My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  And with that, she leads you out of the ballroom. You really have no choice but to accompany her—ruined dress aside, Lady Evangeline is not the sort of woman to whom one says no. Once you arrive in her chambers, she hands you something blue-green and silky.

  “I think you will look ravishing in this,” she promises before helping you out of your old gown.

  She pulls you into the expensive-looking garment and helps you with the many buttons on the back as she continues her conversation. “Forgive me for being forward, but I do feel that you are unhappy in your current position.”

  You say nothing but turn your head toward her and nod in silent misery. She meets your gaze and continues, with genuine sympathy filling her cultured tones.

  “So I must know, have you made any inquiries for other means of employment? Or received any offers?”

  “I…I have heard that Lord Craven was looking for a governess for his young son…,” you venture shyly, thinking of the envelope he had recently sent the Dragon asking if she knew any prospective governesses she could soon send to him in Ravenscar. You immediately regret broaching the matter when you see the horror in Lady Evangeline’s expression.

  “Oh, heavens no! I would sooner throw an infant to wolves than send an innocent young woman to work for Cousin Garraway!” Lady Evangeline shudders ever so slightly. “Well, let us hope we do not become so desperate that you have to resort to that. Anything else?”

  “Er, Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw has been coming to call, and I think perhaps he may—”

  Lady Evangeline gasps. “Oh, my dear, he is ancient! I fancy you could do much better than him.”

  “I’m afraid not, my lady,” you say quietly. “You see, I have been left without a dowry nor any means of supporting myself after my dear papa was lost at sea, and—”

  Lady Evangeline finishes buttoning your dress and spins you to face the mirror. “That may well be, but on the other hand, just look.”

  You look. The dress—cut demurely enough for a young unmarried lady such as yourself, yet somehow suggestive in the way it clings to your body—has utterly transformed you.

  “You see, my dear, I believe you can do much better than purgatory with Aunt Aurelia or shackling yourself to an odious old toad. And it is high time we did something about that.”

  She leads you back downstairs and explains further. “I shall make inquiries on your behalf for a suitable position. I’m sure there will be other offers for a charming young lady such as yourself. In the meantime, I suggest you have some fun with a few eligible gentlemen.”

  Lady Evangeline raises an eyebrow suggestively. You only just manage to stifle the unladylike giggle that bubbles up, and she beams at you. “That’s the spirit! Now, whom would you like to meet first? My cousin, Sir Benedict Granville?”

  She points toward a tall, dark figure leaning casually against a pillar. “Poor Benny. He finds balls ever so tiresome. You see, half the mamas of the ton are desperately trying to get him to marry their daughters because of his fortune, but he makes the daughters so nervous with his brooding manner and good looks that they clam up entirely around him. What he really needs is someone to challenge him, I fancy. I wonder if you could liven up this sorry event for him?”

  Your eyes then turn to a broad-shouldered form on the edge of the dance floor. The man’s hair is the russet color of autumn leaves at sunset. Lady Evangeline grins.

  “You’ve spotted our handsome Scotsman, Captain Angus MacTaggart! He was frightfully brave at Waterloo, but he now works for the Society for the Protection of Widows and Orphans of the War. He is a wonder at raising money—no one can say no to a war hero, especially with a face like that—but he’s an even greater wonder at caring for orphans. Shall I make an introduction?”

  You gaze at these two attractive and potentially interesting men and try to decide whom to meet first.

  If you pick the handsome and nobly sardonic cousin of Lady Evangeline, turn to this page.

  If you pick the dashing and caring Scot, turn to this page.

  “I think I should stay behind,” you say. “The museum needs help and Kamal must recover from his injuries.”

  Lady Evangeline smiles at you.

  “You have a good heart, my dear. Never lose that.” She rests an elegant hand on your cheek. “Just remember—you are far more capable than you realize. I think you can make a real difference here.”

  Over the next few weeks, you take her advice to heart. Your days are filled with industry and, in their own quiet way, excitement, as you right the fallen artifacts, match them with Kamal’s meticulous cataloging, and find just the right place to display each piece. As the museum slowly comes together, you feel yourself swell with pride at the sight of each mummified cat, and each canopic jar filled with intestines fills a hole in your soul that you did not realize was there.

  You also tend to Kamal as he recovers, and you find yourself looking forward to time spent with the sweet-natured Egyptologist. After the doctor pronounces him well enough to rise, you tenderly lead him to see what you have done with his life’s work.

  “But this is wonderful!” he gasps.

  “You like it?” you venture shyly.

  He gives you a lingering look from the liquid pools of his intelligent cocoa eyes, his boyishly handsome face still marked with bruises.

  “I-I think I should offer you a job! You are the best curator I have ever had,” he says.

  “Oh, Kamal,” you exclaim as you throw your arms around him. “That would be wonderful!”

  Your vigorous motion upends the papers he is carrying, and a notebook falls to the floor. You are shocked to see that in it he has sketched your face lovingly in the margins, in the same delicate style in which he draws all of his beloved artifacts.

  “Oh, Kamal! What is this?” you ask, blushing.

  “It…I…oh, miss, I am sorry. I am too forward. It…it’s just that…I…”

  You realize that in his own shy way, this is a confession of love. You stare at him in wonder.

  As you each gaze into the other’s eyes for a few, deliciously loaded moments, you realize nothing more needs to be said, for you both know you have found your other half in this life. Suddenly, Kamal pulls you into his arms and kisses you with a passion you didn’t know he had.

  The next thing you know, you are tearing at each other’s clothes and making feverish love among the mummies. It doesn’t matter—they are dead. But your loins are alive!

  You marry, of course, and are blissfully happy. You also feature as ongoing comedic side characters for the continued series of Lady Evangeline’s adventures, always providing a safe space and a sympathetic ear when called upon. She drops in from time to time between quests to tell stories to your enthralled offspring. Little Evangeline, your eldest (and sole nonbookish) child, particularly loves these visits from her rambunctious godmother and namesake and grows up to be quite the adventurer herself.

  The museum flourishes under your careful eye, and your legacy is continued in the capable hands of your many adorably studious children. The museum still stands to this day in the heart of Cairo, a wonder for all to see, with your and Kamal’s names inscribed in the entranceway on its grand facade.

  The End

  A few weeks later, you are standing at the docks with Evangeline, seeing Henrietta off with her farmer love. Thanks to some strings expertly pulled by Evangeline, they are traveling to a new life that waits for them abroad. Now armed with assumed names to protect them from Cad, along with their blissful happiness, they wave at you from the ship.

  Yet the sight of the young lovers entwined cannot help but cause you pangs. Lady Evangeline notices and tries to shake you from your gloomy reverie.

  “You have truly impressed me, my dear,” she says. “I have a thought.”

  “Yes, Lady Evangeline?” you say cautiously. She takes both your hands in hers and fixes you with a piercin
g sapphire gaze.

  “You might have heard that I am taking a trip to Egypt soon. I was wondering, would you care to join me as my lady’s companion?”

  You stare at her in wonder. Egypt would be a wonderful adventure…but it will take you far from any chance of seeing Benedict again.

  Do you take her up on the offer? Turn to this page.

  Or does your heart still beat for one impossible, infuriating, wonderful man—and for him alone? Turn to this page.

  “You…you are mad!” you scream at Loveday. You stagger from him, desperate to find Craven and safety.

  Loveday grabs you by the neck. His elegant hands steal the breath from your throat as he lets his own fill the bowl of your ear.

  “Very well, you fool. I suppose I shall have to go with my original plan. Such a shame to crush so beautiful a throat. But just think how it will play out in the press! I, the good, purehearted vicar, find your lifeless body in the eldritch garden. Then, after Lord Craven snaps and kills himself, I find out I am next in line to inherit. The headlines write themselves.”

  Do you fight tooth and nail to break free from the reverend’s clutches? Turn to this page.

  Or do you play dead in a desperate attempt to survive? Turn to this page.

  The person who liked Mrs. Caddington least in Drury Lane turns out to be none other than assistant costumer Viola Orlando. She greets you with virtually no interest in your bona fides once you drop Mrs. Caddington’s name.

  “Rebecca, you mean.” Viola stabs a pin into a dress form she is draping with diaphanous fabric. You have been ushered into her workshop, as well as offered tea and biscuits, despite the late hour. “Awful woman. Mediocre actress. Lovely hair. I should have been her, you know.”

  “Oh?” You note the faded but attractive looks of the elder costumer. The excellent diction. The fine, expressive hands.

  “I was an actress first, of course.” Viola’s voice is flat with aged anger. “But when Rebecca came, she snapped up all the roles. She was voracious. Ambitious. Silly me, I was just good.”

  Lady Evangeline opens her mouth to speak, but you surreptitiously shake your head. Viola is only too eager to continue.

  “I’m good with the fabric, of course, and I love every part of the theater, so here we are. But I’ll have you know, the only good reviews her husband ever wrote about actresses here were about me. ‘Luminous,’ I was called. Rebecca, he had not much praise for. Not until he let her work him over, of course. And when his mind went, she chucked him in Bedlam so fast your head would spin, not that he had any family but her to mind. Lucky Rebecca, too, to have a nobleman waiting to ride in on his white steed to save her. Snatching up the men like she did the roles.”

  Your heart skips. “The nobleman Rebecca married, do you remember his name?” you ask.

  “Granville, of course.” Another pin, another stab.

  “An excellent memory you have, madam,” you say. “It has been some time from those days.”

  “I was always good with my lines. Picture-perfect memory. Yes, Granville was the name. The old nob got her in the family way, mind, hence the hasty marriage, an affront to the law and the Lord though it was.”

  You and Lady Evangeline share a knowing glance. The older woman plows on with her tale, each word dripping in venom.

  “Rich as all get-out the second husband was. Rebecca always did land on her feet. Still, I suppose it was lucky that he was wealthy enough to support the strumpet and the babe. But I shouldn’t say. I tell Mr. Caddington so, though he doesn’t know what I’m saying half the time. I like to think he likes to hear the words, though. I like to think I remind him of the good old days, when he had some.”

  “Wait.” Your voice catches. “This…Mr. Caddington. Who lost his sense. You are saying he is still alive…and in Bedlam?”

  “Of course he’s alive, love!” Viola laughs and gives you a queer look. “I visit the man every Sunday. Someone’s got to be good to him, it might as well be me.”

  “Thank you, Viola,” you say, thrilling at your discovery. If Mr. Caddington is still alive and not divorced by Mrs. Caddington, that would mean she married the late Sir Granville bigamously, thus making Cad an illegitimate heir and Henrietta a lovechild. You turn to leave.

  “Wait.” Viola stops you at the door. “What was it you wanted to ask about?”

  “Whatever it was, dear lady,” you say with a smile, “you have answered us already.”

  This seems to be a most damning situation for Cad! Hurry on to this page.

  You desperately need a proper bath, which you take, and then indulge in a moonlit stroll near the castle. Thus refreshed, you still have much to think over. But no sooner can you begin to sort things out when you stumble upon Abercrombie at one of the castle’s half-ruined outbuildings. There, struck by moonlight and a fevered look, the old man sifts through papers he takes from one of the open drawers of the wooden chest he’s dragged all the way from London—London, which now seems a world away.

  “Good evening, Abercrombie!” you cry, suddenly heartened by the entire mess of a situation you’ve found yourself in by coming to the Highlands. Whatever is happening with Mac, it is certainly a thousand times more interesting than spending your life laying out the Dowager Dragon’s clothes.

  “Aye! Lassie!” Abercrombie responds in his hale and hearty way. “And where is your beau?”

  You blush. “If you mean Mac, he is in the stable. Seems a foal decided today was fit to be his birthday.”

  “Sounds like Mac, aye.” Abercrombie laughs, but casts a nervous glance down at the papers in his hand. He looks a bit like someone searching for something, or like a doddering old man who has misplaced his glasses.

  “Looking for something?” you ask. “If one of the children has been messing about in your things, I—”

  “No, no, lassie. No need to get in a twist. I’m just taking a walk down memory lane, since you and wee Angus have Lover’s Lane quite marked for yourselves.” Abercrombie’s eyes positively twinkle with mischief.

  “I don’t know about that,” you respond, laughing. And blushing. More than a little.

  “Now, lass. You have been a blessing to us all, but more than that to Mac. Whatever ye are to each other, be forgiving of the boy’s past. ’Tisn’t his present, nor his future.”

  Doubt rises inside you like a welling cold spring. “What’s gone on in Mac’s past?”

  “Och, you know the boy was a wild one when he was a lad. But when he was a soldier, he saw things. Did things. All soldiers do.” Abercrombie’s eyes still twinkle, but also search yours.

  “What kind of things?” you say. Abercrombie, seemingly relieved, shakes his head.

  “More will ye know in time, I am sure. Lover’s Lane is that way, lass,” he says with a laugh. “Take your leave and find your way back, before Mac has my head for keeping ye all to myself!”

  You laugh, but the gesture feels empty. If Mac has loved many women before, you could wind up just another disposable bit o’ fluff. As you contemplate, your feet somehow find their way back to the stable. Cursing your woolheadedness, you see a light burning in the window and hear the new foal’s first whinny. You smile despite yourself, pleased at the good work Mac seems to do wherever he goes. Could he truly be such a rake?

  You take a step toward your decided destination, but never make it there. A hand claps over your mouth, and a strange, sultry, familiar voice whispers close in your ear.

  “You need to get out of here now!”

  You have no choice against this powerful manly hand and its owner’s voice. Turn to this page.

  You instinctively seek out Mrs. Butts. Not only does she have the run of the house, but she must also have hold of its secrets. You try to work out how exactly you will broach the subject of vengeful ghosts and/or spiteful dead wives when your quiet march toward the servants’ quarters is shattered by a sharp voice ringing in
your ear.

  “Dead girl! Bad man!”

  You leap a mile. There, out of place and blazing with purpose, is Higgenbottom, the groundskeeper. His hoe glints in the late afternoon light. His eyes, wild and wide, express an urgency you can’t quite understand.

  “Who is the bad man, Higgenbottom?” you ask, searching his face for a clue.

  A pained grimace contorts his features. He reaches out a gnarled hand that holds a gift: a crushed bar of chocolate.

  Your throat catches when you see the label. “Swiss chocolate,” you read in a hoarse whisper.

  “Still here,” Higgenbottom whispers. You are struck by the strained sadness of his voice.

  “Who is still here, Higgenbottom?”

  “It does not do well for a governess to snoop on her employer. Know your place.” Ugh. There, halfway down the stairs and sneering so hard you can see up his nostrils, is Manvers.

  “It does even worse for an employee to think he holds rank over his employer’s lover,” you spit back.

  “You play with fire, girl,” Manvers hisses as you stalk past him, hopefully to find Mrs. Butts.

  “If I do,” you toss back over your shoulder, “you, too, will be burned.”

  You leave the insufferable manservant in your wake, swiftly so that he can’t see how badly you are shaking.

  After several hours, you finally find Mrs. Butts doing some late-night dusting in the foyer, along with Betsy, the mute servant girl. The sight of Mrs. Butts, hunched over and hard at work, sends your heart out. You want nothing more than to find a happier home for you two to work in, one where you could beam with joy at jobs well done, at happy families you help raise with your expert teamwork and unflappable natures. Perhaps, in another life, such simple pleasures will be possible. In this one, you need to know…