Chapter Text
November 15, 1873
The last time I spoke to my family was precisely one year ago today: the 15th of November, 1872.
I remember the date perfectly, and how could I not? It was the date of my sixteenth birthday. Mother had invited all of our cousins from up North, and I know that the trip from there to Oxford was quite lengthy. Their presents were on the table in the sitting room, neatly wrapped up just for me. I kept glancing at them, longing to know what was underneath the newspaper wrapping. To this day, I still don't know what they chose to gift me.
It should've, could've, would've been a perfectly fine day. Everything was set up for me. Everything should've been about me. Everything should have gone smoothly. Except, there was one little problem. They were celebrating the life of a girl named Lucille Bennett.
That is not my name.
*****
November 15, 1872
From the moment I awoke and saw sunlight streaming into my room, I knew that it was going to be a difficult day. The dress I was to wear sat folded at the foot of my bed, and the mere knowledge of its existence was the cause of most of my displeasure. If my mother were in the room, she’d tell me that the grimace on my face seemed to be a permanent fixture these days. If I recall correctly, the dress actually used to be my mother’s. It was a garish and mildly outdated thing with carefully placed frills and laces, particularly on the backside of the top-skirt. Putting it on seemed like an insurmountable task, but I had to do it. So I put on a chemise and tightened the corset like I was so used to doing. Then came the stockings and the petticoats and finally the dress itself. With all of the fabric, I felt like one one of my old worn-out dolls.
Upon looking in the mirror, it was easy enough to see Lucille. Miss Bennett. Wavy hair, green eyes, freckles, cheeks flushed with rouge. It was a face I had seen thousands of times, but it has never been mine. Not really.
The majority of the day passed in an uncomfortable blur. Feeling like a stuffed doll is a sensation I should be used to by now, but for some reason I just could not shake the discomfort. That was my second sign that it would be a difficult day. If I am unable to manage all of my idiosyncrasies and less-than-normal habits, I will end the day in hysterics. It has happened time after time, often at inopportune moments. I am grateful that my family was only wealthy enough to tutor and obsess over my older brother. I only had one tutor, and all she ever taught me was that something was intrinsically wrong with me.
So far the day had been mostly talking, and most of it barely involved me. The cousins hadn’t arrived yet, but Mother’s friends had. Their conversation seemed mindless at first, but then I heard something that made me realise they were discussing me. I stared intently at the novel I was reading while I eavesdropped.
“She’s pretty for sixteen, Sophie. Has anyone caught her eye?” one of the women asked. Mrs. Williamson, I think. The woman next to her, Mrs. Barnes, nodded in agreement.
“I heard that a few of the wealthy lords are looking for brides for their sons,” Barnes added. Mother hummed in acknowledgement, and I tried not to squirm. I do not want to endure a snobbish boy attempting to court me.
“I’ll have to look into that,” Mother said in a tone that revealed her clear interest in the idea. “She knows how to do most household tasks very well— I’m sure they’d love her.”
I resisted from gritting my teeth. I only did those things well because they were repetitive and predictable. I do my best when things are repetitive and predictable.
Their conversation shifted to a different topic, and I was relieved. The idea of getting married and surrendering the rest of my life to some man had never appealed to me. The day went on, the evening approached, family arrived, and I was getting more and more anxious.
You see, today was more than just my birthday. It was the final straw for me, and my perfect chance to get out of this house. Being around my family, people who do not give me the liberty to choose who or what I will become, was driving me crazy. And today would be the day that I did something about it.
I fidgeted with my skirts. Did I really want to do this? Was it really worth it— was it this big of a deal, or was I just being entitled and naive? Upstairs in my room I had a suitcase full of clothes and a ticket for the evening train, but did I really need to use them?
I was broken from my thoughts as I felt a sudden pain in the side of my arm. Mother. She pinched me.
“Stop that,” she hissed quietly. I must have looked confused, because she gave me an exasperated look. “Your hands. Stop that.”
I flushed red as I immediately let go of my skirts. Yes, it was worth it to do the plan. My current life would surely kill me, if I kept living like this. And so it was decided.
When dinner was called, that was my cue. I took advantage of the distraction and slipped upstairs to my bedroom. When they inevitably notice that I’m not at the table, Mother will no doubt assume that I’m just freshening up. But even then, I don’t have much time. So I striped down as fast as I could, and got dressed in a more masculine getup that wasn’t nearly as garish or bulky. I grabbed my suitcase in preparation to leave, but then I realised one glaring issue.
In the candlelight, I turned to look at myself in the mirror. Dressed handsomely, like any other person on the city streets. But the hair…the hair would have to go. I eyed the sewing scissors on my desk. Before I could second guess myself or go downstairs and beg for my Mother’s forgiveness, I grabbed the sewing scissors and a section of hair and I relished the sound of metal cutting off what I no longer needed. It made a pleasant sort of hiss. I repeated the process, section after section, until I was satisfied. In the process I attempted to copy a look I once saw on one of my brother’s friends, but it came out looking much less elegant. Upon realising that I had been barely breathing, I took in a deep breath of air and held it before exhaling. My eyes were drawn to the suitcase again. Here came the tricky part.
Beneath my window were several lavender and lilac bushes. Holding my breath in anticipation, I dangled my suitcase as far down as I could before letting it drop. The bushes rustled and the case slid onto the ground, unharmed. I was much heavier than a suitcase, though. Carefully I climbed out of the window and lowered myself as far as I dared to do so. My fingers ached with the effort of hanging on to the small ledge that lined our townhouse. I took a few breaths to calm myself, counted to ten, and let go. My breath was knocked out of me as I hit the ground, the bushes not breaking my fall nearly as well as I had hoped. Fueled by fear as well as the small taste of freedom I was experiencing, I grabbed my suitcase and ran. Mother would be storming upstairs any minute now.
From down the street, I swear I heard her scream of anger.
***
It wasn’t until I got to the train station that I realised just how properly insane I was to even attempt this. Maybe everyone was right about me. Maybe there was something intrinsically wrong with me, some part of me that was built defective. Like a doll, full of sand instead of soft stuffing.
If that was the case though, then it’s worth it for the feeling of utter euphoria I was experiencing.
The Oxford train station was not especially crowded, mostly due to the fact that I was catching an evening train. There were still plenty of people around though, and going unnoticed by them felt like a victory. As I boarded the train and as my ticket was checked, it still felt like a victory. My single suitcase sat on the rack above me, rattling as the train moved.
If I were to open my suitcase, most of the space would be taken up by clothing: collared shirts, trousers, a tie or two, my nicest coat. But atop the neatly folded clothes would be a small pile of papers. It cost a pretty penny to make it happen, but according to those papers my name was now Wesley Hawthorne, not Lucille Bennett. I felt giddy just thinking about it. I had always liked the name Wesley. I would start anew in London. I’m sure there’d be plenty of opportunities there for me to take advantage of.
I was rudely broken from my daydreaming as another person entered the cabin. It was a boy about my age who was quite out of breath. He was dressed a little more sloppily than I, and he too was carrying a rather large suitcase. The small plaque on the side of the suitcase read “Marshall Wentworth”. I couldn’t help but stare as he settled down across from me, not out of attraction, but out of sheer fascination. Finally he seemed to notice that there was another person present.
“Oh. Hullo there,” the boy said, looking somewhat surprised by the presence of another person. He leaned forward and stuck out his hand. “I’m— uh— Virgil. Virgil…Dalton.”
I looked at him sceptically. His suitcase seemed to say otherwise, either that or he stole it.
“Wesley Hawthorne,” I said as I took his hand and shook it firmly. Perhaps now would be best to mention it. “And who might Marshall Wentworth be?”
The boy looked confused, then panicked, and then embarrassed as he looked down at his suitcase. He muttered several ungentlemanly curses as he attempted to pry the plaque off. He looked at me desperately.
“Please don’t tell anyone. I, well, you see… I’m trying to…”
“Run away?” I finished for him. He nodded. “No need to worry. I am as well.”
“You are?” he exclaimed.
“I am,” I said simply. I didn't blame him for being so surprised. It was quite the coincidence for two teenage runaways to be on the same car of the same train at the same time. He seemed to be unsure of what to say, so I spoke first.
“My mother was pushing me to marry someone of higher station. She doesn't care very much about what I want to do in my life,” I admitted, and made an attempt to lower my voice just a little bit. I was still scared about not sounding male enough. Marshall's expression softened.
“My father was doing much of the same. He wants me to marry this awful countess for reasons I cannot comprehend,” he scoffed, “Perhaps it is an uncommon opinion, but I would much rather have a wife who can do exactly what I can than a wife who can do little more than look pretty.”
“I agree,” I said automatically. I had met many women like that, who were more props than people. None of them were nice to be around. All of them had felt miserable. Marshall seemed troubled.
“Do you have a plan for when you get to London, Mister Hawthorne?” he asked, and I felt an odd thrill as he called me that.
“No, not exactly. It's London, though. People can do anything there. Do you have a plan?”
Marshall looked bewildered by my words. He had every right to, I suppose. Saying it out loud made it sound a bit naive.
“Of course I do! Goodness, you'd have gotten yourself killed in a week, no doubt about it,” Marshall said exasperatedly. He shook his head in disapproval, his brows furrowed.
“I don't have much of a choice,” I began, but Marshall interrupted before I could continue.
“No. Change of plans, you're coming with me. I don't know how you expected to survive on the streets in winter…”
“With you? I don't even know you!” I asked incredulously, and I blushed upon realising how high my voice had gone.
“Yes, with me. My grand-uncle lived just outside of London and left his house to me in his will. No one has touched it in years,” he said. There were obvious holes in his plan, like the fact that his family would no doubt check the house first, since it had been passed down to him. But I decided not to mention it.
“Then I suppose I'll be coming with you, Marshall Wentworth,” I relented. He smiled.
“That you are, Wesley Hawthorne. That you are.”