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The ballroom was crowded, glittering with jewels and soft lights, but Bay knew exactly what direction to look in. Ruby looked beautiful, her stylish gown a deep emerald green, even if current fashion didn’t really embrace her curvaceous figure. Whatever the dictates of trends, Bay saw he was not the only one in the room admiring her, and he threaded quickly through the throng, subtly cutting off another guest in a tuxedo who was about to approach Ruby.
“Darling!” he greeted with familiarity, and clasped her hand. No wedding or engagement rings, and she recognized him. It was nice when things were easy that way. Then he momentarily forgot himself, staring into her blue eyes, because it had been so long since he’d seen her, a lifetime if not more.
She blushed demurely. “Dear, there you are! I was quite lost.”
Bay shook himself and turned so her arm was tight under his. “Well, I’m so glad you made it,” he replied randomly. “Would you like some punch?” He guided her towards the refreshments, leaning down to murmur in her ear. “John Watson.” That was his identity in this life.
She leaned up to adjust his collar. “Rosalie Willis.”
He fixed the name in his mind. “I’m glad you’ve come, we need your help,” he said convivially.
This both intrigued and alarmed Rosalie. “Oh?”
John handed her a glass of punch and sipped his own, his eyes lighting upon another man across the room. “That’s my very good friend, Christopher Tietjens,” he pointed out. Of course she would recognize him as Magnus—tall, broad-shouldered, and blond, his air aloof and separate even in the middle of a crowd. “And that’s his wife, Sylvia.” Another part of the room, where a vivacious blond held court with a handful of lively gentlemen, laughing gaily and smoking a cigarette in a fancy holder.
Rosalie turned away quickly. “Galena?” she hissed in surprise.
“Abnormal development,” John whispered in her ear. “Doesn’t remember. Makes things rather difficult.” He meant, of course, that Sylvia made things difficult for her husband. Not remembering happened often enough and could be dealt with, if the person was amenable. But Sylvia was clearly not amenable.
“Oh dear,” Rosalie commented sadly. John gave her a look that said sympathy would not be her reaction, once she actually met Sylvia.
Christopher looked in their direction and John signaled him over. He was not particularly tall or large, but his clothes fit badly, like they’d been made for a smaller person, and he hunched as though afraid he might hit the ceiling otherwise. And perhaps there was a little magic around him, Rosalie thought, that made him seem larger, encouraged people to make more room for him than was needed. He was obviously uncomfortable at this party, and whenever Sylvia’s laugh rang out he glanced in her direction as if it pained him. Some of this might be for the benefit of the crowd, Rosalie thought; he and Sylvia both captured attention, in different ways, and glances bounced between them.
“Ah, Chrissie,” John greeted warmly. “You remember my fiancée, Rosalie Willis?” Rosalie smiled and blushed daintily when he said this, as if he’d just made the proposal for the first time. Which, of course, he had.
Christopher took her hand, recognition lighting his eyes and smile. “Of course. Miss Willis, how are you? I do hope the wedding is soon.”
“I’m staying with Chrissie in his flat, near Gray’s Inn,” John added.
“How pleasant!” Rosalie enthused. “I’ve come to town to stay with my aunt. She’s elderly and not much for society, though.” Should be easy enough to convince of John and Rosalie’s ‘long-standing’ engagement, which actually had just begun.
“There’s my—” Christopher turned towards where Sylvia used to be, but didn’t see her anymore. “Oh dear, I seem to have lost my wife,” he remarked dryly. “But, there is my friend Vincent McMasters. We work together at the Department of Statistics.”
“He and Chrissie are terribly brainy,” John teased. “Always calculating how much something is going to cost the government.”
“And then massaging the figures to fit the latest political outlook,” Christopher added, with more than a hint of bitterness.
Rosalie could see this had not been an easy life for him, despite being born to privilege. “I’m sure you will prevail,” she encouraged, touching his hand.
“Well there you are,” cut in a voice, at once familiar and strange—strange in its harshness, in the complex layers of negative emotions it carried. Sylvia had appeared from behind Christopher, a flock of gentlemen waiting behind her like pet dogs, throwing nervous looks at her husband. Christopher gazed at them steadily, memorizing their names, then turned away indifferently. Several of them were still intimidated, however. “Who’s this?” Sylvia demanded of Rosalie, with slightly less tact than required.
John jumped in smoothly. “My fiancée, Rosalie Willis,” he introduced. “This is Mrs. Tietjens.”
“Mrs. Tietjens was his mother,” Sylvia shot back tartly. “You must call me Sylvia! Dear John, I didn’t know you were engaged! You’ve been keeping secrets.” Her tone was teasing and familiar, in a way that other fiancées might not like.
“Oh, Sylvia, I’m so glad to meet you at last!” Rosalie burbled, her natural enthusiasm spilling forth. “John has told me so much about you!”
Though the words were spoken with utter sincerity and warmth, Sylvia’s smile immediately fell away. “Has he,” she responded flatly. John bit back a smile, as Sylvia obviously couldn’t imagine him saying anything good. Abruptly she turned to her husband. “Darling,” she began with a fake smile, “the boys have promised me a ride in their motorcar. You don’t mind if they bring me home, do you?”
“No, of course not,” Christopher rumbled, and though it was gone in an instant, there was no mistaking the flash of disappointment in Sylvia’s eyes. Had she wanted him to forbid her? Why—just to cause a scene? Or perhaps, Rosalie thought, she would rather stay with her husband, if only he would show that he cared a little bit. How curious.
“Well, come along, boys,” Sylvia proclaimed grandly, turning to her flock of fans. “Show me this fancy contraption you’ve been bragging about. Don’t wait up, Chrissie dear!” she called back.
“No, I shan’t,” he agreed in a normal tone, as if he were addressing a flatmate out for an evening of tomfoolery, and not his wife. He turned back to John and Rosalie. “That’s generally my cue to leave,” he added. Clearly he was not unhappy about this. “I hope I will meet you again soon, Miss Willis.”
They said their goodbyes, even cordial and correct—every era had social nuances, but here and now they seemed especially important, under so many stern, judgmental gazes. Then Christopher left, with great dignity, by a different door than his wife had.
John and Rosalie stayed for a dance; but she was burning to know more about the world she had entered and why her friends were in such pain. It seemed that privacy was a rare commodity, however, and brought with it suspicion and rumors.
“I could drop you off at your aunt’s, and come back later unseen,” John murmured in her ear. Servants would notice if young Rosalie did not come home, but as a man John had more freedom here. “I’ll make sure no one knows.”
Rosalie’s eyes sparkled in anticipation. “Yes, you must,” she agreed eagerly. “I feel I’ve been so long without you, any of you.” She had been Bay’s bride many times, Magnus’s too; she loved them equally, in different ways, and the more she remembered of her past the more she missed. Just having someone to freely embrace, whose questions she didn’t have to hide from, was a marvel, and she craved more.
“Let’s go then,” John suggested. He looked so debonair in his top hat and cape, sweeping Rosalie into a coach.
“I think perhaps you would look especially handsome with a mustache,” she declared, and John blinked at her and laughed. “I hope that wasn’t too forward,” she worried quickly. They were keen to connect with each other, but also well aware of the driver listening.
“No, no, not too forward,” John assured her, as any man of the world might say to his young and sheltered sweetheart. “A mustache. Hmm, I will think about that. Not so much the fashion right now, unless one wants to be Continental.”
“Have you been to the Continent?” Rosalie asked, changing the subject smoothly. Although she had grown up far from London, her parents had given her a proper education, and with only a slightly nudge had agreed to send her to be her aunt’s companion. Alas it was destined to be a short-lived profession, as she would soon be married to a handsome, successful doctor. A woman here and now was meant to be content with such a fate, joyful even, once she had fulfilled her purpose and brought new life into the world as a wife and mother (though Rosalie knew it could never be exactly that way for her and John, as they couldn’t have children). It was right where Rosalie herself wanted to be; but she had seen the women protesting on the street earlier in the day, demanding the right to vote, and with her perspective across time she sympathized with and admired them. The opposing forces reacted, it seemed, by clamping down even more tightly on their old standards.
“You must call upon me tomorrow,” Rosalie insisted, when John walked her to the door. “At ten? To meet my aunt. She loves pink carnations and caramels,” she added, by way of advice for ensuring a smoother gathering.