by Sarah Thorn
Rose appeared again a few hours later. ''Are you feeling well enough to go down to dinner?'' she asked.
''Quite well enough,'' she replied eager to see what a Regency dinner was like.
''Lovely. Then what do you think? The red dress?''
Jemima held her breath as Rose took the red dress from the wardrobe. It was the same red dress in the portrait. She was going to wear that red dress, the one she'd been looking at for years.
''You look beautiful,'' Rose said when she'd finished brushing Jemima's hair. ''Stand up and take a look at yourself.''
Jemima was overwhelmed by what she saw. Her reflection was the portrait; it was as simple as that.
''Lucy what are you doing? What happened to you today? You seem confused. That's your place,'' her mother said. ''Are you sure you're well enough to be here?''
''Yes, mother,'' she replied. They were in the library having pre-dinner drinks. Jemima hadn't known where to sit and had chosen the sofa she knew so well two hundred years in the future. But apparently she didn't sit there usually. She sat in an armchair next to the fireplace.
Two tall gentlemen arrived, one she assumed was her brother, James, the other her father, John. The butler handed them both a drink. Jemima thought they were very handsome. They were both in evening wear, tails coats and bow ties.
''What do you think, Lucy?'' John started. ''Should I seek the attention of Emily or Charlotte, I am quite confused and can't decide between the two?''
Jemima had no idea who the two women were. ''Do you love them both equally?'' she said.
''No I love neither of them. I don't believe love to be important. Women are merely window dressing, to look pretty but remain silent.''
''Fuck off,'' Jemima said.
''Pardon,'' he replied.
She realized that expression wasn't yet fashionable. ''Why are you so rude about women?''
''Lucy, don't answer your brother back,'' John said. ''As a woman, you should be dainty and quiet until asked for you opinion.''
Jemima looked aghast at her mother. Her mother was smiling, apparently oblivious to their sexist mutterings.
''Ah splendid, the Mercer's are here,'' Lucy's mother said.
A small man with a much taller woman came into the room. He's rich, and she's a trophy wife, Jemima concluded.
''Hello, Lucy,'' Mr. Mercer said. ''How are you?''
''Well, thank you.''
''Sir,'' he said.
''Excuse me?'' Jemima replied
''You should call me sir. You should say, well thank you, sir.''
''Why?'' Jemima asked.
''Lucy. Hold you tongue and be civil,'' John said.
''She's ill. I'm sure of it,'' Lucy's mother added. ''She's confused, I'm sure she has a fever.''
So women weren't respected at all. It was ridiculous, Jemima concluded. Her brother had said, ''window dressing.'' How dare he?
After some small talk which Jemima avoided for fear of exploding into a rage, they went through to the dining room. It was the same table she and Anna had just had their little dinner party at. It was, however, beautifully decorated with candle arbor and silver cutlery.
''Bloody French aren't giving up I see,'' Mr. Mercer said.
''N,o they aren't likely to either,'' John replied. ''We'll have to finish them off, however many lives it costs.''
''Wars are awful,'' Jemima said.
The men looked at her as if she'd used a terrible profanity. ''Lucy keep your opinions to yourself,'' John said.
Jemima tried to think back to what she'd read in Jane Austen in some of whose books that hadn't yet been written. She was sure that the female characters in the book had had a say. She was sure they'd been free to express themselves. But at Allerton Castle, obviously women were treated as second-class citizens.
The evening passed with talk of war and politics and the running of the estate. Mrs. Mercer and Lucy's mother didn't say a single word. Jemima wanted to say something, many times, but refrained. What would the gentlemen say if they knew women had the vote or if they knew that Britain had had a female Prime Minister? What would they say about the Equal Opportunities Commission or Madonna dancing around half-naked on the stage.
The three ladies went back to the drawing-room and sat down to tea.
''Have you been invited to the ball, Mrs. Mercer?'' Lucy's mother asked
''At the Earl of Dunsforth's?''
''Yes.''
''Yes we have. I'm very keen to go.''
''I am looking forward to it very much indeed. How about you Lucy?''
''Of course,'' Jemima said.
''Perhaps you will find a nice young man there.'' Mrs. Mercer quipped.
''Well I hope he doesn't go shagging around like the last one did.'' Jemima pulled a face.
''Is that modern talk?'' her mother asked
''I'm sorry. I think you're right mother. I have a fever. I really can't think straight today. Would you excuse me?''
Jemima left the room and let out a huge sigh of relief. The atmosphere was stifling. She couldn't bear the stiffness and lack of freedom she seemed to have as a woman. She would spend another couple of days in Regency times and go back to sanity.
*****
Jemima sat in the carriage as it bounced around on its way to the Earl of Dunforth's house. Rose had dressed her again, this time in a gown made of silk and satin. It was low at the front and showed off more of her back that Jemima had thought possible from what she'd read about Regency fashion. She hated the shoes. In fact, the weren't shoes they were more like pumps. When she walked, she could feel the stones under her feet.
''Oh, we're here,'' Lucy's mother exclaimed. They'd arrived at a large country house that seemed to be lit by thousands of candles. ''Come on Lucy, let's go. Have you go your dance card?'' she said as the carriage drew to a halt.
''Yes, mother, I have it here.'' Jemima held the card up. At that moment, she realized with horror that she wouldn't be able to dance. She didn't know any of the dances. All she knew was how to bop to Taylor Swift or One Direction. She'd always bunked off dancing lessons at school preferring the company of boys in the local cafe.
Jemima caught her breath when they entered the ballroom. It was so Jane Austen. She looked around and saw so many handsome men. She felt a sudden rush of lust come over her. This was what she'd read about and dreamed about for years.
''Lucy, Lucy, look I've got four names in my dance card.'' It was a young woman Jemima didn't know.
Then another young woman appeared. ''Lucy, hello. I've got three names on mine.''
''She's got four,' Jemima said pointing at the first girl.
''Charlotte always gets her dance card filled first,'' the second one said.
''I'm not surprised, look at her hooters. Men have a one track mind,'' Jemima said.
''Hooters?'' Charlotte asked.
''Your tits. They're huge. No wonder you get so many men.''
''What is she talking about, Jane?'' Charlotte asked the other woman.
''I have no idea,'' Jane replied. ''Are feeling well, Lucy?''
''Quite well, thank you. Why don't you two go and dance?'' Jemima wanted to be alone to soak in the atmosphere.
''We can't until it's time,'' Charlotte said.
Jemima tutted and hung her head. ''Alright, I'm going to mingle.''
''Mingle?'' Jane asked.
Jemima refrained from explaining and left the other two to talk among themselves. As she walked around, saying excuse me and sorry when she bumped into people, Jemima began to get a feel for the time. It was her firm conclusion that women were totally excluded. Only there to reproduce. She decided to try a little experiment. She wanted to see how far she could push it, this thing they called etiquette.
''Hi, I'm Lucy what's you name?'' she asked a tall, handsome man.
''Er.......er......''
''Forgotten your name?'' she asked.
''No, I'm just a little shocked at your behavior.''
''Why?''
''Hold on,'' she said. She turned to a man a few feet away. ''Excuse me. Would you please introduce me to this man?''
''But I don't know him.''
''Does it matter?'' Both men looked at her as if she'd escaped from the local lunatic asylum.
''Madam, perhaps you've had a little too much to drink,'' the first man said. She looked at him. He had long sideburns and a Roman nose each side of which were the most beautiful greens eyes. She wanted him.
''Will you escort me to the door?'' she asked.
Being a gentleman he had no choice. He gave her his arm and walked her to the large double door at the entrance to the ballroom.
''Come outside with me,'' she said. He looked around. She could see he was sorely tempted. ''Don't worry, nobody's looking.''
''I'm not sure,'' he said
She took his hand and pulled him through the door. There was a large oak tree several feet away and behind that some bushes. She pulled him behind the tree and pushed him against it. He looked at her cleavage, and she smiled up at him.
''I want you, sir. I am a young woman who takes what she wants. You are a very handsome man. I want you to take me into the bushes and do bad things to me.''
The man gave a shriek and ran back into the ballroom. Jemima leaned against the tree and wished she had a glass of wine and a cigarette. What the hell were these men like? Now she knew for sure; she wanted to go back to her modern life again. She'd seen all she wanted to, and it had spoiled her impression that Regency times were romantic.
*****
Jemima lay in bed and thought how she could get back to her former life. She tried to think of the process she'd gone through and what had happened. As far as she could remember, she'd been wearing a Regency dress and holding a mirror in such a way she could see herself and Lucy at the same time. She'd noticed nothing at all; she'd just been transported back in time. She concluded the way back was to hold a mirror in such a way both of their images appeared in it at the same time. Horrified, she realized that she needed something that hadn't yet been made. Namely the portrait. It was going to be a much longer road home than she'd first thought.
''Do you know who you insulted last evening?'' John asked when Jemima entered the breakfast room.
''I have no idea,'' she said idly.
''Don't talk to me in that lazy tone. Last evening, you made some lurid remarks to the Duke of Blandford. He's the Prime Minister's son. Without my intervention, you would have brought ruin on us all.''
''What did you say to him, father?''
''I told him you were mentally ill due to a fever. It's not far from the truth. You would never have behaved like this a few months ago. What has changed?''
''I'm not the person I was, that's all I can say.''
''It's time we had you married off. You need a good husband to keep you on the straight and narrow.''
Jemima took the opportunity that had so fortunately presented itself. ''I agree, father. Perhaps you would allow me to have my portrait painted. It could be shown to any prospective suitors.''
''That's a good idea. I will have it commissioned straight away. Really, Lucy, I'll be glad to get you off my hands.''
And I'll be more than glad to see the last of you, you pompous ass, she thought. She wondered how long it would be before she was back in the normal world.
The next day, her father announced that the artist was to come and visit that very afternoon. Jemima was excited. Perhaps it wouldn't take so long after all.
When he arrived, Jemima could not believe how handsome he was. Never before had she seen such a beautiful man, not in any movie or TV show or magazine. He was gorgeous, and his presence rendered her speechless.
''Painting a beautiful woman is more than just putting brush to canvass,'' he said throwing his hands in the air. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, the room where the original portrait had been painted. Jemima nodded, hanging on his every word. ''As an artist I need to spend a little time with you, get to know you and understand the way your mind works. That will be reflected in the portrait.''
Jemima was attracted to every facet of him. The way he looked, tall with dark skin and long black hair parted in the middle. The way he talked, expressively, passionately, and the way he held himself, upright and proud.
If this was the man Lucy had fallen in love with, Jemima wasn't surprised, at all. Any woman would fall in love with him. Indeed, he probably had a string of conquests under his belt and a string of women constantly chasing him. But one thing bothered her. If she was to let go and fall in love with him, history wasn't on her side. If history was to repeat itself, then falling in love with him would yield the same result for her as it had for Lucy. Her father had banned her from seeing the artist, and she'd remained unmarried for the rest of her life. Jemima didn't want to experience the same fate. She wouldn't encourage him; she'd keep cool, let him finish the portrait and leave.
''Lucy, you are a very beautiful woman. The most beautiful I have ever painted. That makes me nervous, I must admit.''
To hear him calling her beautiful was heavenly. ''You are very kind, sir. You don't have to be nervous. Why would you be?''
''Do you know how hard it is to capture such beauty on canvas? If you were ugly, it would be much easier to make you more beautiful. But it's almost impossible to express your level of beauty in paint.''
Jemima wanted to pull him to her and kiss him. She wanted to do what modern people did, push him onto the floor and ride him senseless. She had to remind herself once again to be reserved and not encourage him.
''How long do you think you'll need to do the portrait?'' she asked.
''A few days.''
''Will I have to sit still throughout?''
He threw his hands in the air again. ''It's not possible to sit still for so long. All you have to do is sit in the same position. There is room for movement.''
''Very well. When do you want to start?''
''Tomorrow, in the morning, if that is agreeable.''
''Yes, perfectly,'' she replied. ''Now if you'll excuse me I have some things I need to do.''
''But I thought we could spend a little time together, now.''
''I'm sorry. My time is very precious. We will meet tomorrow morning.'' Jemima got up and left the room. When she got to her bedroom, she noticed how much he'd turned her on. She felt hot, and her womanhood was overflowing at the thought of him.
That night she was unable to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined him making love to her. She thought about masturbating but decided she actually liked the feelings she was having and didn't want to anything to reduce their intensity. She liked longing for him. She liked the ache between her legs and the thought that she might give in to her feelings but also might not.
The next day, she asked Rose to dress her in the red dress. When she was finished, Jemima could see by the look Rose gave her, that she looked good. The mirror confirmed it. And so did Lucien's eyes when she walked into the drawing room.
''You are a wonder,'' he exclaimed. ''Please sit here, in this chair.'' Jemima knew the chair, it was the same one she'd seen a hundred times in the portrait. ''Now turn your head just a little.'' He put one hand on top of her head and the other on her chin. She caught his scent and the same feelings she'd had the previous evening began all over again.
Jemima didn't say anything to him all morning. She sat up straight and looked in the general direction he'd asked her to. She heard him sigh the odd time and the scratches of his pencil on the canvas.
He'd already decided what he wanted to do. He wanted to make it last as long as possible. He'd had similar trouble during the night. Images of her simply wouldn't leave him alone, but he had masturbated. He'd closed his eyes and imagined her naked body under him, then kneeling in front of him, then riding h
im. When he came, he'd grunted her name.
''Tell me, Miss Lucy, what do you like to do in life?'' he asked after lunch. He didn't like her silence; it had gone on for far too long. He wanted to talk to her, to know her better.
''Reading,'' she replied bluntly.
''What do you read?''
''I like to read about romance.''
''Ah, you like love. The foundation of life.'' He threw his hands in the air again. It was a mannerism that Jemima liked. She liked all his mannerisms.
''Have you ever been in love, Lucien?'' she asked. If he wanted to talk at least, she wanted to know some meaningful things about him.
''Yes, I have been in love.''
''What was it like?''
''It hurt.''
It wasn't the reply she'd expected. A modern man would never have given her an answer like that; neither would any of the men she'd met while she'd been in the Regency Period. Perhaps that's what made him unique. Perhaps that's why she liked him so much. ''Why did it hurt?'
''Because I felt rejected. It made me feel inadequate.''
''Did the lady dump you?''
''What is dump?''
Jemima laughed at herself. Still stuck in two thousand sixteen she thought. ''Did she reject you?''
''Yes. She rejected my advances in the cruelest manner.''
''I don't believe you. Who could possibly want to reject you?''
''Thank you. Your words are very kind.''
''Because I can't believe it.''
''Do you like me, Miss Lucy?'' he asked.
She didn't want to tell the truth, she was leaving and didn't want to get involved. ''Yes, I do. In the kind of way a sister likes a brother.'' She cringed at her dishonesty, putting it down to self-preservation.
He didn't say any more. Two hours went by. She sat, and he painted. When the light began to fade, he put down his brushes and looked at Jemima. ''That's all for today.''
''May I take a look?''
''No it's bad luck. You can see it when it's finished.''
''When will that be?''
''You asked me that before. Why are you in a hurry?''
''I'm not. Please forgive me for pushing you.''
