Imogen
I perch on my bed as Lucy sorts through heaps of dresses, cloaks, and bonnets. She has no more idea how to pack for a trip abroad than I do. Neither of us has been further afield from Ambermere than to London or Bath.
Mama is nowhere to be found. After that dreadful scene in Papa's study, she retired to her room, prostrate with grief. I am informed by Graves that I have nearly killed my mother with shame.
Ah, well. As long as Mama is busy having her hands chafed and lavender water sprinkled on a handkerchief for her head, at least she will not come here to berate me. I am sure she is not sorry to lose me any more than I am to be away from her.
It is odd, despite living in the same house with my parents my whole life, they already seem like a distant and removed part of my life. I used to miss my older sister Suzanne when she was first married and went away to Surrey, but then again, Ian was always my best friend and staunchest ally.
I will miss him the most, I know. I wish he could come to Cyprus with me.
"Lucy," I say tentatively. "Do you know anything about the British Cypriot territory in Greece?"
"I don't, my lady," she says, throwing me a harassed glance. "Cook did say it's one of those nasty heathenish places where they make you drink goat's milk. I don't know how we will manage, I'm sure."
"We?" I am not sure I've heard her right. "What do you mean, we?"
"My lady, your mother, Lady Enid, says I am to go with you," says Lucy without looking at me. "Ladies of high birth don't go unaccompanied on sea voyages, you see."
"Oh." I close my lips tightly. How characteristic of Mama not allowing me to have my first adventure alone.
Except that Lucy is never such a strict chaperone, and she is likely much more afraid of foreign parts than I am.
"Well, I'm sorry, Lucy," I say. "I dare say it's not what you bargained for when we came to London. Are you going to miss your family?"
"Yes, my lady," says Lucy, arranging my fur boots and slippers in a single line. "Or at least, I would if I could remember them properly. You see, I went into service when I was ten, and I've never been home since."
"Really?" I stare at her, appalled. "I never knew that."
All these years, she has been dressing me, bathing me, doing my hair, and mending my hems, and I have never once asked if she is happy in her position as my maid.
I could have asked, I suppose, but in our family, I think in most of the aristocracy, servants are only like living furniture meant to go about unseen and unheard, as if tender sensibilities are only to be found in the upper classes.
"I wish I'd known, Lucy," I blurt out, troubled. "You don't have to come with me to Cyprus. Not if you don't want to."
"Well," she sends me a rueful glance. "I don't care for it above half, my lady, but I can't very well refuse, can I? If I do, I'll get turned off without my wages or a reference, and my parents can't afford to take in another mouth to feed."
I grip my hands tightly together. "Yes. I suppose that's true. I know how you feel. My parents don't want me at home, either. But I deserve my disgrace, whereas you—"
Whereas you did nothing wrong except for being born into a poor family, I am almost about to say before I think better of it.
"Well, I'm doubly sorry, then," I tell her. "Once we get to Cyprus, I will find a way to pay your fare home. And I will give you a good letter of recommendation, as well."
As long as my promised husband is not a miser or a tyrant, which I do not know yet. I have met him very briefly a few times before, and I think he barely noticed me back then. I pray he is reasonable and willing to be kind to my poor Lucy.
One of the housemaids bustles in with a breakfast tray. It is piled high with kedgeree, sausages, bacon, and my favorite, orange marmalade.
"Your breakfast, my lady," she says, bobbing her head. "And Mr. Jennings has asked me to tell you that the carriage and horses will be ready at ten thirty."
So soon? My heart sinks.
"Eat quickly, my lady," says Lucy, not unkindly. "I'll get the packing done in a trice, but lord knows when we'll get another decent meal again."
My stomach heaves as though I am already aboard a ship in stormy waters, but I see she is trying to be sensible, so I pick dejectedly at some crisp toast.
"What about you?" I ask suddenly. "Did you eat already?"
"Oh, yes, my lady," she says, looking a little startled. She bends over one of the two trunks brought down from the attics, trying to stuff in my sable furs. "I've been up since five, working. Cook gives us porridge before we start with the bedrooms."
Porridge and housework, I think, dismally. Her life has been so dreary, yet she will miss England much more than I do. Surely this speaks volumes about how spoiled I am.
"Listen," I say, jumping up. "Take this kedgeree and these sausages. I don't want them. I'll do the packing while you eat."
Lucy stares at me open-mouthed as I hurry to lock my bedroom door. "Oh, I can't possibly do that, my lady," she says, looking shocked. "It wouldn't be fitting."
"Nobody will know," I say impatiently. "Besides, you're packing the wrong things. We're going to a much warmer climate, you know. I won't need these furs."
Lucy stands helplessly as I discard the furs, the heavy opera cloak lined with satin, a kerseymere pelisse, and a shawl of Norwich silk from the trunk.
"Eat, eat," I tell her, briskly sorting out my lightest summer dresses. It is a pity that Mama's choice always falls on pretty sprigged muslins and missish pastels, which are in no way suitable for a married lady. I hope there are some decent dressmakers in Cyprus, but I have no real expectations of it. We are going to Greece, not Paris.
I also get rid of my fur boots and my more frilly scarves, keeping only jean boots, a modest poke bonnet, and a redingote twill for the ship journey.
Lucy cannot bring herself to eat, but she darts around the room, quickly putting some ribbons and ells of lace into my dressing-case along with the flagon of orange blossom perfume Ian gave me for my last birthday.
I wonder with a sick jolt if I will see him before I leave. I should write him a note, perhaps. Jennings can deliver it discreetly once Papa is out of sight.
In the end, I only have time to pen a few lines before Jennings knocks at the door with the news that the carriage is ready.
Dear Ian, I write. I wish we had the chance to exchange a few words before I am sent away. I will miss you terribly in Cyprus, but if you ever get a chance to travel, you must promise you will come to visit me.
I know Papa is terribly angry, and Mama thinks I am a disappointment, but you know I cannot help the way I am. I think perhaps I was born to be the Family Disgrace, but I do love you very much and will think of you always. With all my love, Ginny.
I hurry down to the hall, the letter tucked away in my sleeve. Lucy brings my dressing-case and a pair of footmen with my trunks. I stop short on the stairs.
Papa stands solemnly before the front door, accompanied by Mama, who looks like she would rather be elsewhere. Ian stands beside them, frowning angrily.
"Well, Imogen," says Papa, and Ian looks up sharply. "I hope you are ready for the voyage."
"Papa, this is ill-advised," says Ian brusquely. "Look at her. She's barely a child. She's not old enough to be sent abroad alone, let alone married."
"Yet she is old enough to disgrace us all," says Mama, dabbing at dry eyes with the edge of her handkerchief. "Nobody thinks of what I have suffered, of course. I have always indulged the girl and now see what comes of it."
I say nothing. I know none of them really want me to speak, and besides, Jennings is at my elbow. I quickly take the opportunity to slide the note to Ian into the capacious folds of his coat pocket.
"Shh," I whisper to a startled Jennings before I go down to the hall. The carriage waits outside, bearing the crest of Lockley.
"Goodbye, Papa," I murmur as I pass him. "Goodbye, Mama. Goodbye, Ian."
If they reply, I do not hear it. I cannot bear to go through long goodbyes, but my eyes swim with tears as I get into the carriage anyway. The horses set off with a jolt.
The streets of London pass by in a haze, drenched with tears and colored with misery. In the distance, the bells of Westminster toll the hour.
I am homesick already, I realize, as we approach the docks. I look at Lucy, equally miserable and red-eyed.
The ship is waiting. It is not a cruiser, only a humble cargo ship. I suppose the best ships do not go to Cyprus; otherwise, it would not count as exiling me to obscurity.
I remember the look on Ian's face again, angry, miserable, and completely helpless to rescue me. My poor brother. After all the trouble I got us both into, he still loves me, I know. I try to cling on to that thought.
A horn blares from the docks. I square my shoulders and step aboard the ship.
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