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Authors: Susan Donovan, Celeste Bradley
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suspect that many men did, in time—then the Swan was free to sail as grandly out the door as she had sailed in.
The Swan was a woman with options.
If only I could be like her.
I wrapped my shawl about my shoulders and sat in my open window, gazing unseeing into the deepening night. It was very late but the chill kept me awake. There was a notion swirling in my mind and I wished to capture it and make it hold still for examination.
No matter how I argued and pleaded, I knew I could not win against my relatives’ determination. Their self-interest far outweighed any sense of responsibility to me. In fact, they likely felt they were indeed charting the correct course for my future.
Merely fleeing would serve no purpose. I had no refuge but this one. I had no doubt that I would soon be found and brought back in disgrace, bound for a convent or a sanitarium, a common end for girls who refused to conform. My mother had railed against such practices enough times for me to have a depressingly realistic vision of such a future.
Therefore, my rebellion must be extreme. It must shatter all ties. It must be so scandalous, so entirely and completely unacceptable, that my aunt and uncle would rather touch a hot coal than associate themselves with me.
I lifted my gaze to the sky, though the stars were hidden behind the sooty London clouds. “If I am to be bought and sold,” I whispered to the sky, “then I should profit from the transaction. I should be the merchant and the banker, as well as the livestock.”
* * *
I have never been one to dawdle once having made a decision, so I began to put my plan into motion the very next day.
All of Society knew that the Swan wore only the most beautiful gowns. Since it was widely understood that the most beautiful gowns were those crafted by the great Lementeur, I knew that I might find the wearer of such gowns by attending her dressmaker.
Lementeur kept a very exclusive shop on the Strand. It was discreetly announced by a sign containing only a scripted, flowing L. It might as well have been heralded by a military brass band, for there was not a woman in London who did not sigh upon passing the mysterious entrance to the most elite arbiter of style in all of England.
That next afternoon, I lingered across the road with my aunt’s maid, Sylla. I had been allowed out of the house due to the realistic tenor of my heartfelt and sincere apologies to my relations. Once I had explained my childish qualms at being worthy of such an overwhelming honor and profusely thanked them for their most industrious efforts on my behalf, I was given back my freedom. I was even, as long as I was accompanied, permitted to venture to the Strand in order to peruse the shop windows. After all, I had to acquaint myself with the costly accoutrements that would soon be part of my new, glorious existence as Lady Ashford.
I daresay that my aunt and uncle thought I was quite mad, but they were far too interested in their own advancement to question my motives in changing my mind. They simply went on planning the wedding that they had never canceled.
For my part, I pled shyness and maidenly nerves and hoped to avoid meeting with Lord Malcolm even once.
This did not prevent him from showering me with costly gifts. The first day was velvet, in the form of a cloak that swept the floor with the length of it but was so fine that it weighed quite perfectly for a summer evening.
I gave it to Sylla.
Aunt Beryl discovered my deed and forced poor Sylla to give it back. How the cloak ended up in the coal chute I’m sure I don’t know.
Sylla was scarcely older than I, so I contented her with a lemon ice and the bribe of my pink-trimmed bonnet if she did not convey my doings to Aunt Beryl.
Now Sylla, who bore no personal love for my exacting aunt, accepted the bribe with glee and settled into a doorway with her ice.
I had feared it might take days or even weeks to catch sight of my prey, yet we had scarcely
The Swan was a woman with options.
If only I could be like her.
I wrapped my shawl about my shoulders and sat in my open window, gazing unseeing into the deepening night. It was very late but the chill kept me awake. There was a notion swirling in my mind and I wished to capture it and make it hold still for examination.
No matter how I argued and pleaded, I knew I could not win against my relatives’ determination. Their self-interest far outweighed any sense of responsibility to me. In fact, they likely felt they were indeed charting the correct course for my future.
Merely fleeing would serve no purpose. I had no refuge but this one. I had no doubt that I would soon be found and brought back in disgrace, bound for a convent or a sanitarium, a common end for girls who refused to conform. My mother had railed against such practices enough times for me to have a depressingly realistic vision of such a future.
Therefore, my rebellion must be extreme. It must shatter all ties. It must be so scandalous, so entirely and completely unacceptable, that my aunt and uncle would rather touch a hot coal than associate themselves with me.
I lifted my gaze to the sky, though the stars were hidden behind the sooty London clouds. “If I am to be bought and sold,” I whispered to the sky, “then I should profit from the transaction. I should be the merchant and the banker, as well as the livestock.”
* * *
I have never been one to dawdle once having made a decision, so I began to put my plan into motion the very next day.
All of Society knew that the Swan wore only the most beautiful gowns. Since it was widely understood that the most beautiful gowns were those crafted by the great Lementeur, I knew that I might find the wearer of such gowns by attending her dressmaker.
Lementeur kept a very exclusive shop on the Strand. It was discreetly announced by a sign containing only a scripted, flowing L. It might as well have been heralded by a military brass band, for there was not a woman in London who did not sigh upon passing the mysterious entrance to the most elite arbiter of style in all of England.
That next afternoon, I lingered across the road with my aunt’s maid, Sylla. I had been allowed out of the house due to the realistic tenor of my heartfelt and sincere apologies to my relations. Once I had explained my childish qualms at being worthy of such an overwhelming honor and profusely thanked them for their most industrious efforts on my behalf, I was given back my freedom. I was even, as long as I was accompanied, permitted to venture to the Strand in order to peruse the shop windows. After all, I had to acquaint myself with the costly accoutrements that would soon be part of my new, glorious existence as Lady Ashford.
I daresay that my aunt and uncle thought I was quite mad, but they were far too interested in their own advancement to question my motives in changing my mind. They simply went on planning the wedding that they had never canceled.
For my part, I pled shyness and maidenly nerves and hoped to avoid meeting with Lord Malcolm even once.
This did not prevent him from showering me with costly gifts. The first day was velvet, in the form of a cloak that swept the floor with the length of it but was so fine that it weighed quite perfectly for a summer evening.
I gave it to Sylla.
Aunt Beryl discovered my deed and forced poor Sylla to give it back. How the cloak ended up in the coal chute I’m sure I don’t know.
Sylla was scarcely older than I, so I contented her with a lemon ice and the bribe of my pink-trimmed bonnet if she did not convey my doings to Aunt Beryl.
Now Sylla, who bore no personal love for my exacting aunt, accepted the bribe with glee and settled into a doorway with her ice.
I had feared it might take days or even weeks to catch sight of my prey, yet we had scarcely
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