a long formal hallway, what they called a gallery in the English stately homes. It was lined with portraits, including that of Maria Fitzherbert, the vibrant colours and fresh gold leaf frame a remarkable contrast to the dirty picture she had been working on just a few moments before. Melissa blinked, and looked back into the cupboard which was dark and filled, not with buckets and frames but all manner of clothing, some hung up, others folded at the back. Was she dreaming? She couldn’t possibly have fallen asleep standing up in the cupboard, she’d only been in there a moment.

  ‘Phoebe?’ she said, but the gallery was empty, lit only by the day light coming in through the lead lined windows which ran along one side, opposite the portraits.

  ‘What the hell is this,’ she thought to herself, ‘I didn’t have that much to drink surely.’

  Humouring herself she went back inside the cupboard and shut the door, she closed her eyes, counted for ten seconds and then pushed open the door, opening her eyes at the same time. Nothing had changed. She was still looking out onto the long gallery, the portraits gazing down forebodingly upon her. The situation was beginning to freak her out, was this some kind of bizarre joke, or maybe she was in some kind of concept art work, a living subject being viewed from an unseen location.

  ‘Okay Phoebe, this isn’t funny now,’ she said, but her remark was only greeted by silence, ‘come on, the bar was one thing, but do you want me to really believe I’m in merry old England?’ But still nothing.

  Now her curiosity got the better of her, she moved from the doorway of the cupboard out onto the gallery itself, looking out of the window she saw not the New York skyline or McClusky’s Coffee Shop across the busy road outside the museum, but a series of long formal lawns, edged by box hedges and large, neatly kept flower beds, paths ran vertically along each side stretching out towards parkland beyond. It appeared that she was in the wing of a large stately home, for across from where she herself looked out was another part of the building, with similar lead lined windows running along a gallery.

  ‘What the hell?’ the words slipped out, ‘this is one funny dream, I must have breathed in some cleaning fluids or something in that cupboard.’ She shook herself and opened and closed her eyes once again. Still the same view remained, though now she saw, striding across the lawn, a figure, dressed in a blue frock coat and white leggings, coming purposefully towards the house.

  It was gradually dawning upon her that this was neither dream nor hallucination and despite the obvious shock – for anyone would be shocked at having left a New York art studio only to find oneself on an elegant gallery lined by paintings in what appeared to be a period quite different from one’s own – she was not in the least bit phased by the experience, a fact which would hold her in good stead as our story develops.

  The one continuity between New York and here, wherever here was, was the painting of Maria Fitzherbert which now looked down upon her from the centre of the gallery. It looked almost brand new, certainly no more than ten or so years old, the colours vibrant and the frame a striking gold such as that which she hoped her own hand would restore it to in her own time.

  She was still clutching the paint covered overall which she had hoped to find warmth from wearing when the door at the far end of the gallery opened and two women appeared in the throes of an animated conversation.

  ‘Well I wore that to the Harcourt ball in January, I can’t possibly wear it now.’

  ‘You can’t take a new dress for every social engagement Ellen, if it’s no good, hand it on to Charlotte, she’ll be glad of the hand me down I’m sure. Oh, speak of the devil.’

  ‘Charlotte, what in Lord’s name are you wearing?’ And what’s that in your hand, have you been dusting the portraits?’ And the two women began to laugh.

  Melissa was speechless for a moment, the two women were dressed in long white dresses, their heads covered in similarly coloured lace caps, each wore a shawl around her shoulders, for the gallery was remarkably cold.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter dear?’ one of the two said, ‘Ellen and I were just on our way to the morning room, we’re going to read to one another and see if mother will play the harpsichord, though you know she doesn’t like to do it before luncheon.’

  ‘What are you staring at?’ the one called Ellen asked, ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost Charlotte, pull yourself together, and don’t let mother see you in those ridiculous clothes, did they come out of that cupboard, heaven knows what’s in there.’

  ‘I, er —, I was just …’ Melissa said.

  ‘Oh, good heavens, what an awful accent, why to heavens name are you speaking like that? You sound like a skivvy from the kitchens. Do pull yourself together Charlotte, come now Ellen, let’s find mother. And Charlotte you know how your wild antics upset her, we shall have no more of this silliness, it’s time you grew up.’

  And with that the two ladies walked the length of the gallery and exited through a door at the far end, their chatter about the state of their sister’s condition reverberating through the corridor.

  Melissa, or rather Charlotte as she appeared to be known here, remained somewhat flabbergasted for a further minute, this was all too much to take in. Had she really been somehow transported into a period in the past filled with the characters she read about in the pages of Jane Austen, or was this just some elaborate hoax? Perhaps, she thought to herself, she was starring in a bizarre reality television show, some sort of Christmas special, if truth be told she was rather excited. She decided to play along, at least for now, and to see what else the house had in store for her. It was clear she had a role and, having done a term at acting school before college, she was pretty certain she could mask her New York twang with an approximation of an English accent.

  Turning to the cupboard it seemed that the best option was to ditch her clothes and change into something more becoming the period, and shutting herself inside once again, though leaving the door ajar in order to see, she selected one of the dresses which was stored in there, and in the semi-darkness managed to change her way into it.

  Emerging from the cupboard, though she couldn’t see it, she looked the picture of a regency lady, dressed similarly to Maria Fitzherbert herself. She wore a pretty ivory dress, modest yet attractive, and over her shoulders a red shawl. She wondered where to explore first, should she take the door through which the two women, who she assumed must be her sisters, had come from, or follow them towards their mother. who presumably was her own mother?

  ‘Well wish me luck, Maria,’ she said, looking up at the portrait, and turning to follow the two women, to wherever the path might lead her. Melissa, whom we shall now refer to as Charlotte, set off down the portrait lined gallery, opening the door at the far end and stepping out into the unknown.

  ~

  The gallery led out onto a landing, which joined to another landing, emanating from the opposite wing of the house and leading to a central staircase, carpeted in rich red carpet, the walls hung once again with portraits, including another which she recognised. At the point where the staircase separated, one floor down, was none other than the portrait she had seen hanging in the bar the evening before. It, like Maria, was far cleaner, and in much better condition than when she had seen it a few hours previously, though she once again acknowledged that it was simply a bad painting to begin with. Underneath it was a plaque which read ‘Frederick, VI Duke of Langburn,’ she was struck by just how young he appeared, perhaps he was some relation, the portrait certainly seemed prominent, maybe it was even the man she had seen at a distance just now in the gardens. There were certainly many unsolved mysteries still to be uncovered. She made her way tentatively down the stairs; hearing voices in the hall below.

  ‘It’s got to be red, the Dowager Duchess said so, she wants the red hangings in the ball room and the blue in the dining room, you’ll just have to change them round, you know what she’ll
say … oh begging your pardon Mistress Charlotte.’

  The woman speaking appeared to be a maid or perhaps she was the housekeeper, Charlotte had no idea but this was a perfect opportunity to practice her Queen’s English, and to find out a little more about what kind of world she had entered. If this was a reality television show she intended to win the prize, at least by getting into the spirit of it.

  ‘What are the drapes for?’ she asked.

  ‘Why the ball ma’am, for tonight, why you were only saying how much you were looking forward to it when you went upstairs a while ago,’ the maid said.

  ‘Oh, silly me, I’d totally forgotten,’ Charlotte said, drawing her hand to her brow as if indicating a lapse in consciousness.

  ‘Well it is your ball ma’am, your birthday ball, your mother has had us run off our feet in preparation.’

  ‘Aw jeez my birthday?’ Charlotte burst out without thinking, back home it wasn’t her birthday until July.

  ‘Jeez, ma’am?’ the maid said with some confusion in her voice.

  ‘Oh, er —, jeez, Jesus, yes, no er —, what time is it? I should be getting on, so many preparations to do before tonight,’ Charlotte said, but at that moment the clock in the hall struck the eleventh morning hour, and the two servants made remarks about not standing around all day, leaving Charlotte reminding herself to check her Americanisms, and only speak as a character from an Austen novel would speak, preferably only when spoken to.

  ‘With elegance and decorum,’ she said to herself making for a door off the hall from which the sound of a harpsichord was playing.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte, darling,’ her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Sittingbourne, whose real name was Victoria, said as she entered the room, ‘Ellen and Isabella were just telling me you were fooling around upstairs on the long gallery instead of getting ready for this evening. Come now dear, it’s your birthday, there is much to do, come and sit while I play for you and tell us which dress you’ve chosen, I hope the one your brother has sent from Brighton.’

  ‘Er — yes, it’s lovely, so … so, so white,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘It’s gold,’ the Dowager replied quizzically, ‘blue with a purple sash, they’re wearing a sash at court you know.’

  ‘Gold of course,’ Charlotte said.

  The harpsichord music ceased.

  ‘Are you alright?’ her mother asked.

  ‘We told you her voice sounded strange,’ the two sisters said in unison giving Charlotte a look.

  ‘I’ve just got a bit of a sore throat coming on,’ Charlotte said, ‘it’ll pass by this evening, I’m so looking forward to the ball.’

  ‘And so, you should be,’ her mother replied, ‘your brother has spared no expense, I’ve never seen such preparations in this house, even for your father and I’s marriage,’ and she continued to play as Ellen and Isabella sat listening, whilst Charlotte gazed out onto the gardens and parkland before her. The room itself was beautiful, a baroque vision of gilding and blue with a ceiling painted like the branches of trees in which birds sang and flew.

  Charlotte congratulated herself on playing the game thus far, it was certainly a change from her restoration work, and if indeed this was some kind of reality television show, though how they had managed to transport her to this astonishing television set so immediately was anyone’s guess, she intended to play along. Nevertheless, something about it seemed much more real than actors putting on a show, the house itself was most definitely real, a grand stately home, befitting the people who appeared to occupy it. She was curious to meet her brother the Duke, he sounded an awfully decent kind of guy, though she made a mental note not to refer to him in those terms given her earlier faux pas with the maid.

  The prospect of tonight’s ball, held in her honour, would present some considerable challenges, but Charlotte felt certain she could handle them. Besides, perhaps Christmas in the regency period would be fun, maybe she’d even meet Maria Fitzherbert herself!

  Chapter II

  ‘Well enough of this,’ the Dowager Duchess said ceasing to play, much to the consternation of her two daughters, ‘Freddie will be arriving from town shortly, he and Cecil are bound to want to see one another before tonight.’

  ‘We saw Cecil walking across the lawns earlier on,’ the two sisters said in unison, they had a habit of talking in such a way, much to their mother’s displeasure.

  ‘Yes, he’ll have been at the stables I imagine, he’s certainly a young man with high spirits’ the Duchess said, ‘they’ll want to ride out tomorrow, you know what they’re like, though I’m surprised he hasn’t come to find you yet Charlotte.’

  ‘Me?’ Charlotte replied.

  ‘Yes dear, you. Apparently, he’s talked nothing else but your company since his last visit here, Freddie tells me he is eager to make your acquaintance once again, that’s why he was invited tonight. Are you sure you’re alright, you seem rather forgetful, they say it runs in the family.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, I just don’t remember every suitor that comes my way,’ Charlotte said, trying to get into character.

  ‘Well listen to her,’ Ellen said, ‘every suitor, why there’s only been three and we can’t count Mr. Ramsbottom the curate, he’s ancient.’

  ‘Enough said about him the better, but rid yourself of any thoughts of Cecil being a suitable match, Duke or no Duke he’s far too headstrong’ the Duchess said, ‘come now, we must begin to get ready, you know I’ve also invited the Marquess of Collingdale, he’s been most eager to make your acquaintance again, you should look to him as a suitable match Charlotte’

  ‘I should?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Yes,’ her mother replied, ‘much more sensible than Cecil, Duke of Hareburn.’

  And with that the party in the morning room broke up, the Duchess to chastise the servants who were preparing for tonight’s ball, and the two sisters to begin the long and complicated process of getting ready, which would of course involve numerous decisions and a process that would take all afternoon.

  Charlotte was left alone, the call of the Duchess to ready herself ‘sooner rather than later’ ringing in her ears. She had not been amidst this game, or indeed this reality, for more than two hours but already she found herself at the centre of attention. A birthday ball, a mother and two sisters, a brother who was the duke and a man named Cecil whom she knew nothing about except that he was a Duke and had come specially to see her, and who was this Marquess whom her mother spoke so highly of?

  It seemed an age since she had arrived at the restoration studio this morning, surely Phoebe would be wondering where on earth she was. But something about the situation told her that she was in no immediate danger, she had no idea how she might get back to her own time, or indeed whether this was her own time, the game show theory still foremost in her mind, it is Christmas after all.

  But the scene she observed from the morning room was no New York view she knew of. The room looked out over wintry parkland, dusted with snow, and interspersed with trees. She could see a considerable distance over the countryside, the outline of a few farms and cottages visible in the distance. Unless she was dreaming this place was very real, and for now she had to find the best way to fit in without revealing her true identity.

  ‘Begging your pardon ma’am,’ the voice startled her, it was the maid she had encountered on the stairs earlier on, ‘but the Duchess has told me to enquire whether you would like some assistance in readying yourself for this evening?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll be quite okay,’ Charlotte said, but then remembering that she had no idea where anything was, where her rooms were or indeed how to dress herself she changed her mind, ‘wait, actually, er —, yes, if you could help that would be very kind er…?’

  ‘Emma, ma’am, I’ve only been here a few weeks, I came up from London after being in service there, my mother lives in the village and she’s getting old now.’

  ‘Of course, Emma, I’m sorry I’m very forgetful tod
ay, yes Emma, please do assist me in getting ready, shall we go now?’

  ‘If you wish ma’am, if truth be told it would be a welcome break from the ball room, there is still much to do, and precious little time to do it in.’

  ‘Lead on then,’ Charlotte said, pleased to at least now be in the hands of someone who knew where they were going.

  Emma led her back into the hall and up the wide staircase, but instead of going left back towards the portrait gallery they went right and along a plush carpeted corridor, once more hung with portraits, some of which Charlotte felt she recognised from her artistic studies in the past. Momentarily they arrived at what she thought must be her apartments, and Emma opened the door and led her in. Inside it was furnished most sumptuously, the ceiling again decorated in the baroque style, a beautiful and ornate bed stand graced the centre of the room and attractive pieces of furniture lined the walls, themselves decorated with the finest designs of French wallpaper.

  ‘Wow, just like the Ritz,’ Charlotte said without thinking.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Emma said.

  ‘Oh nothing, it’s a lovely room isn’t it?’

  ‘That it is ma’am, what I would give for a room like this,’ the maid replied.

  ‘Where do you sleep?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Oh, just in the servant’s quarters, I have my own little room but it is nothing like this, most humble with just a bed and a chair, but I want for nothing and of course your mother and your brother are such good employers ma’am.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ Charlotte said.

  She was not used to the idea of servants, and even less used to the deferential attitude displayed by those she had so far encountered. Back in New York she even disliked the idea of having a cleaner for her apartment, though out of necessity she did.

  ‘Here ma’am,’ Emma said, ‘the dress your brother bought you is laid out so nicely on the bed, but it is too early to dress yet, perhaps though you might like to bathe first?’