A Stranger Appears

367BCE, somewhere on the Mediterranean Sea

He woke in a cold sweat and, for a moment, he didn’t know why.

His cabin was still and empty. The wood of the small ship creaked around him; he could hear the gentle splashing of the waves. He hoped, briefly, that it had just been a nightmare, but then he saw it: a small puddle in the corner of the room.

He darted towards it and pushed up the trick floorboard he’d rigged before setting sail, pushing his hand into the small cavity below. It was empty.

Moving faster than he’d realised he could, he hurled himself up the ladder onto the deck. There was no movement. He spotted a few patches of water leading to and from the port railing and dashed towards it, leaning out over the water.

Nothing. He looked out over the ocean in all directions. The night was still, the moon was bright, and he could see nothing.

He didn’t let himself despair immediately, he crawled over the boat, searching every crevasse that could possibly hide someone. It was empty, save for the young sailor he’d hired to transport him to Carthage, unconscious on the deck but still breathing.

They’d found it. They’d taken it. And he had no idea which direction they’d gone.

1923CE, somewhere in Mayfair

Nell Bartlett had decided to cut her hair.

She sat at her dressing table, gazing at her reflection, conducting a careful survey. Two lips, indifferent red, and so forth. Quite a serviceable face, if we’re honest, and perfectly suitable to its purpose. Or the purpose it had had until recently, but we’ll get to that. Straight black brows, cool blue eyes, with a slight droop to them, and hair falling to her waist that could most accurately be described as ordinary brown.

Nell had never been dissatisfied with her appearance, but she’d woken up with a sharp yearning for change. Something to suit her new circumstances.

She grasped her hair in a clump, raising it up behind her head and letting it loop around her chin. She nodded once and picked up the sewing shears she’d taken from her maid, Niamh’s mending basket.

There was a satisfying heft to the scissors, and the shink as she opened them sent a thrill down Nell’s spine. But before she could move to cut, the door behind her opened.

‘Miss!’ cried Niamh. ‘You can’t!’

Nell locked eyes with herself in the mirror. ‘I’m going to.’

‘But what will Mrs Bartlett say?’

‘She’ll say “Good heavens” and then she’ll say “are you certain that’s a good idea” and I’ll say “it’s a little late for certainty” and then she’ll sigh and look worried and maybe she’ll say something like “well I hope you don’t live to regret it” and I’ll make a joke about it, does she mean she’s hoping I’ll die and she’ll sigh again and then laugh a little, but sadly, you know, quietly, and then we’ll eat breakfast.’

‘But what if you do regret it?’ said Niamh, eyeing the scissors warily.

Nell shrugged. ‘Then I’ll regret it. But it’s not like it’s coming out of nowhere. I’ve been wanting to do it ever since I saw Button Weatherington’s hair. It looks so modern and dashing. I feel quite provincial in comparison. Besides, while I am delighted we’re in London there’s no air here and I feel stifled. It’s simply too hot to have pins in one’s head.’

Niamh bit at her lip.

‘Miss Weatherington’s hair does look quite smart,’ she said. ‘But it’s so daring.’

Nell smiled.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m quite ready to be daring, I think.’

Niamh hesitated, but Nell could see a hit of excitement blooming on her face. She winked at her in the mirror.

‘All right,’ Niamh said in a sudden, breathless rush. ‘But you’d better let me do it. You’ll only make a hash of it.’ In this she was, no doubt, entirely correct.

Nell grinned and handed over the shears. There was a brief but furious debate over how short Niamh should cut which culminated in Nell pulling rank, then Niamh gathered Nell’s hair into a single bunch in her hand and chopped through with one decisive motion. It took all of three seconds.

And then another twenty minutes of careful considered snips about the place, as Niamh perfected the spontaneous haircut. All the while, Nell gazed at herself in the mirror, her smile growing slowly wider.

Naturally she was late for breakfast.

Partly because of the haircut itself and partly because, after Niamh had swept up and left, Nell spent several minutes admiring herself. She checked the hair with five or six of her new hats and a collection of her earrings and necklaces. Eventually she decided that yes, it looked fantastic in every way and from every angle and, with a swell of satisfaction, she left her room.

She pulled on her robe, and floated down the stairs, alight with her own daring. She felt both alive and at peace. Never had so much been right with the world. She let her hand glide over the bannister, revelling in its rich polish. The carpets under her feet were plush and soft, nothing like the threadbare rugs she was used to. She thought dreamily of the full breakfast that was waiting for her, of how lavishly she could now butter her toast.

All truly was for the best in this best of all possible worlds.

‘Good heavens, Nell,’ her mother said when she walked into the breakfast room, and, ‘are you certain that’s a good idea?’

Nell smirked and for this we must forgive her. After all, it’s always satisfying to be right, even about something so tiny as what one’s mother might say over breakfast.

‘It’s a little late for certainty,’ she said, piling food onto her plate and sitting down.

‘Oh dear,’ said her mother, and she really did look upset.

For the first time Nell felt her glee fade a little.

‘You don’t think…it’s not ugly, is it?’

‘Well, no.’ She twisted her napkin anxiously. ‘I just worry that it might hurt your chances. It’s so modern. Bold, you know. People might make certain assumptions.’

‘Mother I have no idea what you’re talking about. Hurt my chances at what?’

‘Marriage, dear. Naturally.’

Nell felt her jaw drop, a chunk of ham sitting inelegantly on her tongue. She quickly clapped her mouth shut and chewed slowly while staring at her mother who, until recent seconds, she’d believed to be sane.

‘Mother,’ she said, swallowing, ‘dearest. I don’t need to get married. Not anymore.’

Not having to get married was right at the top of Nell’s list of reasons to be satisfied with life at the current moment – or it had been until the haircut of some fifty minutes earlier – and she’d been certain her mother felt the same.

For the past three or four years Nell's inevitable marriage was the only hope of avoiding certain doom. Thornton Park, the estate her father’s family had lived on since the 16th century, was already significantly reduced by the time Nell was born, and the last parcel of farmland was sold off before her fourteenth birthday. With no income coming from the land and an estate that seemed to eat money, the only plan for the future was a good marriage bringing in the fortune the family needed.

Nell’s father had died shortly after her twentieth birthday, leaving her and her mother to scour the upper ranks of society for their salvation. But several years and countless balls later no marriage had appeared – a mutual choice between Nell and every man she’d ever met. Not three months ago she and her mother had been preparing for the 1923 season in a state of strained desperation, and surviving mainly on porridge and carrots.

Then, out of precisely nowhere, an American millionaire turned up, claiming he wanted to have a go at being a country squire and offered an unholy sum of money to take the crumbling ruin of a house and intensely overgrown grounds off their willing hands.

At least, Nell’s hands had been willing; her mother had dithered for at least twenty minutes.

‘I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve,’ she’d said. ‘The Bartletts have been on this land for generations.’

Nell had only shrugged, thinking of the first meal she’d have after the money came through. She wondered if anyone would be serving roast goose in May.

‘I’m the last of the line,’ she said simply, ‘and I say it’s fine.’

So now the leaking roof and cracked windows of the family pile were someone else’s responsibility and Nell and her mother had relocated to a smart little house in Mayfair with enough money to survive for a hundred years at least, even if they weren’t careful with it at all.

Nell had assumed that they’d both been delighted at the prospect of calling a halt to husband hunting; nothing her mother had said in the last few weeks had indicated she was still thinking about it. But now she was gazing at her daughter with a tense frown.

‘I know you don’t need to get married,’ she said. ‘But I thought you might like to.’

‘You thought I might like to?’ said Nell. ‘You thought I might like to? I’ve never seen you happier than the day father died.’

‘Nell! How can you say such a thing? Of course I was dreadfully affected by the loss of your father.’

Nell raised an eyebrow silently. Her mother let out a sigh, then a small laugh.

‘I might have been a little relieved.’

‘Yes, that’s what you were, a little relieved. Of course.’

Her parents’ marriage had not been a happy one. During Nell’s childhood her mother had been able to shield her from the worst of things. Her father had spent much of the year in town, and when he did come home to Thornton he showed very little interest in Nell.

It wasn’t until she was fourteen that he turned his bitter, scornful gaze on her. She was three years out from her debut and made to understand that her future belonged, not to her, but to the estate. All of a sudden her every movement was subject to scrutiny. Her needlepoint was flawed, her singing too feeble, her hair too dark or not dark enough, her eyebrows strange.

It is to her credit that she was not a nervous wreck by the time she made her first appearance in society. It is to her credit that she recognised that the man who would balk at her eyebrows would be impressed by nothing. But her ability to dismiss her father’s criticisms as largely irrelevant didn’t make them easier to bear.

By the time her father died Nell was keenly aware of how much worse things had been for her mother. She was never asked, always commanded. She was never considered, always tolerated. Begrudgingly. She was never Meredith or even Mrs Bartlett. She was only ever wife.

Nell had never felt any affection or respect for her father, and she didn’t suppose anyone ever had. He had been a bully who swung between neglect and control and the atmosphere of the house had instantly brightened when he’d shuffled off to what Nell assumed was hell.

Her mother took a prim sip of her tea.

‘It is not seemly to celebrate anyone’s death,’ she said.

Nell narrowed her eyes and took a sip of her tea that felt positively dangerous. We must forgive her for this too, the early days of freedom are a heady thing.

‘I’m going to make a project of you,’ she said. ‘I’m going make you abandon what is seemly.’

Her mother swallowed and Nell could tell she was fighting a smile.

‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ she said. ‘Although it does sound refreshing.’

‘We’re too rich to be wise now, mother. I’ll make you embrace that if it kills me.’

Her mother laughed.

‘Well, but dear, you must know, just because I was unfortunate in my choice of husband, that doesn’t mean that marriage itself is to be avoided. I’m glad you’re free of the pressure to marry someone you’d rather not simply to address our material needs, but with greater freedom you might look for someone you actually like. I would not wish for you to have a marriage like mine, but perhaps you might find one like my parents. They were happy together until their dying day; they couldn’t bear to be apart.’

Nell took a bite of her toast.

‘I rather think I’d prefer to be apart at least some of the time. But anyway, I’m determined not to marry someone who does not like my hair, so it shouldn’t get in the way of anything at all, should it?’

At this her mother gave a proper laugh, although she did still sigh a little afterwards.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said, but she was a little quiet for the rest of breakfast.

Nell chatted on her own for a while, before finally asking if her mother was still upset. She shook her head.

‘I’m not upset,’ she said. ‘I’m just…wondering.’

‘Wondering what?’ asked Nell.

‘What your life will be like now. I’m having trouble imagining what you’ll do with yourself.’

‘For my whole life?’

‘Yes, dear. For your whole life.’

Nell cocked her head to one side, a dreamy smile creeping over her face.

‘I think what I’ll do with myself,’ she said, ‘is have adventures.’

It’s possible, but not certain, that an inclination for adventure when spoken aloud is heard. By whom, by what, we cannot say, but it has often been observed that someone expressing their desire for something exciting finds themselves thrown into more excitement than they’re prepared to deal with.

Not three days after the breakfast we have just witnessed, Nell was confronted with the opportunity for adventure and, not recognising it for what it was, she accepted. It happened thusly:

Button Weatherington had heard of an underground dance club and persuaded Nell to come along with her. Nell had taken some convincing – she’d been sure it would be the kind of place young men down from Oxford would go in order to be thought wild and she had no desire to spend an evening surrounded by that kind of bore. But Button assured her that wasn’t the case, claiming that her brothers insisted it was quite beneath them, so Nell had agreed.

Mrs Bartlett insisted on chaperoning, despite Nell being fully twenty-four years old, but Nell was not at all reluctant to have her come alone. She’d been quite serious about trying to make her mother shake of the shackles of her genteel upbringing, now that there was no need to rely on good social standing in order to survive.

Button had clearly been right about the club; the energy was much mellower than Nell had expected, and she didn’t hear a single masculine bray at all. There was a band on a dais at the far end playing music like Nell had never heard, syncopated and fast and free in a way the string quartets at society balls never were.

She sat her mother down at a table in the corner, convinced her to try an absurd cocktail, and took to the dance floor with the first man who asked her.

She’d expect to feel giddy, over excited, a little scared even. But as she whirled around the room all she felt was peace. And when her dance partner accidentally sent her flying headlong into someone else’s back she laughed and apologised to him, without thinking twice.

The man was tall and not dressed for a night of dancing. He smirked down at Nell, his brown eyes curious, his eyebrow cocked. There was a casual confidence in his manner that Nell had never found among the society men she was used to dancing with. He seemed handsome and charming and thoroughly unsuitable and Nell decided she would flirt with him for the rest of the evening.

She did not feel a prickle of foreboding as she smiled brightly up at the stranger. She did not anticipate any serious consequences from talking to him. And when he asked her to dance she saw no reason at all not to say no.

Next time, on Calamity's Trinket

Nell discovers a latent talent: flirting. And finds out that flirting can get you right smack in the middle of trouble.