Disclaimer: No, of course I don't own the rights to The Patriot. It's a lousy piece of historical fiction, but a good launchpad for fanfiction. Harrison Ford was quite right to refuse Mel Gibson's role (on the grounds that it reduced all the real issues of the Revolutionary War to a melodrama of "one man's revenge.")
But first:
An Author's Note: Who is Mary Sue?I was asked recently in a review if these stories were meant to make fun of Mary Sues? Well, duh, you might say—but that's not entirely true. Many of them do. The classic Mary Sue is a laughable projection of an author's fantasy self. When badly written, Mary Sue is indeed divinely beautiful, superhumanly gifted—and woefully ignorant of not only historical reality, but of natural human behavior. Inexperienced writers constantly create these lovely figments of the imagination and then shoehorn them into a romance with their current crush. Then again, fanfiction authors are constantly accused of writing Mary Sue characters when creating any non-canon character. I myself was accused of writing several Mary Sue characters in Et In Arcadia Ego, despite my best efforts to write the female characters as close to historical reality as I could manage. Is Elizabeth Wilde a Mary Sue? I categorically deny it. Many non-canon characters in the Harry Potter fandom would be impressive creations in published fiction.
In Mary Sue in the 18th Century, I have had a great deal of fun mocking the sort of inept characterizations I have read in many fandoms. What would happen to ignorant fangirls if they actually found themselves in the 18th century for the day (or indeed in the real worlds of many other fandoms)? One of the funniest cartoons I ever saw was in the old National Lampoon magazine, showing a group of stereotypically dorky RPG players being summoned by Gandalf to face a dragon. They don't look particularly pleased. To some of the most jejune writers I offer this challenge: think seriously about what you really like most to do in the course of the day. If you actually visited the time in question, would you be able to do those things? (or would you drink the water, come down with dysentery, and die before you ever met William Tavington, Gabriel Martin, Captain Jack, Legolas, Achilles, Balian, etc., etc., etc.?)
I have also tried to create more naturalistic heroines, who don't find the 18th century much more bearable.
However, as I have written these stories (and enjoyed those written by Zubeneschamali), I've come to a sea-change in my opinion of Mary Sue. Only in fanfiction is she reviled. In published novels, Mary Sue is big business. If any one has read the excellent Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes novels, beginning with The Beekeeper's Apprentice, you'll know what I mean. If written as a fanfic heroine (which in a sense she is)), anyone would identify the omnicompetent Miss Russell as a Sue. Check out any romance novel for Sueishness. In the Lymond Chronicles of Dorothy Dunnett, one of the finest series of historical novels ever written (IMHO), Philippa Somerville is a brilliant and delightful manifestation of MS. The fantasy heroines of classic adventure novels by H. Rider Haggard (She), Edgar Rice Burroughs, et. al., are hardly meant to be depictions of believable human females. No more are Eowyn or the Warrior Princess. And as for extensions of the authors—what about Jane Eyre? (oh, right—she's not beautiful—she has a flaw—but she still holds her own against the world and ends up happily ever after, abetted by some of the silliest plot devices that ever shored up a novel I enjoy.) We want our heroines to be larger than life, whether hewing the winged steed of the Lord of the Nazgul, magically detaching a Ka to fight traitors, or setting the county aristocracy on its ear. And if the heroine is created by a female author, who uses her own experience and truths she has come to understand about her self—well, that's the thrifty use of good material!
Indeed, if written by a male author, Mary Sue (sorry , Gary Stu) in the sense of a personal extension, has a noble pedigree. "Oh, dear Lord Byron, I am certain you are Child Harold himself!" "Mr. Salinger, are you the real Holden Caulfield?"
So, as I write these stories, I am more and more in sympathy with our good friend, Mary Sue. A good character is a good character, a good story a good story, and if the heroine has a nodding acquaintance with anyone I know, I will not hide my head for shame, but salute her as my ideal, my doppelganger, and my sister.
And now on to the story, in which our heroine meets the man of her dreams twenty years too late. Genre: time travel/humor/drama.
Episode 10: Mary Sue and the Ravages of Time
In her last month of graduate school, Victoria was given the miniature by her faculty adviser. Caroline Hibbard was only five years older, but prodigiously degreed and nearly tenured. Her Tudor/Stuart seminar was fascinating: her Age of Aristocracy class even better. Victoria was the first student she had advised, and she was proud as a parent when the Orals went well.
"Here." Dr. Hibbard had had just a little too much to drink at the Post-Prelims party. She swayed determinedly over to Victoria, and pressed a soft paper package into her hand. "Here," she repeated. "I'm done with it. It was no good. Had all I wanted. You give it a go, Tory. Just tell him how handsome he is, and you're in. Your turn to be Cinderella. Let me know how it works out." Just then, the department head called to her, and she changed course; ultimately to fall limply into his lap, to his great pleasure and alarm.
Victoria was feeling a bit woozy herself, but pulled back the paper to see what it contained. Before her was a miniature of Colonel William Tavington. She groaned, embarrassed. She had developed quite the crush on Tavington during her studies of the late 18th century British army, and Caroline had found out and had a good laugh at her expense.
They had been chatting in Dr. Hibbard's office three weeks before when all was revealed. "Mind you," her adviser had admitted, with a sly grin. "You're not the first. My umpty-great-grandparents--well—there was a connection of sorts and we got some of the Tavington family items. A few letters, some hanks of hair, a very nice miniature portrait—" She paused, looking at the ceiling for a moment. Then, briskly, she went on. "Hardly worth a monograph, but still—" She paused again. "Some of the items were rather dodgy, frankly. It doesn't do to moon over them. That's when I decided to avoid the subject. Plenty of other stalwart blokes to research."
Victoria had asked to see the miniature, but Dr. Hibbard had always put her off. "Doesn't do to dwell on it. Unhealthy. It would just make you unhappy in the end."
But now it was hers. She unwrapped it completely, and ducked into the bathroom to admire. She closed the door, and the party noise subsided to a dull roar. There was a sharp, perfumed scent of L'Air du Temps bath powder in the air, a refreshing change from the hearty smells of beer and pizza. The department head was a raging anti-elitist.
The portrait was quite beautifully done: only four inches from top to bottom, and framed elegantly in gold leaf and seed pearls. Time had dislodged some of the pearls and chipped away at the gold, but the brilliant colors of the portrait itself were undimmed. Tavington was in dress uniform, hair unpowdered. The painter's skill had given life to the little picture, and the man's bright eyes gazed keenly back at his admirer. Tell him how handsome he is. Victoria's lips quirked. You'd like that, wouldn't you, William Tavington? The artist had made him handsome, but had also captured the man's air of cocksure arrogance. The little picture seemed to reach out to her—
"Gary's about to barf!" A fist pounded on the bathroom door. "So quit whatever you're doing, and let us in NOW!"
Victoria shoved the miniature into the pocket of her jeans, and fled the room, shunted aside by two other grad students supporting the unhappy Gary between them. She was distracted into conversation with two of the professors who had examined her, and went home happy. The little picture was put carefully away in a drawer, and she promised herself a good long drool over it when she was not so busy. It was not to be.
For one day she was on track to start her dissertation (on the Foxes). The next day the world abruptly ended.
Well, not the world. Only her academic career, stillborn before it even began. Mom was sick, it seemed; her brother of no use at all; the family in desperate need of a breadwinner. Victoria spent a few days grasping hopelessly at straws before she finally accepted that she would not be able to finish her doctorate right away. She snatched at the offered government job with decent benefits and mediocre pay, and prepared to become a worker bee. You can't disappoint the people who love you, she consoled herself. After all, she would be a great help to Mom, who had never understood her scholarly aspirations anyway.
The miniature was thrown into a little cedar box, along with letters from her two serious boyfriends. The little cedar box was thrown into a large packing box, filled with her papers, her thesis, her notes from her graduate school classes, snapshots, and all the other detritus of a vanished life. The packing box was thrown into the back of a van with the other boxes, and the van took off, leaving behind The Ivory Tower, and heading toward The Real World.
The box followed her everywhere: to her first apartment—the one she fled when she found it was infested with roaches--and to the next, and the next, and the next. It went with her from city to city, year after year. Victoria kept the box, long after all hope had faded that she would ever be able to return to school. It was a talisman—a reminder of a lost Garden of Earthly Delights, and she could not bear to part with it, even though she never opened it.
She found a better job. Her brother married and was on some other woman's hands. Victoria got married herself. Always, the box traveled along; part yet not part of her life. David complained that she was a packrat, and she replied that he was just as bad. It was too true for denial, and he dropped the issue.
Her daughter was born, and grew, and went to school, and blossomed into a beautiful woman. Victoria gradually began looking at pretty clothes, not for herself, but for her daughter, who now had the clean jawline, the long neck, the flawless skin that Victoria had had in another age of the world. Almost unnoticed, men had stopped looking at Victoria. Stupid boys no longer honked their horns when she walked down the street. Waiters no longer hovered to flirt. She looked in the mirror and saw that somehow she had become middle-aged. How did this happen to me?
Her family moved into, if not their dream house, certainly close enough for rational happiness. The box was relegated to the crawlspace, along with the boxes of Dana's school papers, ribbons, pictures, and awards.
-----
"You fucking piece of shit!"David was fixing something in the crawlspace. Victoria heard him all the way upstairs when she came in from the garden, and she couldn't contain the automatic rueful grin. David's magic words. He could fix anything, make anything, do anything, but somehow saying those particular words was always required to achieve the desired result.
He stamped up the stairs and stared at her aggrieved. "Tory, that goddamned box has got to go! There's no more room!" Kindly, she did not laugh at his expression, or at the dirt on the end of his nose. David was still a remarkably attractive man. He's certainly kept his figure better than I have—though of course, the no childbirth thing for men probably helped.
She trimmed the ends off the peonies. Nice, fluffy, white and pink ones. She was very fond of flowers, especially fragrant ones. Living with David, who was a horticulturist among other things, had taught her quite a bit about plants. She sniffed. The white ones always smell best. "Which box?"
"That goddamned big heavy one marked 'School Stuff.'" I don't know if it's yours or Dana's or what, but it's got to go so I can get at the sump pump."
Victoria sighed. "Well, if you can get it out into the library, I'll go through it." She had really wanted to go looking for Dana's birthday present….
David was still irritated. And after all, he's the one working, and here I am arranging flowers.
"I'll do it now," she promised.
He disappeared downstairs with a righteous huff, and she could hear his resentful thumpings as he manhandled the box through the crawlspace door. Victoria hurried downstairs to help him. She tipped the crumbling brown cardboard container towards her, and pushed it over to the sofa. David retreated back in the cement cavern of the crawlspace to perform eldritch rites on unfathomable devices, using his preferred incantation. Victoria closed her ears. She'd heard it all before, and as long as it worked…
The box looked rather sad: corners crumpled, the sides scraped. Altogether it had a sunken, furtive look, as if it had long ago lost all self-respect as a box. Victoria sat looking at it for some time, reluctant to revisit this piece of her past. The bright hopes of her days at Parnassus U. did not deserve to be reduced to this shabby parcel of irrelevance. Diffidently, she brushed away a little dust, and picked at the bits of masking tape that sealed the memories inside.
A scent of old paper. Generally, Victoria liked the smell of old books, old paper. Fortunate, that, since she, David, and Dana among them generated an immense amount of paper litter. This was musty, though. She found a spiral notebook, full of facts about the condottiere that she had somehow forgotten since her Italian Renaissance class. She found a book review of Africa and the Victorians that she could hardly remember writing, and approved of on rereading. She even admired her handwriting. God, did I ever write that neatly?
Pointless to pore over every term paper or report. But she did anyway, feeling a little validated by every clever turn of phrase, and wincing at more than a few turns that were terribly pretentious or immature. At least I've learned how to spell 'remuneration' since then!
Past the piles of ratty notebooks was the little cedar box. Victoria smelled it before she saw it, and a host of memories was awakened by the woody scent. She held it close, and sniffed it curiously before opening it. There were the letters from Tom and Roger, grown distressingly yellow and faded. Ought she even to read them? She was distracted from them, though, by the object weighing them down.
Colonel William Tavington's little portrait was still in the same tissue that Caroline Hibbard had wrapped it in originally, the tissue that Victoria had hastily scrunched back around it when she was distracted so long ago by Real Life. The clock ticked off seconds before she remembered what the package was, and then she smiled in embarrassment, and pushed back the aged covering from the little treasure within. Like unwrapping a mummy. She felt a little abashed, remembering the long-ago infatuation, and even more recalling that the miniature was probably rather valuable and she ought to have thought to give it back to Dr. Hibbard. Especially considering my precipitous departure from the halls of academe. She meant to give this to a scholar.
However faded the wrappings, the box, or Victoria herself, William Tavington looked just as eligible as ever. The portrait's colors were still brilliant, the man's gaze still piercing, his uniform impeccably scarlet. Victoria could remember, after a fashion, the desperate excitement she had felt when reading about him—how she had curled up in her carrel and read and reread the bits about him—how she had neglected the books she needed to read in order to look up every silly reference in every index she could find that mentioned him. Being obsessed with an historical figure could hardly be described as being "in love." Victoria had been "in love" with quite a few men since her school days; had been infatuated with actors and singers and ballet dancers; had been quite ridiculously obsessed with both T.E. Lawrence and Isaac Newton at various times. In the end, it was David that she fell asleep beside every night.
Lucky for me too, she had long since concluded. Probably about a zillion times a better lover than poor old Isaac, who died claiming to be a virgin. And Lawrence! Oh, please. Victoria, you are a pitiful victim of your fantasies.
Still, it was nice to see Tavington again. Nice to see all these old things again. She could shut her eyes and almost feel the stuffy, sheltered air of her private carrel on the tenth floor of the library, as she looked down through the little mullioned window into the Quad. It was a pleasant place to visit for a moment.
She opened her eyes, and shook her head. Her own library was none too shabby—over two thousand books, some of them old friends from her university days. No one could take her education away from her. It was still all there, up in her head, ready to come forth when called. It only wanted an opportunity.
The miniature was still in her hand. Victoria thought Tavington had a rather peremptory look about him, as if he had given her a command that she had impertinently ignored. Wonderful eyes, strong, handsome nose—taken altogether, he's----
"You're a very handsome man, William Tavington," she said aloud, half teasing, half placating. She was about to say something else, when the room abruptly blinked out.
-----
Victoria sucked in a wild, gasping breath, and then was wracked by a sudden fit of coughing. She was still sitting, but not on the comfortable chintz sofa in her own library.
She was in a large drawing room—there was no other word for it. A large, formal drawing room with ceilings adorned with plaster medallions, with walls covered in blue satin. With her hand over her mouth to stifle her coughing, she stared frantically around her. The room was full of people, and the people were in full 18th century fashion.
"Are you all right, my dear?"
Victoria coughed again. An elderly lady approached, aided by an elaborate cane, and leaned forward solicitously. Cautiously too, for the lady's hair was a mad confection of powder and plumes that gave her another foot in stature. Her face was a clown's mask of white, with rouged cheeks, withered but reddened lips, and darkened brows and lashes. Victoria forced another cough, hiding behind her hand as long as possible, her heart hammering with nauseating speed, her face hot with confusion, and her fingers tingling icily as if in the grip of a nightmare.
Oh, no, this isn't real!It seemed to be, though. Slowly she forced her hands away from her face, clenched them tightly around a spectacularly ugly fan resting in her lap, and she tried to breath deeply. The old lady eased herself on the settee next to her, and was looking at her, waiting for her to respond.
"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly well." Her mind fluttered desperately, a bird beating against enclosing walls."It was nothing, ma'am."
"A cough is never 'nothing,' you know, not even this time of the year in Charlestown," her companion on the lumpy settee asserted. "One day a cough, the next a consumption!" She tapped Victoria with her own painted fan. "Look at my husband."
Victoria looked around the room anxiously, trying to find a possible mate for the woman. Well, that one's about the right age…
"I meant," the dowager declared severely, tapping Victoria a little harder, "you ought to consider what happened to him! I was not implying that the late Mr. Breckinridge had risen from his grave to attend Lord Cornwallis' ball!"
Mrs. Breckinridge. Check. "Of course not," Victoria babbled. "This heat, and all these people—you know---"
The old lady relented little, and allowed, "Perhaps we have not been properly introduced—or well--I have such a time remembering people these days. You must be so good as to bear with my infirmity. Your name, my dear?
"Ahh—Wolf. Victoria Wolf. Mrs. Breckinridge," she appended hastily.
"How odd. I don't seem to recall any Wolfs. Are you a relation of the late General Wolfe, the hero of Quebec?"
"Very distantly," lied Victoria.
"Have I met your husband, Mrs. Wolf? Is he in the Army?"
"No, ma'am." She added more truthfully, "My husband is not alive."
The words, once spoken, disturbed her. It was literally true that David was not alive in the eighteenth century, but saying it aloud seemed like a disavowal of his existence. She sighed, exhausted by her own panic. She would have slumped, sitting there, but was held up by the boning of her gown and her corset. Two little stabs of whale-boned pain, one under each arm, reminded her to sit straight. And then she became aware of a sore spot over a rib, where the lacing of the corset was too tight. Tight-lacing. Ick. The Powers That Be must think tight-lacing is cool. Or maybe this gown was designed for me as I was when Dr. Hibbard gave me the miniature. Not losing those forty pounds I gained with Dana hasn't done much for my looks. At least I'm in appropriate clothes, if I'm going to visit the eighteenth century. Cargo pants probably wouldn't meet the dress code tonight.
She fanned herself, genuinely hot, and hoped Mrs. Breckinridge would ask no more penetrating questions. She needed time to think
Lord Cornwallis? All right, that narrows the time frame down. We're in Charleston. That narrows it down further. Sometime between the spring of 1780 and what—I forget—maybe the fall. I'm at a ball. In Charleston. In 1780. In the middle of the Revolutionary War. Well yes, that would explain the men in red. It would also explain the very elaborate gowns the ladies are wearing. At least I appear to be dressed for success…She looked down again. Rich coral damask, with floral patterned quilting on the pink silk petticoat. Not bad, she thought irrelevantly, stroking the sleek fabric of the skirt. She did a double take.
Oh, my God! I never in my life had a bosom like that! It's so—so—so—out there!Desperately embarrassed, she wished for a shawl, a handkerchief—a---a- fichu—yes that's right! Between the tight corset and low square neckline of the gown, her breasts were frankly exposed: white, blue-veined, absolutely as large as cantaloupes. They strained at the leash, ready to burst out of the dress and conduct a social life of their own. Victoria flushed hotly with shame, and then shivered with fear and confusion once more. Her companion, who had been looking over the other guests, complimented her.
"You look very nice tonight, my dear—"
I look half-naked tonight!
"---but a little too pale. You should wear more rouge. When one is young, one should always wear a great deal of rouge. And when one is older, one should wear much, much more."
"Umm—yes. Quite so." Victoria looked down at her hands. They were plainly the hands of a middle-aged woman. Damn. If the PTB were going to send me to 1780 and go to the trouble of putting me in an appropriate gown, why couldn't they put me in my twenty-year-old body as well? I didn't look bad at thirty, either. This sucks big time. It's worse than chaperoning my daughter's prom. At least I could enjoy seeing her dressed up and dancing. This is just awful—and I'm going to spend the evening doing exactly what I did at prom. I'm going to be nice to all the older women, and let them talk to me about everything dull under the sun.
A man had entered the drawing room, and was standing there, looking thoroughly full of himself. Victoria's attention was riveted: she had recognized him instantly. Her elderly companion saw her interest, and edged closer to her.
"Oh, la! It's that Colonel Tavington," Mrs. Breckinridge whispered to her behind her convenient fan. "Shady, very shady! I'd stay clear of that one, if I were you. Not a penny left of the family fortune, and out to make a new one any way he can. Mrs. Simms says that his Lordship thinks him not at all the thing." She leaned forward to leer appreciatively at the new arrival. "Still, he is a handsome brute, is he not?" She licked her withered lips salaciously.
It seemed safe to agree. "Yes, very handsome indeed." You lecherous old biddy!
"--And he's not wearing a corset, like some of them. Look, over there! He's bowing to the Simms. You can always tell if a man's wearing a corset by the way he bows. A fine figure, that." Then she smiled at Victoria, revealing what time had done to her teeth. Victoria was too dazed by her situation to flinch at the sight.
"Of course," simpered Mrs. Breckinridge, "it's all he has to barter. And he's no boy, at that. He might very well be hoping to catch a well-looking widow of good estate. A woman of a certain age…" She waggled her painted brows meaningfully, and then smirked, seeing Victoria's embarrassment. "And after all, you have a very lovely neck, considering…"
Neck. Right. That's the current euphemism for these hooters. My God, they're like marine buoys. Like boulders Like basketballs. She felt herself grow hot again, and tuned Mrs. Breckinridge out, not wanting to think about the strange excrescences sprouting incontinently from her chest. It was worse that puberty, worse than the day she had appeared at school after getting her first bra. There was no time for that kind of maundering. Her situation was too dire.
Caroline Hibbard knew about this! That's why she gave me the portrait! She must have used it herself! Thinking that made her a little calmer. She pursued the idea. Caroline used it, and she returned somehow, so I'm not stuck here forever! But what do I do? She needed to get away from Mrs. Breckinridge, away from this crowd of strangers, and think quietly. She needed to be alone. Starting up abruptly, she nearly tripped over her petticoat. "Excuse me," she mumbled, "but I really don't feel too well. Do you know where I can go---?"
"The ladies' retiring room is down that hall on the left," Mrs. Breckinridge replied, looking concerned. "Should I call your maid to attend you, my dear?"
"No. No, thank you, Mrs. Breckinridge. I'm sure I'll be all right in a moment." She staggered, unused to the pinching, awkward monstrosities that passed for shoes. High heels, too. Oh, thank you, Lord. That's all I need.
To her exasperation, she found herself forced to mince daintily through the room. The impossible shoes, the long, heavy skirts, the suffocating corset, and the weight of her own hair, piled and arranged high on her head, made any other kind of locomotion impossible. In these strange garments, even maintaining her balance was fraught with difficulty. She moved very slowly, hoping she looked dignified, and not simply drunk.
OK. Down the hall. I can make it— She focused on her path, and refused to make eye contact with anyone. A black man in servant's livery passed nearby with a tray of drinks. She considered taking one, and considered again. No alcohol for you, kiddo. And don't drink the water, for Heaven's sake.
The servant approached her discreetly, holding out the tray, and not making eye contact with her either. He's a slave! She realized, with a shock. I'm seeing a slave. I'm being waited on by a slave. I'm in history. It's awful, but this could be a fascinating experience if I don't panic. She gave the man a nervous smile and a shake of her head, feeling ashamed and a little unclean. He veered away, called over by a black-browed British officer.
Victoria trudged on, trying to put the next twenty feet behind her as quickly as possible. There! She was rounding the corner, and she could sneak a peek behind her. The room was full to bursting. People were sweating in their heavy clothes, and some were going out to walk in the garden she could see through the windows. Good idea, if I can figure out how to walk that far. Maybe there's a bench somewhere.
The lady's retiring room could be located by its smell. She opened the door and found a maid on duty, with a dressing table and bench, a basin of water, and a screen shielding an assortment of open and used chamber pots. In the heat, the reek of human waste was acrid and overpowering. Flies buzzed lazily around the room.
The maid, probably also a slave, hurried to curtsey to her. "How may I serve you, ma'am?" She was young and pretty: about Dana's age, with tip-tilted eyes, and lovely café au lait skin.
"It's nothing, thank you," Victoria assured her. "I just needed to get out of the crowd, and see if my hair is still in place." Before she knew it, the maid had her seated at the dressing table, and was sizing up the state of her hair and makeup. Victoria braced herself, and then took a look in the mirror.
How strange to see her face in this alien guise! She was still herself, perhaps, under the paint. The white is probably rice powder enhanced with powdered arsenic, she remembered. Altogether she looked very strange—painted so white, with artificially pink cheeks and red mouth. Her brows and lashes were painted too, and not very subtly. Not bad for my age. I'm still a nice-looking woman in her late forties. Perhaps in this time period they might guess late thirties or early forties, since I have my teeth and I don't have many lines. But no spring chicken, either. The gown is maybe a little too young for me. That's another thing that might mislead the locals.
Not just her face was painted. Her neck, her ears, and her ridiculously prominent bosom were all whitened at least to some degree. It was softened by the kindly golden candlelight. Daylight would expose it as a horror.
But of course, everyone will be long gone by sunrise. I hope I am, anyway. It was rotten of Dr. Hibbard not to prepare me for this.
She took a frivolous delight in the jewelry. It was rather nice: an intricate collar of tiny seed pearls for a necklace, and gold and seed pearl earrings displaying a multitude of tiny drops. She wore a heavy sapphire ring on her left hand. Perhaps my wedding ring? Or an engagement ring? Or just a ring? I forget which hand they wore the rings on in those days. Anyway, I've claimed to be a widow, so it doesn't matter either way.
The hair was strangest of all. Powdered hair did not look like normal hair. The natural sheen was gone, replaced by the dull flat white of the powder. It looked very unclean, having been teased and tortured into a high dome on her head, with pomade holding long trailing curls in shape. They tickled, brushing against her shoulders. The heavy powdering over the pomade was thick and a little clumpy looking. There was a slight crawling feeling along her scalp that Victoria prayed was sweat or the scratching of the huge quantity of hairpins, and not something more animated. Her hair looked like a bad wig, but it was obviously her own. She had no idea what the natural color might be in this place and time. No Clairol. Maybe I'd better stick with the powder. Yech. And the style doesn't do a thing for me. No wonder women covered their hair with caps most of the time!
The efficient maid tucked her hair securely in place with yet more pins. Victoria forced herself to look again, and get accustomed to the sight. It's really not bad. But it would have been nice to be a babe again. No such luck. The eighteenth century gown, the absurd, overdone toilette reminded her of something—of fairy tales—of Cinderella! Desperately she tried to remember what Caroline Hibbard had said to her when giving her the portrait.
"Your turn to be Cinderella, Tory..." That's it! Maybe it's all over at midnight, and I go back. That makes sense. What time is it now?
"What time is it?" she asked the maid, still fussing over her.
"I reckon it's just a little bit past ten o'clock, ma'am," the girl replied, hushed and deferential.
Ten o'clock! Maybe she only had two hours to go. I can do this. I can get through two hours. I can find a nice bench and do some people watching. I can take a leaf from Jane Austen's book and look for "quizzes." There should be plenty of them here, beginning with me!
She began to worry. Will two hours have passed at home? Will David be worried? Will he look for me and think I went shopping? It was useless to fret over something she could not control, but it made her restless nonetheless.
The stink in the room was unbearable. There was a pretty bottle of something on the table. She sniffed it experimentally and discovered it to be rosewater. She splashed some liberally on the palms of her hands, soaked the lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket with it, and dabbed a little behind the neckline of her gown, and trying not the wash off the paint. The pleasant fragrance heartened her a little.
She got to her feet, resigned to walking in those primitive shoes. "Thank you," she told the maid, and lurched out of the room. The door closed behind her, mercifully moderating the smell. She felt sorry for the pretty young woman, stuck in a smelly toilet, waiting on overdressed old frumps like herself, unable to go to the ball. There's the real Cinderella. And here I am. Well, even the wicked stepmother was young once. I wonder what her story was.
She prepared herself to reenter "society." Some musicians were playing quietly, and she decided to go over to them and enjoy the music. A pair of ladies were coming the other way, saw Victoria, and smiled and curtseyed slightly. Victoria got a grip and managed a bob and a tremulous smile herself. The gown was not feeling any more comfortable. She spotted some empty chairs by the wall and headed that way.
A red-coated back loomed up in front of her. She put on the brakes, swaying on her precarious shoes, and her skirts brushed lightly against the man who was blocking her way. Feeling the touch, the man looked around quickly, and saw Victoria.
It was Tavington! She looked up at him startled. He really was as handsome as his picture, even seen close to, even frowning darkly as he was. Perhaps the skin was not perfect, and he looked a little weather beaten, but his eyes were truly as blue as forget-me-nots, and Victoria's heart jumped with the excitement of long ago.
For his part, Tavington had seen nothing to interest him. He gave an almost imperceptible bow of wordless apology, and his eyes slid away from Victoria, seeking someone more appealing He walked past, back admirably straight; his rear view as handsome as his front
Mortified, Victoria felt herself grow hot, and hoped the paint would hide her flush. She paused there in the middle of the room, trying vainly to catch a deep breath. She had finally met the man she had dreamed of years ago, and he had turned from her without a word. Rationally, she knew it was silly to be so disappointed--she already knew that middle-aged women were invisible to most people--but so she was. Feeling very faded and undesirable, she sighed, and continued toward the empty chairs.
The musicians were a motley group. Five violins, a cello, two flutes, and an effortfully-played oboe comprised the orchestra. A bored harpsichordist did his best to hold it all together. Two of the violinists were carrying on a quiet conversation as they played. Victoria could hear enough to learn that there would be dancing soon. That should be interesting to watch. She recognized some of the tunes. They were not playing anything particularly high-brow: mostly popular airs of the period. It was actually very enjoyable to sit and listen and observe.
A servant came by again with more wine, and this time Victoria took a glass. One, Tory, she admonished herself. Just one. She sipped the Madeira slowly, savoring its depth and sweetness. Dancing was announced, and couples began lining up for a reel. It was very entertaining: most of the dancers were very good. Victoria knew the tune, but did not remember the name. Dancing is an important social skill in this time, she remembered.
"Would you do me the honor, Madam?" asked a pleasant-looking older officer.
Victoria started: he was speaking to her! "Thank you—but no. My dancing days are over, I'm afraid."
He smiled and bowed, and left to hunt for a new partner. Victoria was a little put out. If Dr. Hibbard had just told me what the damned portrait did, I would have taken lessons in 18th century dancing! I would have prepared for this! I would have come years earlier! There was no help for it now: she was destined to be a wallflower in the 18th century.
It's still nice to see it all, she consoled herself.At a slight distance, the hair didn't look so dirty, nor the face-paint so harsh. The gowns were lovely, and the uniforms dashing. Some of the girls were pretty, and some of the men quite good-looking.
It was nearly eleven. Possibly there was only an hour to go. She looked around the room. There was that old Mrs. Breckinridge. Somehow she had inveigled poor Tavington into her web, and she was talking at him, emphasizing her utterances with taps of her fan. He looks annoyed, she thought to herself, amused. Mrs. Breckinridge was still talking. Tavington stopped looking annoyed, and both he and Mrs. Breckinridge looked over at Victoria, who was disconcerted at their combined gaze, and looked away at the dancers.
They must be talking about me. Why in the world would they? She hoped there was nothing odd about her appearance for them to laugh at or disapprove of. She concentrated on the dancers, who had moved on to an allemande. It looked like fun, and Victoria wished once more that she knew how to dance.
She sensed someone sitting beside her, and was almost prepared when William Tavington addressed her. "I beg your pardon, Madam. Your friend, Mrs. Breckinridge, wished to introduce us, but could not catch your notice. The lady is too tired to come to you, and sent me to bear your company."
Prettily spoken. Victoria regarded him with suspicion. He wasn't interested at all before, why is he making nice now?
Quietly, Victoria confessed, "I hardly know Mrs. Breckinridge. I have no idea what she might have told you about me."
He laughed, lightly, but with an uneasy undertone. "The usual thing, of course. That you were a charming lady, and that I ought to be acquainted with you. You are Mrs. Wolf, are you not?"
She granted him a nod. "Victoria. Victoria Wolf."
"An unusual name. Let us hope it is propitious."
"Indeed. My friends call me Tory."
"Even more appropriate." She chuckled unwillingly. It really was a ridiculous coincidence. The conversation lagged. Victoria struggled to think of something to say. "So, Colonel, killed any rebels lately?" No, maybe not the best talking point. It's like trying to talk to a jock back in college. Wait—he is a jock. This will never work.
He was smiling at her, but a little unnaturally. There was a false, fixed look to the smile, like a mask worn for an audience. He doesn't want to be here. Maybe he's shy. Maybe there's someone he'd rather be with. She was uncomfortable under his gaze. He was looking at her exposed breasts, pushed high by the corset. I guess women show them off for just this kind of attention, she decided, resigned to the embarrassment. But he was also looking at something else, and it made her curious. What is he looking at? She following his glance, and nearly laughed aloud. My jewelry! Oh, my boy, you are so transparent! It was ridiculous, yes, but also rather offensive.
"Colonel Tavington," she began gently. "Colonel Tavington!" she repeated, to get his complete attention. He raised his brows in response, still smiling fixedly. "Colonel Tavington. Do you know how old I am?"
He had not expected the question, clearly, and fidgeted a little. His smile faded, grew tight at the corners of his mouth. "No, Madam," he answered tensely. "I am not privy to those secrets that ladies keep closest."
Hoo boy. "Well," she said, as if to a small, stubborn child. "I know how old I am. And I know that I'm too old for you. And I know that you would not be speaking to me if that silly Mrs. Breckinridge hadn't told you that I have money."
He was angry and embarrassed now, but too practiced in courtesy just to walk away. Victoria, to her surprise, was a little angry herself, but spoke softly, knowing that it would make her words sting the more. It was not his fault that she had met him twenty years too late, but she felt a perverse satisfaction anyway in punishing him for Time's mistake.
"Let's just pretend that you did not try to pay court to a woman of no interest to you—a woman whose existence you did not acknowledge until you were lured by the thought of a fortune. I may be older than you, but not so old, nor so inexperienced, nor so silly to let myself be deceived by a handsome face." She relented enough to throw him a bone. "And it is a handsome face indeed. So I hope you make the most of it. Because it won't last." He looked away, lips pressed together in vexation, Victoria decided he had been savaged enough, and rose to leave, but paused for a final thrust.
"One last piece of advice. When you are complimenting a woman, do not let your gaze shift to her gown and jewelry, as if appraising their value. Not all women are idiots. Some are, though. Good luck to you."
He had risen as well, and gave her a stiff bow. She walked away, out into the garden, feeling a little ashamed of her tirade, but glad to realize that her former infatuation had dissipated quite entirely.
It was a beautiful night, and Victoria stopped in the doorway, enchanted. The gardens extended almost to the harbor, and tall ships were there, illuminated by the moonlight. The music from inside the house drifted over the lawn. A mild sea breeze cooled the air. It was a marvelous scene, quite unlike anything she had known before. Carefully, she made her way down the gravel walks for the best view. Other guests strolled about, flirting, chatting, negotiating, preening, conciliating.
A little crowd at the doorway was louder than the rest. Victoria glanced over and saw a big man in a splendid uniform, surrounded by hangers-on. That could Lord Cornwallis! She took a closer look. The face was something like the portraits she had seen, but he wore an expression of polite irritation that nearly made her laugh. He did not appear to be enjoying his ball. Victoria found a stone bench in the shadow of a rose arbor. It allowed her to get off her pinched feet, and to watch the scene in comfort. There was a boat out on the water and some activity among the ships. She watched it intently, ignoring shrill voices approaching from behind.
"Lord Cornwallis!" "Your Lordship!" "My Lord!" were the rejoicing yelps from various voices, baying like hounds. Victoria turned that way and saw the big man (who evidently was indeed General Lord Cornwallis) trying to stroll in the gardens, and prevented at every step by people crowding up in his face, wanting his attention. There was a high, affected laugh, and Victoria zoomed in on the perpetrator. It was a woman, richly dressed, no longer young, who was tarted up in high fashion.
Good, Tory approved. There's someone who looks even more ridiculous than I do.
The sycophants passed by, and she ignored their fading clamor. Instead, she admired the old-fashioned roses on the bush beside her. She breathed in the fragrance. Oh, that is nice. When I get home, I'm going to see if David and I can find some of these. Inside, the orchestra had begun to play a haunting minuet in a minor key.
"Madam, if you will forgive my importuning--?"
Victoria turned, and recognized Lord Cornwallis, bowing politely.
He smiled, and added. "May I share your refuge?" He had temporarily escaped the leeches, and looked tired.
She smiled, and nodded. "Of course you may, my lord." She managed the title quite naturally, she thought. She sniffed the rose again. The scent was voluptuously sweet and complex, far more fragrant than the tea roses she grew so laboriously at home.
"You are fond of roses, Madam?"
"Oh, very much. They are so successful at being beautiful, and we humans struggle in vain to compete."
"Well," Cornwallis pointed out, "no one expects them to do anything else. Mankind must perforce be more versatile."
She laughed. "A compromise, then. They shall be beautiful, and we shall be versatile, and perfume ourselves with a great deal of rosewater."
He laughed. "A just settlement indeed." He ventured, "A beautiful night."
"Very beautiful, my lord. How clever of you to arrange the weather so."
He laughed again, rather sourly. "Would that I had that power: and not only for a ball. My entire campaign would proceed far more expeditiously."
"Well, the ball is an excellent place to start. Everyone seems to be having a splendid time."
He looked at her keenly, at her face in fact, which pleased Victoria greatly. Though, of course, I may look much better in the dark.
"I am surprised to see a lady like you alone."
Whoa, is he coming on to me? I thought he was a widower. Yes, Tory. A widower, not dead.
She was determined to keep up her end of this conversation. "I am surprised to see a great man like you allowed to be alone for even a moment."
"It is not easy—"
Not easy, certainly. There was an ecstatic whoop of "Lord Cornwallis!" He was discovered: and his toadies squealed with excitement, as they hurried to curry favor. "Lord Cornwallis!" Your Lordship!" " Lord Cornwallis!"
Cornwallis rose, with an expression of long-suffering patience. "I pray you excuse me, Madam."
Victoria smiled sympathetically. "Of course, my lord."
The older woman she had seen before seemed ready to grab at him in her excitement. She twittered, "Oh, my lord, we were all agog to hear more of your adventures in the dreadful backcountry—"
He was resolutely polite. "My dear Mrs. Simms, you are too kind…"
He walked away with dignified resignation, his entourage hanging on his every word. He was not allowed to get very far, for more and more eager admirers gathered. Victoria wondered how he could bear it. She relaxed as far as her gown allowed. There was another servant, with another tray of wineglasses. She considered taking one; but he was too far away, and she was too comfortable to get up, and too shy to call out.
Tavington emerged from the mansion, an attractive young woman on either side. The taller, prettier one had pearls in her hair and an utterly vacant expression. There, that's much more your speed, my boy. Go get her. Tavington immediately saw Victoria sitting on the bench, and peevishly averted his eyes, with a faint sneer. She was feeling more charitable now, and regarded him as a bad little boy who deserved her indulgence.
Cornwallis was now completely surrounded and unable to move. Like Yorktown, Victoria reflected a bit sadly. If he knew the future, would it hurt or help? His patience with those flunkeys really was admirable. Victoria decided that being trapped out in the open as he was might be preferable to being pressed against a wall of the house. Mrs. Simms would pin him like a butterfly.
There was a tremendous flash of light, followed by a thunderous roar. Victoria flinched and then got unsteadily to her feet. A ship in the harbor had exploded, showering the placid waters with sparks and debris. People exclaimed in horror, or were silent in shock, and in a brief pause the fatuous Mrs. Simms trilled, "Fireworks! Lovely!"
Victoria gave an unladylike snort of laughter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tavington, between his two belles, bolt his glass of wine, his eyes rolling in disgust. Poor man. He's really not having a good evening. She should not have been so hard on him. As Jane Austen said, handsome men need something to live on just as much as the plain ones. It wasn't his doing that his world was what it was.
Lord Cornwallis looked rather sick. Victoria was sorry that she had laughed, and wondered if there had been people hurt on the ship. An accident? Or terrorists?
Bits of wreckage were still dropping into the harbor. Across the water, she could hear distant voices raised in alarm. The party was breaking up. Cornwallis had stalked away with some his officers to deal with the crisis. People were hurrying here and there, trying to learn more about the explosion. Women were shrilly demanding that their carriages be called.
Victoria wondered what time it was. She headed back toward the open door of the mansion. The orchestra had stopped with the explosion, and had not begun playing again. People were straggling away. A church bell tolled in the distance.
One…two…three…
A servant surreptitiously drank the remains from the glasses of wine on his tray. He looked frightened when he realized that Victoria had seen him, but she gave him a friendly smile, and walked on.
Four…five…six…
Old Mrs. Breckinridge was hobbling across the lawn, leaning on her stick and on a dutiful maidservant; complaining bitterly about the aborted ball, the cancellation of the late supper, and "those dreadful Insurrectionists!" The paint around her eyes had smeared across one rouged cheek: Victoria hoped her own game face was still intact.
Seven…eight…nine…
Tavington was standing at the edge of the water, staring at the wreckage of the ship, and at the bustle of boats and sailors out there in the harbor. He looked frustrated, and angry, and tired. His upright posture slumped, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment. Victoria felt for him, but could not expect that her pity would be welcomed. She walked on.
Ten…eleven…twelve...
Victoria sat on her cushy chintz-covered sofa in her library, holding Tavington's portrait. She blinked. The bright daylight dazzled her dark-adapted eyes. She flicked a glance at the clock. No time had passed. She put her hand to her cheek. No, no arsenic-laced paint there. She looked down. Her bosom had shrunk to Pre-Event proportions and was modestly clad.
"You fucking piece of shit!" David yelled from the crawlspace, banging metal against metal.
Victoria sighed with relief. Everything was as it should be. She looked down at the portrait again. Would she ever say the words again? Would they take her back to the ball? Would she live those two hours over and over and over again until she got them right? Could they ever be right at this late date?
Of course they could, she scolded herself. Some of it wasn't very nice, but some of it was beautiful! And even when I'm as old as Mrs. Breckinridge, I won't be too old to enjoy a ball, or the music, or the people, or the roses. I shouldn't try to change history—and it's probably impossible anyway--but I can change myself. I can be better: kinder to Tavington, kinder to Mrs. Breckinridge, kinder to everyone. Far, far, better to make everything I can of such a miraculous experience, than to whine because it can't be perfect.
But next time—I'm dancing!
-----
Note: Thanks to Jane Austen, James Barrie, Frank Baum, Elizabeth von Arnim, Luchino Visconti, P.D. James, a lovely dress illustration in Masterpieces of Women's Costume of the 18th and 19th Centuries by Aline Bernstein, and DocM's photoshopped miniature of Tavington (somewhat altered for purposes of the story).
Fear not! Mary Sue will ride again!