Ballgowns & Butterflies: A Stitch in Time Holiday Novella

by Kelley Armstrong

  One minute, I decide I’m overthinking it. Making too much fuss out of nothing. Hubris, even, to think that my actions could impact history. Then the next minute, I’m a fretting ball of nerves, setting guidelines and rules for myself, treating William’s world like a museum I’m visiting. Stay on the paths. Do not touch the exhibits. Do not cross the ropes. Remember that I am a guest in their world, there to observe and . . .

  And do nothing that might actually make a difference, even a difference for the better? If I do that, am I not like a wealthy visitor to the V&A, walking right past the donation boxes to take advantage of the free admission?

  William has money. No, he’d correct me—we have money. His family had been in dire straits when his mother passed on. He’d barely been able to keep Thorne Manor, which had always been the family’s holiday house, with their primary residence in London. William had taken what little capital he still owned and invested in . . . well, he invested in me. In my words. In what he remembered me talking about when we’d been teenagers, all the advances of the twentieth century.

  William figured out what industries would become most important, what new inventions were likely to succeed, and while he made a few ill-timed choices, his instincts and his intelligence were enough to make him a wealthy man, all his family’s debts repaid with a cash flow that would be the envy of his peers.

  Ask William what he does with this fortune, and he’ll joke that he uses it very wisely—to allow him to hole up in his beloved moors, with his beloved horses, playing the reclusive eccentric and never needing to set foot in London except by choice. That’s true, but he also uses it for good. To help where he can in High Thornesbury.

  How do I follow his example—which I desperately want to do—without interfering in history? Or, in worrying about interfering, will I do less good than I could?

  These are the thoughts that have me tossing and turning. I wake with a few ideas for other ways to help Mary, but it doesn’t solve the problem long term. That I still need to figure out for myself.

  The next day passes in a whirlwind of activity. Mary comes, and while I make suggestions for her future, I can tell none of them are what she wants. I offer to help set her up in a proper dress shop, but there isn’t enough of a market for it in High Thornesbury, and she doesn’t want to move away. I offer to hire her to sew our baby clothes and a new post-pregnancy wardrobe for me, which is great, but what comes after that?

  She listens to my suggestions and tells me they’re very good and she’ll pay them proper consideration. But I hear the hesitation in her words. I see her disappointment, too. It’s not as if she’s asked for something outrageous. Just a modest position that we’ll need filled anyway. My reluctance must feel like rejection, no matter how much I assure her it is no reflection on her.

  After my dress fitting, Mary takes the gown into another room to make alterations. Once the dress is done, it’s time to get ready. Mary helps with that, as she did the night of my private ball with William. I might argue that I don’t need a maid, but for an evening out, Victorian style demands at least one extra pair of hands. As Mary helps, she temporarily forgets her disappointment and begins chattering away, sharing all the local gossip.

  It takes nearly two hours to get ready. First come all the layers of dress, made that much more difficult by my belly. I’m thankful I’m only six months along. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to find formal dress if I were in my eighth month. I suppose the answer there is that if I were in my eighth month, I wouldn’t be going to a ball. I have a feeling I should enjoy this side of the stitch as much as I can over the holidays because not long into the new year, I’ll want to be in the twenty-first century where no one will blink at me going out in public with a basketball under my shirt.

  Once I’m dressed, it’s time for primping—the makeup and the hair and the jewelry. Tonight I wear the Thorne jewels. The necklace is a huge sapphire pendant circled with diamonds, more diamonds hanging from it. Even the chain is encrusted in diamonds. The ring is gold, inlaid with a large sapphire flanked by diamonds. And the bracelet, not surprisingly, is more diamonds and more sapphires.

  A fortune in jewels, passed from generation to generation, a symbol of continuity and former wealth, a reminder that the Thornes are a very old and very close-knit family. When his parents’ debt had been at its worst, William had been on the brink of doing the unthinkable: selling a piece of the set. That’s when he concocted the desperate ploy of using what little capital he had left to invest in the future I’d described. Now I hold the jewels in trust for the next generation.

  When I’m finally dressed and ready, I look in the mirror, and my breath catches, as it did the first time I saw myself in a proper ballgown. There’s a fantasy fulfilled here, one featured in a thousand historical-romance novels, our intrepid young heroine dressing for the ball where she will meet the man of her dreams.

  At thirty-nine, I don’t quite fit that “young heroine” mold. I’m a middle-aged, very pregnant widow on her second marriage. And yet my story is at least as magical as any in those books I loved. I have married the man of my dreams twice. When Michael died at thirty, I thought that was it for me, even if “remarrying” was on the list of things he wanted for me . . . right after “have countless torrid affairs.” The affairs never happened. The remarriage did, though, to the man who first captured my heart.

  Mine might not be a standard romance story, but it’s an incredible one that I’m incredibly lucky to be living. Married to the man I thought I lost, starting a family after I assumed that opportunity had passed from my life. I have a home, a family, a community, and a career I love.

  That’s what I see in the mirror. Me, happy. Insanely happy, adorned in jewels and wearing the most amazing dress. Because while family and home and career are all vastly more important, one can never discount the value of a gorgeous ballgown.

  This one is sapphire blue, in a shade to match the jewels. It’s empire-waisted, which isn’t the fashion, but it means that the waist sits above my belly, allowing the skirt to flow from there. Long sleeves finish in delicate black lace. There’s a black front panel on the full skirt and black trim on the hem. A low neckline to show off the jewels. Victorians may have a reputation—unearned mostly—for prudery, but I’ve never had more of my bosom on display than when I wear a period-appropriate ballgown.

  My hair tumbles past shoulder length. It’s threaded with silver, and my refusal to dye it is more proof of vanity than a lack of it. I consider my hair my best feature—even if William would point to other assets. Dyeing out the silver would mean changing the color and possibly the texture, and so I will be vain and leave it long and natural. Mary has curled and pinned it into a gorgeous partial updo that I can only pray will survive the three-hour sleigh ride to the ball.

  Mary’s gone now, and I’m in front of the mirror, tweaking and turning, making sure everything is right because I know enough about Victorian society to realize it must all be right. It’s scandalous enough that I’m appearing in public in “my condition.”

  As I’m adjusting my décolletage, William walks in, murmuring, “I’ll do that for you.”

  “Yes, and that will be a lovely way to launch my society debut, arriving hours late and in disarray because, somehow, fixing my neckline resulted in my dress spending the next hour in a heap on the floor.”

  His smile sharpens to a wolfish grin. “No need for that. I will hitch it around your hips with utmost care. It’ll scarcely even wrinkle.” He touches my waist as he moves in closer. “Or perhaps I’ll hoist you onto the table here, where there’s a nice carpet for my knees as I go down—”

  “Stop,” I say, my voice coming out strangled. “Please.”

  He arches one brow. “Are you certain?”

  “I am not at all certain,” I say. “Which is the problem. We need to be on time, William, and I need to be as presentable as possible. Once I’ve been properly introduced and everyone has had time to form an opinio
n of me, then you may ravish me in a deserted back hall.”

  He chuckles, the sound half growl. “If you think I won’t take you up on that . . .”

  “Oh, I will be very disappointed if you do not, Lord Thorne.”

  He puts his fingers under my chin and lifts my lips to his in a long, delectable kiss. “It is a deal, then, Lady Thorne, on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I do not ravish you in a back hallway, but that I do exactly what I just offered, in some suitably empty room. If there is to be any ravishing, it will take place on the ride home.”

  “In the sleigh?”

  “Is that a problem, Lady Thorne?”

  I brush my lips across his. “Not at all. Now lead on, m’lord. We have a ball to attend.”

  8

  Under normal circumstances, there would be no problem arriving late. Fashionably late is a thing in Victorian times as much as the twenty-first century. One never wants to appear too eager. Or one doesn’t if one cares about such things, which we do not. In fact, we’re going to the ball early, though mostly so that I may have a proper tour of Courtenay Hall and spend time with Edmund before he’s sent off to bed.

  August Courtenay has been William’s best friend since childhood. He’s also his business partner. August is the one person on this side who knows the truth about me. Not because William confessed, but the opposite—William had refused to explain anything about me at all. When I’d returned to Thorne Manor at fifteen, William suddenly became less available to his friend, secretive and very, very busy. Presuming the issue was a girl, August set out to solve the mystery and discovered that William had been spotted with a girl no one had ever seen, one who dressed quite oddly. His first guess was that William had found himself a girl of the fae. I suppose that made more sense than the truth, which August worked out last summer when I returned.

  August lives in London, but his family has an estate in North Yorkshire. And when I say estate, I mean the kind of place that gets used today as the backdrop in grand period dramas. In fact, I’m quite certain modern Courtenay Hall has appeared in at least one production. In the twenty-first century, it’s periodically open to the public, and when I visited it as a girl, my mind had been blown by the sheer scope of the place.

  I’ve never been to nineteenth-century Courtenay Hall. This past summer, August always came to us, sometimes bringing Edmund. August’s wife, Rosalind, died when Edmund wasn’t even a year old. I say died. William says died. Most of the world says died. Rosalind was apparently known for her moonlit rides on horseback, and one morning, she wasn’t in bed when August awoke. Her horse was later found drowned, having apparently panicked and charged off a seaside cliff.

  Clearly, Rosalind is dead. What other explanation could there be for the disappearance of a young mother who, by all accounts, adored her husband and son? Well, according to August, she left. Abandoned them. Ignore the fact that she never threatened any such thing, that they hadn’t been fighting the day before she disappeared, that she’d never given anyone the slightest indication that she wanted out of the marriage. No, forget all that. Rosalind abandoned him, and he will hear no reasonable argument to the contrary.

  William has long since stopped beating his head against this particular wall, and I can’t do it, either, however frustrated I might be. I never met Rosalind, but I’m offended on her behalf. For a good man, August is making a very stupid mistake—obviously preferring anger to grief—and our only consolation is that he does not share this theory with their son. He tells Edmund only that his mother loved him very much and died tragically.

  We leave midafternoon because it’ll take three hours to get to Courtenay Hall. I’m not looking forward to repeating the journey late tonight. All right, given what William promised, I’m looking forward to at least part of the return trip. The rest will not be quite so comfortable in the middle of a winter’s night.

  August offered us overnight accommodations at Courtenay Hall, but his brother vetoed it. Apparently, the earl is a bit of an ass. That’s my description of Everett Courtenay. William’s is much more colorful. According to the Earl of Tynesford, we do not rate an overnight stay, and if my condition makes the long journey difficult, perhaps we shouldn’t attend.

  “He means perhaps I shouldn’t attend,” William says as we draw close to Courtenay Hall. “Our marriage may have brought me a measure of respectability, but I am still not acceptable in polite society.”

  William is referring to the scandal that has dogged him for over a decade. Three young women have disappeared in William’s life: his sister, his former fiancée and Rosalind. That count sometimes rises to four. I’m the fourth—the mysterious girl seen with him all those years ago.

  William was responsible for none of those disappearances. We solved the two murders, and I laid the spirits to rest. That is not, however, the sort of thing he can say in public.

  “The problem,” I murmur, “is that while you may have married, I am not someone the earl—or any of his compatriots—has ever heard of. A middle-aged widow from the Americas? Very suspicious.”

  “Devil take them all, I say.” He glances my way, his face shadowed by his fur-lined hat. “They won’t bother you. They won’t dare. That’s the one advantage to possessing such a dreadful reputation.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t care, either. I understand why we can’t spend the night, though. It is his brother’s house.”

  “And by the time his lordship decreed we could not stay, the local inns were full. There are others farther along, though when you see the condition of them, you may prefer to carry on.”

  “We have blankets,” I say. “If you do not mind me curling up in the back . . ..”

  He smiles. “I do not mind at all. In fact, I believe I packed enough blankets that you may strip down to your knickers and curl up quite comfortably.”

  “And then the sleigh breaks down, and you’re left standing at the side of the road with your wife in her underwear.”

  He waggles his brows. “That would certainly provide a boost to my reputation.”

  “Not in the proper direction.”

  I push my hands deeper into my muff and gaze out at the winter wonderland. Endless fields of snow stretch to the horizon, with the falling sun painting the world a festive red. I cuddle closer to William as he turns the horse onto another road.

  We pass a wagon, and the boys in it all turn to stare at the sight of us. Living this close to Courtenay Hall, they’d see their share of well-dressed couples in expensive conveyances. Our sleigh is certainly a wondrous thing—sleek and gleaming black with a leather seat and fur-trimmed blankets. What these boys don’t usually see, I’ll bet, is a sleigh like this being driven by the owner himself. We should be comfortably ensconced on that leather seat while a driver conveys us to Courtenay Hall. Personally, I like this much better. It’s certainly a quicker ride with William deftly steering the gelding, knowing exactly how fast the sleigh can safely and comfortably travel.

  We turn onto another road, and I lean forward with a gasp.

  “Pretty little thing, isn’t it?” William murmurs.

  In the distance, Courtenay Hall sprawls at the foot of wooded hills. Every window is ablaze with light, and a skating rink glistens in the front yard.

  We continue down the lane, passing gardens put to bed for the season. I spot a maze, two small ponds, a lake to our left, a grand fountain to our right . . .

  “There are follies, yes?” I whisper. “That’s what I heard, though when we visited in the modern day, they were off-limits to the public.”

  “There are several follies,” William says. “To your right, if you squint, you’ll see a pyramid. There’s a tower in the woods. Oh, and of course, the Grecian temple on the hill ahead.”

  I make a noise suspiciously close to a squeal. William chuckles. I have a weakness for follies. Perhaps they carry less mystique to those who grew up in England. Or to those who don’t study Victorian history.<
br />
  The nineteenth century saw a huge rise in tourism, at least among the upper and upper-middle class. Egypt, Greece, Italy, India . . . the English were mad for travel, and if you traveled, you wanted the world to know it. Souvenirs were a must.

  Of course, many of those so-called souvenirs are what we’d now call stolen artifacts, and I suspect I’ll see a few objets d’art inside that will make me squirm with discomfort. But follies are different.

  When the wealthy traveled, one thing they brought back was a blazing desire to reproduce the world in their backyard, which worked best if your backyard encompassed hundreds of acres. Victorians rebuilt architecture from places they’d seen, usually scaled-down versions. And by scaled-down, I mean a twenty-foot pyramid instead of a two-hundred-foot one.

  “Is the temple life sized?” I ask. “At least big enough to walk in?”

  “It’s big enough to hold a garden party. That’s where August proposed to Rosalind if I recall correctly. It was our favorite spot growing up. We’d spend hours in there, playing all sorts of boyhood games. It’s based on the Temple of Athena Nike in Athens, as perfect a scaled replica as could be managed.”

  He glances over, a smile playing on his lips. “We could always skip the ball and ride straight there. Spend the evening huddled in blankets on the steps of the temple, gazing up at the stars . . .”

  He catches my expression. “And that was a cruel tease. I apologize.” He kisses my nose. “We’ll return when we can enjoy it properly, preferably in spring. The earl despises the countryside, and he’s rarely here. We’ll visit when August comes to stay.”

  “We’ll bring little Melvina,” I say.

  He laughs. “We will certainly bring little whatever-we-name-our-daughter-that-is-not-Melvina.”

  I’m about to tease him when a figure darts from a doorway. It’s a young woman in a maid’s uniform, waving madly.