Plain Jane

“Mah accent is real.” Kenneth argued. He stood straight and puffed out his chest. Many language tutors attempted to rid him of what they deemed a speech problem, with little success. That’s not how a future Marquess should sound, they would say. "Ah coods nae feign it, e'en if Ah tried.“ He mumbles the last line. 

The hand in front of him was surprising. "Ah am supposed tae dae th’ offerin’.” Jane was the first girl to try to be different that Kenneth met. She did not try to be the proper lady. It was equally fascinating and confusing. Perhaps it is what led to him following her around as a child.

Kenneth chuckled at her statement. "Ye lack th’ clan accent, but yer feit may ken th’ steps. Dinnae greit tae me when ye stumble.“ Kenneth took her hand and led her to the center of the garden. "A barn jink isnae tay difficult. First,” Kenneth leads her through the steps, trying not to laugh as she hops and adds a step to each three-step dance. It takes a few minutes for her to adjust to the casual form of dancing. “Very guid. We return tae th’ ballroom hauld, then ye skip tae yer right fur tois steps, an’ we come back tae the hauld.” Kenneth takes a step back, a proud smile on his face. “We might make a Scot ay ye.”

“You say that, but I’d have no way of knowing if it was true or not. You’re devilishly clever. I know your mother sent you to very good schools, and if I know anything about good schools, they absolutely hate anyone being different.” Her own school had been good in that sense at least. “You could do anything you set your mind to. You tricked me into jumping into the loch and I wouldn’t have thought anyone could do that.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Yes, and then I would be waiting the rest of the night. I’m titled now, I’m going to be terribly bossy. Manners haven’t gotten me very much up until now. Have they done well by you?”

Jane pretended to have no idea what he’d said. “Je suis desolee, Monsieur, je ne comprends pas.” Following the dance moves he was providing, she kept up, stumbling over the steps only a little. It was easier when no one else was watching. “If you call me a Sassenach, I shall steal your cattle and burn your castle to the ground.”

His hair. Harry caught the drift of her gaze and his hand quickly went to it, running his fingers through to right the unruly strands. Where sleep had not mussed them (save for a newfound wrinkle in his waistcoat), the sudden jolt and subsequent… debauched fury… had set him out of sorts. Hair tidied, he ran a hand over his face, trusting that it had not been otherwise maligned.

“Shakespea– Shakespeare!” He laughed. At least this he understood. 

The false one. A laugh transformed to a grin, and he very nearly bounced upright, delighted to be a part of the game, finally, and not a victim to it. 

“No, no,” he cheered, and then cheer spread through him and he did stand, smoothing unseen wrinkles in his trousers. “Well, unless–”

A blink. He twisted to look over his shoulder at the door, and then back to her.

“Is that the game? Ah, I see.”

A nod, a beat.

“Come along, Cressida. Let us find a new hiding spot.”

And then he was halfway to the door, before realizing that he had not solved a piece of the puzzle.

“Shall I be Oberon, then? No!” A snap of his fingers. “Puck.” He raised his brows, gave a grin. “If this is the game, I intend to win.”

The mysterious slumbering gentleman, who Jane had decided to think of as Endymion for now, the sleeping shepherd who married the goddess Selene, had rather magnificent hair. It reminded her of her neighbour’s, which suggested it was fashionable and not a sign of either becoming debauched or running across a windy moor while crying out someone’s name mournfully. Jane personally felt more men should do that. Or perhaps she had deeply unrealistic expectations of men. 

At least he seemed to know the name Shakespeare (though Jane was curious if he could correctly identify the man) and was filled with an almost inhuman level of energy. She found herself becoming rather infected by it, smiling even though normally sitting on a man’s lap would mean she’d have found the nearest piece of furniture and attempted to disguise herself as part of it. Perhaps because he seemed not to view the situation as remotely embarrassing, it was easier for her to do the same. 

“Is everything a game to you, sir?” She was rather jealous of him then, for almost nothing felt like a game to her. 

He’d said her first name, which no one did, but that meant he was clever, and Jane had settled him into the category of “dim but charming”. She was surprised enough to follow along behind him without protest. 

The offer of being Oberon seemed somewhat out of place (though at least he didn’t offer to be Troilus, how awkward that would be), and his offer of being Puck made her smile grow enough to flash her teeth in honest amusement. “I shall be Peaseblossom! Please forgive my lack of wings. I left them at home.”

jane.

-

His annoyed expression turned quickly to curiosity and then blatant confusion. He had never come across a lady so… vocal about each thought that popped into her head. One more glance at her appearance could not determine her status, was she a wayward lady maid perhaps?

I was warned. Town polish. This did not sound like the advice one would give to a lady maid.

Sidney broke his confused grimace to look down at his muddied boots. “It is no matter.” Though they were newly shined, it was only a matter of time, he supposed. Glancing back up, he hesitantly reached for the offered handkerchief and took it, looking it over before dabbing at the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

With a crooked smile, he held up a finger, urging her to pause. He inhaled and seemed to prompt her to do so as well, before letting out a long exhale. “There. You are right, it is the heat.”

He was absolutely fascinated by this creature. Accusing him of debauchery and roguishness. He was certain they’d never met before, unless it was at a party where he was very drunk, which would explain a lot.

“Allow me to make a suggestion: it is cooler by the lake, and there are even swan boats we can take out onto the water. Perhaps we could try our luck at finding some relief from the heat? Ah! I beg your pardon.”

Sidney looked at the soiled handkerchief in his hand and was reluctant to hand it back to her, so he simply balled it up in his fist and let his arm fall to its side. “I am Mr. Sidney Wyatt, could I trouble you for your name?”

He was very clearly a London gentleman. It was the boots. No country squire or lord would wear boots that shined like that. There would be no point, since no one of note would see them, and you’d only dirty them hunting or riding your land. Jane made a note to inspect a man’s boots if she needed to clarify his role. 

His finger made her blush, because she’d been blathering. She hadn’t blathered at home, but then, she didn’t meet strangers at home, and no one cared what she thought or had to say. All the words she hadn’t said over the years were pouring out of her these days. But she did take a breath when he encouraged it and smiled to show she wasn’t offended. 

The offer of going to the lake was much appreciated. While she didn’t have a lake on her property, more was the pity, she was close enough to the Bristol channel that she’d dreamed of going out on a little sailboat or yacht some day. She had no idea what a swan boat was. Perhaps it was for swan hunting. Londoners needed something to hunt. 

Curtseying, Jane offered Mr. Sidney Wyatt (Good Lord that really was the name of a rogue) her gloved hand. “Lady Jane Temple. But pray, call me Miss Temple. Lady Temple sounds like somewhere one stores vestal virgins.” She wasn’t sure if that was funny to anyone but her, but she’d been thinking it for months and had to share it with someone. “I would be happy to see this lake. You can spend the time walking over telling me what one does with a swan boat.”

-

I did not know you were there, Sarah had been about to say. 

I had not intended to bother you, also on the tip of her tongue. 

What instead emerged was a garbled, “I did not bother – damn?” 

Oh. Oh! Cursing. She peered from around the vase that managed to be ancient and an obstacle in both sight and conversation all at once, to try and see who it was she was speaking to. 

“But, is saying damn forbidden too? Oh! But surely not; the curate says it, as does the Arch… the, the Archbishop.”

Sarah stopped suddenly, paling at the recollection of what else the Archbishop had said recently, and about her (her!) as well. 

“And I am almost certain it is in the Good Book, although I have not myself read it in a while; I should think that if something were in the Bible, why, one cannot both make young ladies read it and forbid them from what is in it at the same time.”

There was an impression of dark brown hair, and a white dress, as well as… feathers?

“I don’t mean to impose, but are you behind the vase for a reason? Only it is rather awkward to converse in this manner; the chaperones have already been on the cusp of a scold to me not several minutes before, and I am sure there will be harsher words should I be, be damn-ing at a vase?”

The other girl was pretty in an unconscious, casual way that implied she was neither nervous about her looks nor trying to accentuate them. She looked rather like a painting, one of those ones she’d seen at that salon, with the girl looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t remember the painter now, how irritating. Still, pretty and artless. Yes, that was the word. Artless. 

Stepping away from the wall only slightly, because honestly it was a nice wall and a good spot and she was slightly loath to leave it, Jane showed her face around the vase. 

“The Bible isn’t all bad. Some people seem to focus on all the wrong parts of it, in my opinion. There’s a line I rather like, ‘mankind is born for trouble, as sparks fly upward.’ It’s rather lovely, and I think somewhat forgiving. How can we be other than we were born?” She had not meant to discuss religion, but it was difficult for a vicar’s daughter to wholly abandon the habit, even all these years later. 

“Have they really? How rude. I never allow my chaperone to scold me. Not that she would, for she’s a dear, but I shouldn’t allow it. I’ve rather grown out of being scolded.” She did come out from behind the vase, as much as she could without giving up the option of returning to it if things got rather tense, and smiled with what she hoped wasn’t a look of latent madness. 

“Why were the chaperones after you? People here do seem to find fault in everything one does. Or perhaps I’m just used to that and have come to expect it. I’m trying not to be prejudiced against an entire city simply because I am not used to it.”

It was the impact, and then the flutter that got him. She spoke quickly, like a rock tumbling from a ledge, and hitting posts and stones all the way down. Harry struggled to catch up, the fog in his head failing to clear, and–

“Debauched? Lawks, I–”

The lines could not have been written any deeper across his forehead, furrowing to ravines as he straightened up, his legs bouncing as he rose to his full (seated) height. “Sleep– I— it’s a party–”

And then it struck him: this was surely a prank. A clever ruse sent by a clever woman to tease him out, when she had finally tired of dancing or being charmed. Harry exhaled, palms flattening against his legs. They traced slowly to his knees and he nodded, gravely, watching her.

“Did Ophelia send you?”

He looked like a dog that was trying to understand one’s instructions, and it was rather endearing. Jane realized that she probably had nothing to fear from the gentleman. One did get told about the evils of men and being alone with them at any time (was it any wonder ladies weren’t always keen on marriage?), but he seemed entirely harmless. She considered patting his hair and assuring him he could go back to sleep. 

His question threw her off. Was it some sort of Shakespearean reference? Was she supposed to say something about rosemary and rue? Or was he about to tell her to get thee to a nunnery?

-

His brows rose higher on his forehead at the lady’s admonishment. But wasn’t she trespassing? Surely, such rules were not so important given the circumstances and … Well, it wasn’t as though such rules were often important to him in the first place. 

“What–” He took the bouquet, confusion only mounting as he looked down at the flowers. “I’m sure they’re fine.” Though he could not claim they didn’t look a little sad. Still, that didn’t explain at all what she was doing there. “I’ll have it done, then but …”

I’m also your neighbor, she said. Ernest’s mouth turned to an ‘o’ shape and he looked towards Effingham’s house, wondering if she meant there but then realized that was unlikely. Temple, she said. The name was familiar and he returned his focus to her, baffled all the more as she continued. 

“Of course it’s in fashion! How can a cravat be rakish, anyway? Ridiculous.” He put far too much thought into what he wore not to become a little defensive. But whatever offense he did feel was gone under the great amusement he felt at having a lady in his garden, lecturing him about its upkeep. “Did my garden offend you this badly, Lady Temple?” He asked, smirking as he crossed his arms.

“They are NOT fine.” He clearly knew nothing about horticulture. What were they teaching men in school? Not household management or proper manners or the dangers of horse racing, drunken carriage driving, or duels over matters of petty arguments. 

He really was quite beautiful. She imagined that people wrote poetry about him. Young ladies in York had written poetry about Lord Byron, and Lord Pembroke was prettier. The poetry probably wasn’t any good, but it usually wasn’t. Still, he should tell his valet to brush his hair properly. Though that was most likely the style. It made him look as if he’d taken a bracing walk along the moors. Into the wind. 

“I have no idea, but you’ve managed it.”  It really was a rakish looking cravat. Though it was better than some of the ones she’d seen in town that looked as if the man had a throat wound and had bound himself up. She had no idea how that had become popular. “Offend? No, not really. I don’t think you did it on purpose, of course. Anyway, the back garden was much worse. THAT offended me. Your front garden merely longs for a more caring hand. But I have found that most London gentlemen do not seem to appreciate that virtue. Perhaps you could give the flowers to someone. If you don’t wish to put them in water, I can fetch a vase. My uncle seemed to collect the things.” She meant it as a joke, but people rarely found her funny, at least not on purpose. 

-

These new clothes were wretched in the heat. Sidney had no idea how much sweat could pool at the bottom of one’s sleeves near the gloves, but he was finding out the hard way that a Hyde Park promenade was hardly worth this trouble. The August humidity seemed even more oppressive than the heat wave in July, and as he placed his walking cane under his arm to begin removing his gloves, he heard the shuffle of someone right beside him.

A lady, actually, skidding across a mud puddle right toward him. He could do nothing but react, reaching for her and bracing her with his hands.

She spoke and her accusations seemed almost too spot on, as if she could read his mind when he initially wanted to ask if she needed to walk on his arm to steady her, with the intent of getting to know her better. She seemed a new face to Town, as he was sure he’d made note of every lady attending this season, so could this be–?

The new viscountess?

Sidney could not imagine this scrap of a woman could be the new coveted Lady Temple. He smiled anyway, though he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. Between the heat and this poor woman’s attitude, he couldn’t bother trying to get on her good side. Especially when her mind was made up about him, for some reason. “Of course. I will do neither, and you need not offer your thanks for catching you.” He let go, stepped back, and continued removing his gloves, as he couldn’t stand them any longer.

“Well, go on, then, unless you wish to borrow my cane to steady you?”

Oh dear. She’d been rude again. And she’d just wanted him to know she wasn’t throwing herself at him. Literally. “I apologize, that was not at all the thing to say. I only meant that I was not attempting a maneuver to attract your attention. Or company. Not that your company is unpleasant, I’m sure. Merely that I was warned that London ladies had all sorts of techniques to make introductions, and I didn’t want you thinking that was my aim.” Though she rather suspected, for people who wished to actually meet people, that such techniques were rather clever and useful. “I’m making a muddle of this. I am sorry. I have no town polish, and I’ve muddied your boots.”

Seeing that he looked quite warm, she dug her handkerchief out of her pocket. She always had several. “Here. It’s cooler back that way, in the shade, if you’d like.” That probably also sounded like a technique, but she’d already insulted him once and she didn’t want to again. “In my defense, you do look rather like the Roguish Lord Roderick, Count de Vere. The authoress is from London, perhaps she modelled the character after you.” That was also probably an insult. “I swear I am not this bad at making conversation normally. It’s the heat.”

One hour in, and Sarah had resigned herself to never again seeing that particular pot of bruise salve. 

A dance set, sore feet, and a narrowly-missed lecture from a forbidding-looking Lady Sidonie later, and Sarah was beginning to despair of ever locating the bottle’s owner. She had thought to offer it to Dr. Collins, who, as a physician, would at least put it to good use, but the crowds had only gotten worse as the night went on, and she could not pick him out either. 

“Botheration!” she said; then, at the simultaneous gasps of shock from the chaperones seated nearby, amended to, “But-the-ancient… vases all around, how… how old they are!”

They did not look convinced. She added, “I see one over there right now; I must have a closer look, do excuse me!”

And now that she was at the vase, all the irritation and tiredness came flooding back. “It was hardly an unexpected thing for a lady to say, surely?” she muttered to herself, shooting the older ladies a glare over her shoulder; only to quickly turn back to the vase with an eep as they glared back. “To scold me for saying botheration! Oh! When I could be saying far worse!”

Once begun, it was as if the vase were a confidant, her venting in full force. 

“Why, one only has to keep an ear out whenever the gentlemen are out of sorts, and it isn’t as if the ladies of London themselves never resort to cant or slang. And wouldn’t it be worse if a full half of the people at any given event don’t follow a conversation? Oh!”

It was then she realised that it was not her imagination; there did appear to be a figure behind the vase in question. A fellow guest, who had been subject to her complaints the past few minutes.

Her eyes wide, she opened her mouth… and had nothing to say. 

Jane at first thought someone was having a conversation near her. It just seemed to be a conversation where the second party was silent. When she opened her eyes, she discovered a girl who’d apparently been talking to her. She couldn’t be talking to the vase. How rude. “I completely agree.” When in doubt, always agree. Rule number one. It had always worked with her mother whenever Jane had stopped listening and then been called to attention. She reviewed what she’d heard in her head. 

“I always sound terribly awkward trying to curse. I think it’s growing up without brothers. Girls with brothers never seem to stutter when they say things like -” Jane found herself hesitating, proving her own point - “Damn.”

Location: Hyde Park

@lcnewolf

Jane enjoyed walks in the park. They were the closest she got to her country rambles. Though one couldn’t just head out for an hour or two like back home, at least she could stick to the less busy paths and pretend. Her maid refused to come along, complaining that she hadn’t the shoes to keep up, and Graham, her long-suffering groom, said he wasn’t a footman to walk behind her everywhere if she wasn’t out riding. So Jane went for walks on her own, even though it was quite improper. If anyone asked, she just claimed her maid had turned her ankle. But people hadn’t ever asked, so it didn’t matter. 

​Her stout walking boots that had been cobbled just for her made striding about quite easy, and Jane wore her plainest dress so that if she ended up covered with mud she wouldn’t care. The wind blew in her face and if it hadn’t been for the smell of London (which could never be fully avoided and which Londoners didn’t even seem to notice), she could almost squint and imagine herself home. 

There was a gentleman who looked straight out of one of her novels. Probably the Perils of Lady Georgiana Kelworth, or A Lady Undone, by A Lady of Quality, which Jane had read enough times that her copy had become rather worn. He was tall and looked rather out of place without a sword and a cape billowing in the wind. And perhaps a maiden of pure virtue that he was trying to seduce through means both improper and devious. He would almost certainly take any opportunity to kiss a lady if he found her unattended in a theatre box or while exploring the ruined castle of her recently deceased great-uncle, who’d hidden his fortune in the walls. 

Jane had been so busy observing him and speculating on his debauched and villainous nature that she missed the mud beneath her feet and slipped, managing not to end up on her bottom but skidding directly into the potential rogue. Oh dear. “I didn’t do that on purpose. And I don’t require rescue or debauching.”

To his credit, he had danced with Ladies Kedley and Brynn each, as well as Ophelia, when she would allow it. Harry took that credit and his leave, disappearing down the hallway to explore the rest of the house. Colchester was an interesting mix of new and old money, Roman antiques resting beside gas lamps. He narrowly skirted an armoire, stashed at the staircase landing, and made his way upstairs.

A bedroom a study, a room made for dressing (or perhaps the inverse, Harry observed, by the piles of tulle and lace strewn about). He paused before a set of double doors and pushed them open, greeted by a library.

Colchester had an apt sense of taste. Harry picked up a novel ( the edges clotted with dust), and stowed himself upon the sofa. He could not remember lying down, much less falling asleep, until–

“Oof.”

The weight was soft, lightly perfumed, but solid. Harry felt his stomach compress, and awoke with a shock.

Amid dim light, he could only narrowly make out a figure, blinking thrice.

“Did you–” Harry coughed softly, kicking his legs long to push himself upright. Did the Colchesters have daughters? Was it morning?

He blinked again, trying to right his head. Slowly, the book in her hands materialized – then her hands, and not long after that, her features. Harry’s own crimped in confusion.

“There are flowers outside,” he managed. “If you are looking for that sort of thing.”

Jane had sat on a man’s lap. Even while engaging in a clandestine romance, she’d barely allowed that. The only comfort was that he might be drunk, in which case there was a good chance he wouldn’t even remember her. She was also still wearing a swan mask. So technically she hadn’t sat on a man’s lap. One of the several girls wearing swan masks had done so. If anyone asked, she would just say she didn’t believe in sitting down at all. 

“Oh. Thank you. I wasn’t aware.” Her tone wasn’t even sarcastic, though it had every right to be. What sort of man felt the need to inform one of the existence of flowers in a garden? Maybe he assumed she was very stupid, or possibly half-blind. She’d sat on him, so it perhaps wasn’t the most outrageous of assumptions.

“If you’re looking for a bed, I believe they have those elsewhere as well.” Oh no, that sounded like an invitation. “That is, they have beds for sleeping in, not for anything else. Not that I’m offering to sleep with you. That is, to sleep next to you. I’m not offering anything at all. I prefer sleeping alone, actually. Not that I’ve slept with anyone else. Or slept beside anyone else. I haven’t slept with anyone in any context!” What in God’s name was she even saying right now? She sank into a chair that thankfully didn’t contain a man. “Please say you’re too drunk to remember this conversation.”

By gods, it was her. The smile on his face couldn’t be hidden as he eagerly joined in the hug. The child within in leapt with joy at the sight of his childhood crush. She talked too much and had to be the boss for whatever adventure they went on, but little Kenneth has happy to follow along, hanging on her every word. Jane looked the same, but her features matured. Had she? Young Kenneth was nothing like him now. He wondered whether it was a natural or if he was different.

“You talk too much. Nothing has changed then.” He could only laugh. Nothing felt familiar in London, but he could relax around her. “It was a tough time, but I have finished grieving. Thank you for your condolences. It made the process tolerable.” Kenneth did not enjoy lingering on upsetting topics. “Mother still has such control over you? A Viscountess should know better.”

His neckcloth was the at the mercy of his right hand for the entire evening. Wrinkled and cooked from his fumbling. “It was messy before you attacked me just now. Not much different from when I was a lad.” Teasing felt natural. “Your manners have not improved either. I am a Lord now, but the boy from before is here somewhere.”

Jane snorted in a very unladylike way. “And you’re still an unmannered Scot! I suspected as much.” Jane’s mother was Scottish, though she’d been raised as a proper English lady and done her best to hide it. Kenneth had become all rugged and interesting while they’d been apart. Not quite handsome, but striking in a way destined to make young ladies swoon over him, no doubt. She could, if she looked, see the edges of the boy she’d pushed into a pond inside though. “You were so kind when Father died. I still have that toy horse you sent me. I called him Mr. Chestnut. I wasn’t very creative, but what can one do.” She waved away his worries about her mother. “Not anymore. I’ve set up my own household. Shocking, I know. But I was always a, what was it you called me? Bossy wench who mein have her ayn way? Something like that.” Jane’s mimicry of his accent was fairly decent. 

Sighing, Jane fussed over his neckcloth, straightening and smoothing it. “You’ll be giving us all a bad name, Kenny. They already think we can’t tell which fork to use.” Ladies didn’t fix the cravats of unmarried men, at least not unless they wanted the world to know they were having an affair, but no one was watching, and it made him look far too piratical than was safe for the other ladies at the soiree. “My manners are worse now, but I’m a titled lady, and we’re allowed to be rude. It’s a perk, Lady Jersey told me so herself. And I’m glad. He was a very nice little boy, when he wasn’t being a pig and stealing my dolls.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Must you look so much like a pirate in fancy dress? How anyone can believe you’re a lord is beyond my understanding.” She wished she had an older brother like Kenneth who could guide her through things and who’d tell her when she was doing something wrong. Life was so much more relaxing when he was around. 

Early afternoon, August 12th, 1800  //  18 Grosvenor Square @plainjanetemple​

Ernest stepped outside, wearing a new hat and carrying with him a fashionable cane. If he was to have that bruise on his cheek he was at least going to have it fashionably. He had the whim to get out, perhaps have a drink or five, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he’d spent all of yesterday sulking over the fight at the soiree and his predicament with Edmund and that he could not stand to remain at home a moment longer. He’d figure the rest out while he walked. 

But he didn’t get walking. He took two steps outside and, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, caught sight of a lady crouched among the shrubs and flowers of his front garden. Intrigued, he drew the cigarette from his lips, watched her for a few seconds. Was she gardening? He knew he didn’t hire a lady gardener when he replaced his staff.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he said, finally stepping over, brows pressed together though his lips were curled into an amused sort of smile, “Who are you?”

The garden was an absolute disgrace. It was August, and one couldn’t leave such a delicate project to its own devices during the end of the blooming season. There were deadheads everywhere and she spotted several weeds. Thankfully, her extremely debauched ancestor had kept up an affaire de coeur with his neighbour and had had a gate installed between the two gardens to make rendezvous easier, so she could nip over and tidy the place up without disturbing the current inhabitant, who never seemed to wake before noon. London people seemed to have no concept of a hard day’s work. 

Jane had worked her way through the back garden quite successfully, but the front garden was shamefully untidy, and she’d reasoned that he wouldn’t leave the house til dinner at the earliest, so she’d slipped over to work on it as well. 

Wearing her gardening overdress and gloves, and the shears she’d had made to fit her hands exactly, she was happy at work until she saw the gentleman leave his house. She’d rather hoped he wouldn’t notice her (people generally didn’t), but he came over instead. Just her luck.

Dusting off the mud, she rose up, holding a bouquet of gardenias. “I believe, as the man, you’re meant to introduce yourself first. Asking a lady her name when she doesn’t know yours is terribly rude.” She offered the bouquet to him. “Here, you should have someone put these in water. They’ll die out here in this shade. You really need to transplant them over there-” she pointed to a different plot, “-where they’ll get more sun.” Taking off her gardening gloves to tuck them in the pocket of her overdress, Jane wiped a small bit of dirt off her cheek. “However, since I know you’re Lord Pembroke, I suppose it’s alright to say I’m Lady Temple. I’m also your neighbour, but in London that hardly seems to matter. Your cravat is slightly loose, by the way. Or is that the fashion now? It looks rather rakish.” In crowds, Jane couldn’t speak, but when it came to men who didn’t care for their gardens, Jane instantly became the eldest sister she was at home, happy to talk to an overgrown boy as if he was still in the nursery.

-

The ladies’ retiring room was just as crowded as the ballroom; it took all of Sarah’s careful maneuvering to not bump into someone, or step on a dress, or be smacked in the face with a feather, oh! The rain had wreaked havoc on more than one lady’s dress, and since not everyone had had spares in their carriage…

“Oh!” she said, taking a hurried step back just as a wave of outfit-toting maids came in. 

Many had sent for replacements, some of which had just made their way into the changing-rooms. 

The bottle in her hand was most certainly laudanum (she had checked), but it had a pretty blue ribbon around its neck, and even embossed details on the bottom that she could not quite make out. It belonged, then, to a lady, a fellow soiree guest. All Sarah had to do was to match it to the other bottles of ointments and cosmetics set out before the changing ladies. 

She had bent down, dodging yet another enthusiastically flailing arm, to inspect one such jar, only to have a sharp voice call out, “Well, don’t just stare, be helpful and hand me that powder!”

Several moments later, Sarah had the sinking realisation she had been mistaken for the help. 

It took another two ladies before she was able to extricate herself, having gleaned that gardenias were the new preferred scent for lotions, but gotten no further in finding the owner of the laudanum. 

Refreshments, surely in this heat, all guests would eventually pass by that table, oh! She made her way there with all haste, bottle cool in her grasp.

And if she just passed an equally harried-looking lady, dark-haired and trailing white and feathers, she was none the wiser. 

Jane considered popping into the retiring room but it was never particularly calming, for all its name. She tended to get a lot of looks and comments from mamas. At least, she had in York, and she had no doubt it would happen in London as well. London seemed to be a city entirely made of gossips and sharp looks. As she was debating it, a young lady who looked much more comfortable in her clothing than Jane was in hers passed by, and Jane had a momentary pang. She could be dressed in country clothing too. It was foolish to try and pretend to be lamb when she was so clearly a piece of country mutton.  

There was a helpful alcove by the refreshments, hidden by a rather hideous looking vase. Probably Roman. Everything here was. Leaning against the wall, Jane gulped air and focused on relaxing. She didn’t need the laudanum. She would be fine. She’d managed before. Sort of. She could feel her heart racing, even through her gloves. Pressing her hand to her chest (sans decolletage so it wasn’t even at all scandalous), she slowed her breathing and thought about her garden, its ordered rows, the way it bloomed from one end to the other throughout the season because of meticulous planning, the smell of the roses in summer. Much better.