Lady Dunmore

Chapter One: Ophelia

So this is my first attempt at writing a historical fiction, and I'm bound to get loads of facts wrong so if you see anything please, please tell me! All the characters were real people. I tried keeping to the real timeline as much as possible but then again what's the fun of poetic license if you don't use it! ;)

Anyways, please take the time to read it and give me some feedback! I know it's kind of long-winded and maybe too descriptiony but give me a chance and let me know if it really is. Thanks a ton :)

Chapter One: Ophelia

I could hear it in the distance. Cannon fire. And the roar of a wild beast. And what else? ...Trumpets?

“Ginny!” whispered the soothing voice of a woman, “We’re nearly there, darling. Time to quit pretending to nap and make yourself presentable.”

I slowly lifted an eyelid. Then the other. My mama’s breath still lingered, suspended as if frozen in the air of the carriage compartment. I watched as it slowly dissipated.

Lady Charlotte’s face appeared sharp and clear as if someone had wiped clean a foggy glass. She sat huddled on the seat across from Catherine and me, with Augusta on her right. Still she managed to keep her back ramrod-straight. Despite being bundled up, as I was, in a thick cloak of heavy blood-red wool, she still managed to look elegant and slim with the material falling in delicate but crisp folds. Similarly, dark blonde silkiness spilled in soft waves from her satin-lined hood with its white rabbit fur trim. Her small hands were encased in shiny brown leather gloves resting folded on her lap while her green eyes followed the scenery flying by through the small window.

America was much colder than my memories of Scotland. I didn’t mind the cold though; I never have. My mama tells me it is because of my birthday. Having been born in December, I am a child of winter, and it would only make sense that snow and ice was always my kingdom of choice as a babe. Now, it is only through a barrier of time that I can recall my beautiful home, memory washed away by the steely waters of the Atlantic.

Four years earlier, Papa had been sent to New York by the personal appointment of King George III and us children were told he was to be promoted when we were left behind with our Mama. Now it seems that Papa had been promoted yet again and transferred to Virginia. As soon as my mother had learned of Papa’s wish for us to join him in the colonies, she had immediately chartered the Ophelia for the forty-four day journey from Britain to the New World. Accompanied by my papa’s private secretary, Mama also brought with her my two sisters, three of my four brothers, and of course, me. Poor William had just passed away, and I daresay she couldn’t bear to risk the same with dear little Leveson Granville Keith—what a long name for such a small child!—leaving him with our aunt in England.

The winter voyage was at once constricting and liberating. As it was winter on the ocean, the waters were rough, storms abounded, and we were almost always indoors in our cramped and chilly cabins. The few chances we did get to explore the ship were always accompanied by countless warnings against leaning too far over the railing, or climb too high in the rigging, and to always wear gowns with collars reaching just under our chins, as there were many sailors on board. However, we also tasted a freedom that none of our rank can afford while immersed in society. We three girls were no longer ladies under the scrutiny of our peers and superiors, but simply ladies. We were allowed to free range alongside the boys for once in our domestic lives. Though I yearned for solid ground and scenery other than endless blue both up and down, spotted only by whitecaps and seagulls, I did not wish to be a Dunmore again.

One source of entertainment that never failed on stormy winter nights was Edward Foy, Papa’s personal assistant and secretary. In his mid-twenties, he wasn’t a particularly big man, but not small either. Always giving the appearance of being slightly ruffled, he hadn’t bothered to wear his wig for the duration of our voyage on the Ophelia, leaving the wind free to tug at the locks of auburn hair. He had a seemingly endless stock of magic tricks and tales of the New World we hardly dared to believe, but found ourselves dreaming about nonetheless. He was easygoing and did not seem to have the bookishness one would expect of a secretary despite his round spectacles. He talked with us as he would to an adult and it was for that the children adored him.