Traveler by L.E. DeLano (book suggestions .txt) 📕

into all the undergarments in front of me on the bed. Between all these pieces of clothing, plus a corset, plus a mountain of skirts, how did Finn and I ever become intimate? It must’ve been a monumental undertaking.

And I’ve done it again. Now I remember exactly how monumental it was. Pirate Finn was a determined man and I was an enthusiastic accomplice, on numerous occasions. I shake my head, trying to lose those memories so I can concentrate on getting all this stuff on my body the right way.

My mother arrives with an enormous box a few minutes later, laying it carefully on my coverlet. Eleanor has me brace myself against the post of my bed as she laces my corset so tight, I swear the blood vessels are bursting in my eyes.

“Mother?”

“What, Jessamyn?” She’s rooting through the drawer of my vanity, pulling out cosmetics.

“Can we loosen this a little? My stomach isn’t feeling well, and I’d hate to get sick all over Boyce.”

She steps over to me, pressing the back of her hand against my head. “You feel a little warm,” she worries. “But we really should go. If we decline now, the Bradleys will think we’ve snubbed them.”

Eleanor loosens my corset strings a bare millimeter and I can breathe better—marginally. I turn so that she can lower the ball gown over my head. She shakes it into place, and then moves behind me to fasten the buttons up the back. I stand before the full-length mirror and gasp aloud at my reflection.

The gown is beautiful. It’s long-sleeved, a deep-blue satin with gathers at the bottom to display the black ruffled lace underskirt. Another line of black lace lines the décolletage, and a blue satin choker with black lace trim completes the ensemble. Once everything is in place, Mother leads me over to the vanity and drapes me with a linen cloth to keep the cosmetics off my dress as Eleanor applies my makeup. She finishes off by dusting me lightly with a shimmering powder across my chest and face.

After, she gets my hair loosely curled and pushed up into a big, pouffy pile on top of my head, with a few artfully curled tendrils falling around my shoulders. One more dusting of powder and my mother pronounces me perfect.

Boyce arrives a short time later, and I grin widely when I see what we’re riding in. It’s a hydrogen carriage—and it really does look almost like a carriage, but horseless, of course. It’s a large, ornate, ungainly thing, suited only for short rides around town. He has another vehicle for longer trips, but this one is the status symbol, and it’s garish in the extreme.

Boyce tries to make conversation with me, but my thoughts are a million miles—or one reality—away right now. My mother ends up talking to him most of the way to the Bradleys’ house, and it isn’t until after the dinner is finished that Boyce and I find a moment to speak.

“I’d like to apologize,” he says. “It really was unavoidable.”

“What?” I take my eyes off the couples who are making their way to the ballroom and try to look interested. I can’t be blowing this Jessa’s cover.

“I want to apologize again,” he repeats. “For having to leave the ball early this evening.”

“Oh. I completely understand,” I say with a forced smile. “You do what you have to do.”

He looks at me curiously. “You’re not angry, then?”

“No, of course not. I’m sure you have a good reason.”

“I need to be in Savannah by morning or we’ll lose the deal on the new carriage engines. It can’t be helped.” He shrugs apologetically.

I try to look interested. “You’re working hard to secure the future of your business, Boyce. How can I be angry about that?”

He gives me a tepid smile in return. “Well then, I suppose I should have my dance before I take my leave.”

He leads me onto the dance floor, and luckily, although the dance is fairly complicated, involving clapping and circling and partner changes, I remember it well enough that I can hold my own. Boyce is not very talkative. He looks as bored with me as I am with him, and I realize that he always is. He’s only marrying me for my money, after all. I get the feeling he wouldn’t marry at all, if he had his choice. I feel sorry for him.

He returns me to my mother’s side, and with a short bow in her direction and a light kiss on the back of my gloved hand, he leaves. I turn to my mother.

“How much longer before we go?”

“Go? We just got here,” she says, surprised.

I glance over at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “It’s been nearly two hours,” I complain.

Her face is sympathetic. “Are you still feeling unwell?”

I nod. Really, I just want to grab a pen and paper and write all of this down—I swear a thousand stories are swirling in my head—but I can’t very well tell her that.

“Bear up, darling,” she says, straightening my satin choker. “Only a few more hours and we’ll be on our way.”

I stifle a groan, and I’ve made up my mind to get off my feet when someone taps my shoulder.

“May I have this dance?”

I turn at the familiar sound of that voice, and I almost start laughing. Holy cow. Would you look at Ben!

He’s dressed in a severe black greatcoat, a green-and-gold waistcoat, and a top hat with a really tacky hatband to match the busy pattern on the vest. He even has a lacy cravat to complete the look, and the overall effect is like some sort of elegant peacock. This is so far from the nerdy, joking jock I know. I take his hand and can’t help but smile.

“Hello, Miss St. Clair,” he says, moving smoothly through the dance. “I do hope you remember me.”

I do. His family moved into town just a few months ago. I’m taught by a governess in this reality,