23. March 2, 1717 London, England
Beatrix paces at the top of the stone steps, in and out of the narrow shadows cast by the row of grand columns.
It’s the closest she’s been to the new cathedral, not even a decade old.
She feels guilty, as if she has betrayed a dear friend by standing on these steps, running her hand along the smooth wood of the new doors.
She can’t bring herself to push them open.
The skirts of her silk dress rustle around her ankles, and the tightly spiraled curls of her hair bounce at her shoulder.
Her guts twist. Will Oliver show up, or is this all some cruel, long joke?
Is it silly to think he’ll come back? To put on this dress?
To believe him? Maybe he was only being polite when he agreed to meet her here. Maybe he never meant to come. Maybe—
A carriage slows to a stop next to the marble statue of Queen Anne presiding over the cathedral square. Beatrix ducks behind a column. She peers out, her heart pounding a wild rhythm inside her chest.
The door of the carriage swings open. A tall, well-dressed man with dark hair steps out, and she smiles.
His brown wool coat falls to his knees, its edges embroidered with silver thread that catches in the waning daylight as he approaches St. Paul’s.
He carries a black tricorn hat awkwardly under one arm, as if he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do with it. Her heart flutters in her chest.
Beatrix steps from the shadows, and Oliver looks up from the bottom of the stairs. His eyes grow wide, but he doesn’t say a word as she descends. She glances down at her dress. “What? Is it all right?”
She has seen quite a few fashions fall in and out of favor over the decades, though she can never understand why they do. As far as she can tell, there is no rhyme or reason to what size skirt she should wear or where her neckline should fall. And don’t get her started on hoop skirts and stays.
She found this gown in a wardrobe in one of the guest rooms at the manor, forgotten along with the rest of the dresses Lady Holbrook deemed out of fashion.
She thought it was just Lady Holbrook being frivolous.
How can a thing of beauty stop being beautiful just because someone says it isn’t any longer?
And the dress is beautiful, with a fitted bodice and sweeping skirts the color of sage in a summer garden. The silk brocade shines in the late-afternoon light, embroidered with snaking vines in a fine gold thread. The sleeves fall in ruffles at her elbows, trimmed with delicate lace.
Oliver hasn’t said a word, only stares at her with his mouth agape. Maybe Lady Holbrook was right. Maybe the dress is unsuitable. “Should I change? The manor isn’t far, I can go back and find—”
“No,” Oliver says, finding his voice. He takes her hand and guides her down the last few steps. “Don’t change a thing.”
Butterflies dance through Beatrix’s insides as Oliver leads her to the carriage.
This is different from the first time she met him, when they had no expectations of ever seeing each other again.
Different from Carnevale, when they spent the night dancing and laughing without ever knowing who they were dancing and laughing with.
She almost wishes for the masks of Venice again, porcelain armor she can hide behind.
Oliver helps her into the carriage. He exchanges a few words with the driver and slides in after her.
“Where are we going?” she asks as they pull away from St. Paul’s.
“The Theatre Royal in Drury Lane,” Oliver says. “Tonight is the first ballet performance in all of England. It’s like a play, but the story is told with music and dance instead of words.”
“That sounds lovely,” Beatrix says, though she can’t imagine how she will understand it if no one is speaking.
“It’s the first modern ballet performance in history,” he adds excitedly. “This is where it all starts.”
“Is ballet around in your time?” She is constantly surprised by what things survive from one century to the next and what things don’t last the decade.
“Some things have changed, but at its heart, it’s the same. I used to take lessons when I was a kid, and I danced in a recital based on a performance from the 1800s.” He smiles wistfully.
“Why did you stop?” His memories of it seem so fond.
His smile fades. He shifts on the upholstered bench next to her.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” she says quickly.
“No, it’s fine.” But he won’t look at her.
All his attention is on his hands, clasped in his lap.
“My mom was my dance instructor, growing up. I was dancing since I could walk, to hear her tell it.” A ghost of a smile crosses his lips, there and gone in a heartbeat.
“She and my dad were in an accident when I was fourteen. They didn’t survive. ”
Beatrix lays a tentative hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“I couldn’t go to another dance lesson after that. I tried, but it wasn’t the same without her.”
“I thought you danced wonderfully at Carnevale,” she offers.
“It came back to me when I heard the music.” Oliver’s eyes shine in the dark. “I guess it’s harder to forget than I thought.”
Beatrix takes his hand and gives it a single squeeze—everything she can’t put into words—and hopes he knows she understands. It’s been more than two hundred years since she first danced with William. Her body still remembers the steps he led her through in that clearing.
The carriage rolls to a stop at the mouth of a wide alley. She’d think Oliver was playing a trick on her if it wasn’t for the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen disappearing into the shadowy passage beside them.
“It’s not much to look at, is it?” Beatrix says. She never would have guessed there was a theater here.
“Not yet,” Oliver says with a wink, and Beatrix laughs. He is absurd. He pushes open the carriage door and climbs out. “The theater is through the alley.”
Oliver turns back to her and straightens, suddenly serious. He offers Beatrix his hand, and she places hers in his. He brushes his lips across her knuckles, playing the lord to her lady. “Will you do me the honor of joining me for an evening at the ballet?”
Her heart flutters in her chest. What is it Jane used to say? “It would be my privilege.”
Beatrix had expected the Globe, but the Drury Lane theater is built for a more sophisticated crowd.
Galleries still rise over the pit, but a handful of private boxes sit below them, draped in elegant green velvet, and the crowd looks like it belongs at one of the Holbrooks’ lavish dinner parties.
The biggest difference—and the strangest to Beatrix—is the pit itself.
There are no half-drunk groundlings jostling for a decent view, no opportunities for a thief to pick a pocket undetected.
Instead, aristocrats chatter eagerly on neat rows of padded benches as they wait for the show to begin.
A cackling laugh rings across the pit, and Beatrix freezes.
She knows that laugh. It echoed off Lady DeSallowe’s parlor walls every second Thursday.
She scans the crowd and spots the boisterous woman sitting with her bored-looking husband.
Slowly, the woman turns toward Beatrix, as if she can feel her gaze on her.
Beatrix rushes forward and slips her arm through Oliver’s, putting him between her and the lady. He glances down at her, surprised by her touch. She pulls him along. “Keep walking,” she says under her breath. Oliver matches his stride to hers.
He glances toward the pit. “Friend of yours?”
“A friend of Lady DeSallowe,” Beatrix whispers.
“Ah, I see,” Oliver says, his voice low. “Is that why you’re using me as a shield?”
“Yes,” Beatrix says sheepishly. “Sorry. I panicked.” She has no desire to be interrogated by the overbearing woman, about either Jane or the dress that obviously doesn’t belong on her. She hasn’t even lived this life for three years.
“It’s fine. I like a little covert operation with my ballet.” He smiles at her, and the tension in her chest eases.
They reach the entrance to the galleries, and Beatrix drops Oliver’s arm to wrangle her skirts.
She follows him up a dimly lit staircase and almost runs into the back of him when he stops on a narrow landing.
He pushes aside the dark green velvet curtain, the glint in his eyes unmistakable. “After you, m’lady.”
Beatrix steps past him. “What are you so smug—” She gasps.
Oliver appears by her side. “What do you think?”
She was wrong about the pit. This is the best seat in the house. She sinks into one of the plush, high-backed chairs, upholstered in the same soft velvet as the curtain. “Oliver Rhodes, are you trying to impress me?”
His cheeks flush. Her heart skips.
“I travel here from hundreds of years in the future,” Oliver says, taking his seat next to hers. “And this is what impresses you?” He shakes his head, but a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
“It is a very comfortable chair.” She runs her hands over the arms. “And I’ve never sat in a private box before.” Come to think of it, she’s never sat for a theater performance at all. Or watched one without robbing a patron or two.
Oliver drops his voice, even though they’re alone. “Try to keep your hands to yourself this time.”
Beatrix leans closer, two conspirators sharing a secret. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Oliver grins. “Just wait.”
She doesn’t have to wait long. A dozen musicians enter, playing strings and pipes.
They take their places on the wings of the stage, and the story begins.
A story of an unlikely union between the goddess of love and the god of war.
A story that needs no words to convey, only movement and gesture and the most graceful dancing Beatrix has ever seen.
An ensemble dances the first number: Mars and his soldiers in a war march, impressive in its sharp precision.
Then the woman dancing Venus enters. Elegant.
Soft. She spins across the stage, faster and faster, her skirts flaring and swirling around her, until Beatrix swears she’s not even touching the ground.
When the lovers meet, Mars leaps and bounds as if he’s capable of taking flight.
Beatrix didn’t even know people could move like that.
She holds her breath through the finale, until love wins, and the dancers join together in the last grand number.
The audience stands to applaud the performers as they bow, and Beatrix leaps to her feet. She glances over at Oliver. Every gaze in the theater is on the dancers, except for his. He’s watching her.
He leans closer, to be heard over the crowd. “Did you like it?”
Beatrix has been so swept away by the ballet that she’s lost all track of time. Lost track of the world outside her little box with Oliver. “I loved it.”
The carriage lurches to a stop outside the manor, and Beatrix peers out through the window into the night. The house is dark. The Holbrooks must still be at their dinner party.
“Back before the lady of the house even knows you were gone, as promised,” Oliver says. He doesn’t move to leave the carriage. Neither does she.
“Would you like to come inside? I could make us some tea,” she suggests. “Or something to eat, if you’re hungry.” Anything to hold on to the evening for a little while longer.
“I better not,” Oliver says. “I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”
Beatrix forces a smile. “Next time, then.”
“Next time?” He sounds surprised by the suggestion.
“I mean, if you want to,” she adds hurriedly. “I had a wonderful time.”
“I did, too,” Oliver agrees.
“Then why shouldn’t we do it again?” They’ve both enjoyed the ballet and each other’s company. That seems as good a reason as any.
Oliver hesitates. “I know you said you don’t mind waiting—”
“I don’t,” Beatrix insists. Time is going to pass her by anyway. She could at least have something to look forward to.
“I won’t be back until 1814.”
“Oh.”
Oliver sags against the upholstered bench. “It’s a long time.”
For you. Oliver leaves that part unspoken, but for him it will only be a matter of days.
“Tea in a century, then?” She tries not to sound disappointed.
Oliver runs a hand through his hair, his tricorn hat discarded on the empty bench across from them. “Maybe we should say goodbye now.”
Beatrix’s heartbeat thunders in her ears. “Is that what you want?”
He considers her for a long moment. She swears she stops breathing. But he shakes his head. “No, it’s not. But I don’t want you to wait a hundred years for me, either.”
“It doesn’t sound like we have much choice in the matter.” If she wants to see him, she has to wait. For nearly one hundred years. Is she mad to even consider it?
Oliver looks her in the eye. “You have a choice, Bea.” Has he already decided, then?
She should let him go. Take these few precious memories of their time together—a time when she forgot about time—and cherish them forever.
A long, lonely forever.
“You called me Bea.”
“Oh,” Oliver says, a note of surprise in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s lovely,” she assures him. Not just because the name feels new and worn-in all at once, like it has always been hers, but because she can’t help thinking that goodbye is an awfully strange time to call her something different.
She gives him a coy smile. He’s wrong. It isn’t a choice at all. “See you in 1814.”