On a cold December evening

The Ballroom was stuffed, nothing could have been more overwhelming. Gentlemen were rushing towards their dance partners or potential dance partners. Bright colored gowns were swooning in the cool evening air of December. 

Wendy Moira Angela Darling, far more dressed than she’d ever been, was standing close to her parents. At the ripe age of three and twenty, sweet Wendy was at a turning point in her life. As her dear Aunt Millicent would say, Wendy was a late bloomer. Under her mother’s and Aunt’s guidance, she received the most impeccable education a young lady could hope for.

Since the faithful night of her return, she had been compliant, still opinionated and strong yet had accepted her fate. Puberty had been a blur of lectures, about the right and wrong of almost everything. A lady must be modest yet enticing. Strong in her values but pliant to her partner and his wishes. All this was well on paper. Wendy’s issues became apparent at age eighteen, when she was introduced to society, very late already by Edwardian standards. It was thought best for her to enter society along her brother John, when he would turn sixteen. Aunt Millicent would always blame it on this afterwards… For Wendy did not find a match on her first season.

The sentiment was that, maybe she was not experienced and it was simply not her year. Wendy knew very well why she did not tie the knot, and it sure was not related to it being her first year. The courtiers were to much in love with the ideal woman, than they were of her or any of her female friends. It tended to irritate her to the upmost degree. She was not versed in romanticism, she did not care for that aspect. She was not instructed to fall in love, but book a husband wealthy enough to support herself, and her family if needs be. But it became an impossible task, when said suitors would start talking. Proper conversations included and exclusively so, a compliment to her beauty or depending on how eloquent the interlocutor was, on her very adequate manners. So, no marriage proposal befell her.
And that was not so bad, said Aunt Millicent, for Wendy is so very pretty. And she gained popularity by simply showing up that year. What could we hope for by the first attempt ? Close to nothing.

This small curse repeated itself, each and every year. At the beginning of each season, Aunt Millicent would declare that, this year the ratio of male and female contenders was perfect. Leaving enough young men to set her eyes on, and choose the finest gentlemen. And Wendy’s eyes would wander in between the tiles of the pavement, counting lines, or silently watching outside windows. It isn’t to say some did not acquaint themselves to Miss Darling.

On her third season, one very wealthy baron had tried. Oh how Aunt Millicent had loved him for her, she had gone as far as concoct private moments for the pair. She’d hope to light a spark that would lead, directly, to the alter. Sir George Hamsworth the third, had had the unfortunate idea to write some sort of poem in Wendy’s honor. Sir George Hamsworth the third was many things for sure, but a writer he was not. And Wendy could not keep her composure, when on a sunny afternoon in Hyde Park, the Sir had rendered a dramatic reading of said poem. She had laughed so hard, tears were running down her face. He had compared her to quote « a blushing salmon ». How Sir George had thought to assimilate her to a salmon, she would never know. He left very much in a blushing fashion and never crossed her path. He went on, later that season, to marry a nice lady. All things considered, she was happy for him. He wasn’t a bad fellow, and needed a wife who would love and endure his poetic outbursts.

All of this would have been very amusing, if the situation was not dire. Mr Darling was in a pickle, since last June. He still worked at the bank and had made an outstanding progress when Wendy was sixteen, being promoted to higher and higher positions. But he had conducted poor placements, in coal mines and at the worst possible time, just before the national coal strike. Money was tight, and being part of good society was expensive. After all the Darling children were all out. Notably John had proposed to a bright lady, Catherine, one month before the strikes. And John had to have a beautiful wedding, Aunt Millicent was adamant about it. Expenses were just that much expensive, that poor Mr Darling was left to turn every night in his cabinet. No amount of soothing from Mrs Darling could calm him. Wendy could almost hear his rambling thoughts. He never pushed her towards the alter, not really, but as a good daughter Wendy came to terms with that simple fact of life. Sons were always expensive, wed daughters not so much.
So come December, Wendy was resolutely prepared for any gentlemen of means. The Londonian season was coming around fast. Any social event was convenient to observe potential suitors.

She updated her garde-robe, all of it paid by her gracious aunt, to the secret relief of Mr Darling.
And there she was, standing in her blue evening ballgown, too corseted, fighting a strange feeling in her stomach. Twisting her glove, her blue bell eyes searched the ballroom once more. Her interest was supposed to rest on a baron. She should’ve felt like a huntress, yet she felt restless as a prey.

Once, Aunt Millicent had asked her what she was looking for in a man. And the memories of leaves and orchids had filled her, her mind supplying images of light hair, muddied hands and soft lips. Ashamed that she could still remember this, she had blushed and replied « I suppose what every lady ought to want ».
It was idle to think about what she wanted, the dry reality of it all was present in her mind, at every moment. Her hours became consumed by gossip about the up and coming celibates. She had set her mind on a baron. He was not very popular but remained wealthy and had, much like her, the impossible curse of celibacy. For Wendy wasn’t a young promising lady, she was already deemed an old maid.

Her father had started frequenting Sir Lucas Clifford’s social circles, and from one brandy to another had mentioned his, very, available daughter. Mr Darling mentioned her age, which earned him a quiet stare from Sir Clifford. But then he had showed him a family picture taken that summer. This was enough to make Sir Clifford move quite swiftly. Mr Darling had constituted, over the years, an acceptable dowery. A substantial sum that, even in the most difficult months, he had left untouched. A plan well thought, from a man who knew the price of every little thing, even the price of a kiss. Such was Mr Darling, a funny little man that loved his daughter so much, he desired a titled man for her.

She had met Sir Lucas Clifford on two separate occasions. Each of those he had stood next to her, and talked a great deal about his life and projects such as renovating his country side mansion. He had droopy eyes that wandered too much on her skin, drank a bit more than acceptable and decidedly was boring. One could say he was a lousy pretender for Wendy, if she weren’t an old maid.

The music ended. The assembly of busy mamas and their daughters moved like one man, toward the lemonade tables as was customary in between dances. There Wendy positioned herself, strategically, at the far end of the lemonade table, waiting patiently for her baron to show up and ask her to the next dance. The plan was simple, isolate him, make him talk (that one was the easy part) and get that proposal. She glanced at her cleavage, that dipped just an inch lower than usual, and adjusted herself.

The crowd of gentlemen made their way to the ladies, most of them already fanning themselves and readying their dance cards.
As she was steadying her breath, she felt someone watching her, maybe one of the suitors. She thought she caught a green gaze, so intense, among the crowd. It lasted a second, yet it troubled her. She had to keep her head in the game, this was not the time for foolish ideas.

In truth sometimes her mind went to strange and forgotten places, made of pink clouds and turquoise lagoons. Places, she had made a point to not revisit, so much so, that her mind vanished those memories. The mind works in mysterious ways, hers was spelled to blur and occult the fateful year of her disappearance. She remembered leaving the nursery through the window, with her brothers. Had she imagined that she was flying ?
Nobody ever talked about that time, and so like magic it did not exist in anybodies mind. Except hers, sometimes. Suddenly in front of her appeared the one she had to expected, Sir Clifford.

« Miss Darling, you look positively charming tonight » he greeted her. He wore a well adjusted suit and a very ambitious mustache.

« Sir Clifford, what a pleasure to see you » she replied with a slight bow, composing her feature, adding a big smile. She had practiced that smile all morning, with Aunt Millicent. They had settled on a closed mouth smile, that looked the most genuine.

« I would like to have your next dance » he announced, standing very tall. Wendy noticed that he wan’t asking really. He was already taking her arm and placing them on the dance floor.
She glanced at her parents, her mother gave her an encouraging smile, her father seemed pleased. She could do this. She had been trained to dance.

The music started and he put his arm around her, the waltz began. She twirled with grace, trying to focus on the music. Anxiety rushed through her, he was looking at her, begging her silently to talk. What could she say ? Then it came to her.

« Fine weather we have this winter, is it not ? » she almost tripped saying those words. With relief, he responded something about snow and very cold. But she was not listening, the man from before was here, on the left side when she had turned and seen him. Clothed in black, hair unkept, eyes fixed on her. It was only a moment, before her partner made her turn again. Said partner, was engaged in a monologue about weather reports. She could not care less.
The dance ended, Wendy tried to steady herself, she was loosing her chance. Her partner lead her back, at the lemonade table he had found her.

« Thank you Miss Darling, I would very like to see you after dinner - he paused searching her face - for we have lots to discuss and I don’t wish to wait anymore » he finished. That was as good as a proposal.
« I would love that, Sir » she curtsied. He took leave and she remained alone with her thoughts. Well, not that hard when you shut up, she thought to herself.

She could now let herself go, her plan was working. She didn’t have to use tricks apparently. Thinking she was difficult to marry had been, unconsciously, a comfort to her. It used to mean she still had time. But her suitor was quick, it was going very well. Reality started to fall on her. She would become Lady Lucas Clifford, wife and soon after, a mother. Waking up next to that awkward big man.

The air was heavy, felt hot, burned her throat. Her anxiety was gaining on her. She had to get out of here. Wendy hurried across the ballroom to the balcony, her stomach was churning in a menacing way.

She could not have seen, in her hurry, the tall figure following her. Resting against the railing, she took in the cold night air, letting it dry her sweat and fear. He’d lost her gloves in her rush. She left her fingers dig in the snow covering the railing of the balcony.

« Are you alright Miss ? »

She turned around, she hadn’t heard the man’s footsteps on the marbled floor. It was that man, the one that stared at her the entire evening. He approached some more, and took her gloves of the floor.

« I’m quite alright Sir. Just needed some air. » she responded, collecting herself. He was closer now and she could observe his features-young, shaved clean, hair unruly and blond.
« Do I know you, Sir ? » She whispered while he stood tall. He playfully waved her gloves and hummed.

« Oh, how disappointing sweet Wendy… ».