Careless
Violet
I’ve been here for over a week now, and it’s starting to settle in that I may be here for a long, long time. Maybe forever. Wearing a fancy gown, staring at a painting on the wall that looks like it should’ve been made hundreds of years ago, I try to let it soak in. There may be no escape from this century.
I’m sitting on the settee in the Beaumont parlor when a servant announces, “Master Pembroke.”
Theodore steps inside and bows. Claira and Lavinia are speaking with the gentlemen who have come to call, and Rosalind sits at the piano. She plays softly, not the least bit concerned that no one has come to call on her this morning.
“Miss Violet,” Theodore says, sitting next to me. “It is wonderful to see you again.”
“Good morning, Mr. Pembroke,” I reply. “It’s lovely to see you as well.”
“I must admit, I’ve been thinking about a topic of conversation that came up over supper when I was here last,” he says.
“Oh?” I ask, wracking my brain for what he might be talking about. Did I say something out of turn? “Which topic was that?”
“The ball at Lockwood Hall,” he replies, and I’m instantly relieved. “Miss Lavinia had enthusiastically mentioned how she would be interested in dancing with Master Harrington. I was wondering if you’d chosen any dance partners for the evening?”
“I must admit, I hadn’t considered the notion just yet.” I try to sound polite and proper. “The gatherings are enjoyable, of course, but I find conversation more rewarding than dancing. And I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m not the best dancer, by far.”
Across the room, Rosalind threads a cheerful tune through the parlor. Theodore throws her a sideways glance, looking slightly annoyed, and then returns his gaze to me.
“Do you think you could save a dance or two for me?” he asks.
“Of course, Master Pembroke,” I answer. “You are one of the only men who can tolerate my hopelessness on the floor.”
“I don’t think I’m the only one.” He squirrels his mouth over to one side in a frown, and I hear a trace of irritation in his tone.
Not sure what he’s talking about, I continue. “I look forward to seeing you there.” I wonder why he seems so perturbed today. I try to keep my tone light, hoping to ease whatever has upset him.
If it were 2026, I’d just ask, What’s bothering you? But this is 1817, so that would be improper, which is incredibly frustrating.
“I must admit,” Theodore continues, “I find our discussions more interesting than those I’ve shared with any of the other women of the ton.”
“I am glad to hear you enjoy our conversations,” I say.
But I really want to tell him that these aren’t conversations. I want to say: We aren’t having a conversation. We are only scratching the surface because it’s socially unacceptable for us to truly delve into one another’s feelings, and that’s why everyone is so rigid and unhappy here. Except for Ros over there, who says whatever she thinks and does whatever she likes. Instead, I just smile, nod, and keep playing the game.
Looking around the room, I see that Claira and Lavinia are playing the same game with their callers. They’re pretending to get to know one another, skimming the surface because it’s far too improper to talk about anything that actually matters. No one will ever know each other here. Not until it’s too late. By the time they know what makes them happy or what makes them miserable, they’ll already be married.
Yet, with Charles, maybe it could be different. Maybe with him, I could actually get to know someone who seems just as frustrated by all these rules as I am. Clearly, Charles is interested in me, or he wouldn’t have been standing so close to me during the croquet game, but he won’t come calling on me, and I think it’s because these social games drive him mad.
I realize Theodore has been talking the whole time I’ve been daydreaming about Charles, and I have to drag myself back into the conversation.
“Your dress is most becoming,” he says.
I look down at the yellow day gown I chose this morning. “Thank you, Mr. Pembroke.”
The charade goes on, everyone around me pretending to enjoy themselves, and I’m stuck in the middle, bored out of my mind. I keep thinking about Charles and how much easier it would be to actually talk to him. I want to tell him about my time–where there aren’t so many rules and so much pretending. Would he be happier there? I imagine he would be.
After Theodore leaves for the afternoon, I take the chance to excuse myself and wander through the house while everyone else stays in the parlor. Regency England used to be my favorite era, but now that I’m actually living it, I’m not so sure. I still love the dresses, the velvet curtains, hand-carved furniture, the shine and polish, but the rules are suffocating!
No one can speak their mind or actually get to know anyone, and every opinion, feeling, and idea seems like it’s being judged. I try to remember that I’m supposed to be Emmaline, performing at every turn, but it’s exhausting.
And I can’t stop thinking about Charles. The way he looks at me, the way we tease one another. He seems interested, but he frustrates me. I find myself wishing I could just talk to him alone–without society dictating every word.
There’s Theodore, too. He’s polite, serious, and I wonder if at some point, he might propose. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here, or if I’ll have the chance to get back home before it happens. Figuring out a way back to 2026 feels impossible, and every thought in my mind begins to spin out of control.
I realize I’m thirsty and head for the kitchen. The servant girl I asked about the year the other day is at the counter, kneading dough into a loaf, her hands dusted with flour.
“Could I have a glass of water, please?” I ask, and she wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh no, you’re busy. I’ll get it,” I say. I’m trying to follow the rules, but sometimes it’s just too ridiculous.
Her eyebrows raise as she watches me cross the room and pour my own glass, but she says nothing. I’m sure she thinks I’m unusual. I sit down and take a drink, letting out a sigh.
She stares at me for a moment before asking, “Miss Violet, is something troubling you?”
I pause, surprised she would even ask such a thing. Most people here would consider it rude to question a lady about her feelings, and it takes real courage, especially for a servant, to be so bold. She’s brave, and I find myself grateful for anyone willing to speak honestly in a house full of rules and pretenses. “What’s your name?” I ask, keeping my tone light, leaning closer to her at the counter.
Her expression is a mixture of worry and curiosity. “I’m called Sarah, miss.”
“Sarah, have you ever been homesick before?” I ask.
She nods. “Very much, miss. I’ve been homesick for a long time.” Looking toward the window, she sighs, and I can see tears glistening in her blue eyes. She forces a smile and looks back at me. “Are you as well?”
I nod, but I can’t talk about my home. So I ask about hers. “Where are you originally from?”
With a laugh, she shakes her head, strands of blonde falling free of her bun. “I come from somewhere so far away, it would be unrecognizable to most.”
I take a sip of water and feel like confiding even more in this disarming young woman. “To be honest, I’m not even sure if I’m truly homesick,” I admit. “I think I’m just overwhelmed by all the rules and societal pressures here.”
Sarah leans toward me. “I know how it feels,” she says softly, “but you, Miss Violet, get to be adored by many, go to fancy balls, and wear exquisite gowns. You should try to cheer up a little and focus on the elegance and the leisure that comes with your life.”
Just then, Rosalind barges into the kitchen, a grin on her face. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Violet,” she says. “We need to go pick out our attire for the ball at Lockwood Hall tomorrow evening.”
I set my glass down and smile at Sarah. “Thank you–for the water and for the conversation.”
With a dutiful humbleness back in place, Sarah nods and focuses on her bread. I follow Rosalind upstairs, thinking about what the servant girl said about how I should try to enjoy my time here… however long it might be.
The ballroom at Lockwood Hall is filled with the light of dozens of candles in chandeliers and on wall sconces. My silver gown is gorgeous, and I feel beautiful wearing it. Maybe this isn’t my time or my world, but I’m here, and tonight I’m going to do as Sarah suggested and embrace the luxury, the elegance, and have fun.
Claira and I linger near the edge of the dance floor, and Theodore walks toward me. “May I have this dance?” he asks, bowing.
I nod. “Of course.”
We step onto the dance floor, and I spin and turn with him, laughing when we move a little too fast. Our steps click into place, and I can’t stop smiling. Everything around me feels bright, fast, and full of energy. He’s not my first choice in dance partner, but he will do.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charles watching. I notice the way his gaze follows me as I dance with Theodore. His eyes are narrow, his hands folded behind his back, his shoulders rigid.
When the set ends, Theodore guides me to the edge of the dance floor. “Thank you for the dance,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Perhaps you’ll allow me to show you off again later?”
“I look forward to it,” I reply, offering him my dance card. He writes his name in it and then makes his way over to some other gentlemen across the room.
I spot Rosalind by the drink table and motion for Edward. He comes over, and I ask him to escort me to where his sister is sitting. He hands me a glass of red wine. I thank him and watch him disappear.
“Did you see Charles?” Rosalind asks with a mischievous smile. “He looked absolutely furious to see you dancing with Pembroke.”
I laugh. “Keep your voice down, Rosalind. We don’t want anyone to overhear us.”
I sip my wine, savoring it, and decide that certainty can wait. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m not ready to fully claim this life as my own, but it’s a pleasant enough evening, and I’m tired of holding myself to the rigid standards of the ton. Tonight, I’m at a Regency era ball with a 21st century mindset.
“Actually, I don’t care who overhears us,” I say, swirling the wine in my glass. “I’m not here to impress anyone.”
“Is that so?” she asks. “Where was this Violet at the last ball?”
“I may have been a bit stiff at the last dance, but tonight, I’m just tired of all the monotony. I want to enjoy myself.”
Rosalind looks over my head, her eyes fill with shock, and she leans in, her voice dropping just enough for me to hear. “Don’t look now… but here comes your admirer.”
I slowly turn my head, and there stands Charles. “May I have this dance?” he asks.
I try not to show my surprise, but it’s difficult to mask. “Yes,” I manage to say.
His hand is warm against my glove as he leads me effortlessly onto the dance floor. The music softens, and the rhythm slows. It’s only then I realize we’re dancing a waltz, something I haven’t experienced in this era yet. This moment feels much more intimate than I expected. The way he looks at me now is different, and I can’t shake the feeling that this is more than just a dance.
He guides me across the floor, and I don’t realize where we’re headed until he spins me toward the double doors. The warm evening air brushes against my face, and it hits me: we shouldn’t be out here alone. Society says we shouldn’t, and yet, here we are.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “Your family can see us through the window.”
“I’m not worried,” I tell him, looking over my shoulder. “In fact, I don’t care at all.” I take him by the arm and pull him away from the windows into the shadows.
Charles looks at me wide eyed for a moment and then smiles. “Violet,” he whispers, holding my hand. I nod, my fingers tightening around his. “You’re not like the other women of the ton.”
“No, I’m not,” I readily admit. “Honestly, Charles, I think the rules are ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decisions.”
His stare is unreadable, and for a moment, I think I’ve said too much. Then, he laughs. “Well, then, I suppose we are even more like-minded than I thought before.”
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first moment I saw you,” I say, taking him by the shoulder and pulling him down. He leans closer. I close my eyes and find his lips with mine. A heat spreads through me, a mixture of longing and desire.
When he pulls away, I’m not sure what to say. Is he angry? Will he tell everyone how scandalous I am?
All he says is, “Oh, my,” and then a laugh escapes him. He offers me his arm and leads me back inside as though nothing happened. I fear the flush in my cheeks might give me away, but for the first time since arriving in this unbearably strict era, I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care about anything but Charles Langford.