THE SNOW HIT THE GLASS PANES like stones, but instead, their wrath was more gentle and nudging. Jessie peered out. The sun was going down. It was still not quite there yet, but it was on its way. The sky had already started turning black, a diffusion of color so intense that stars had to scurry to take their places. Jessie Churchill didn't really see them scurry, though she would've liked to. Who could ever imagine the stars would be in a hurry?
She didn't realize she had been reaching out to touch the cold glass of the window in her room, or really, Lady Aramina Embry's room in Wycombe. Her silk gloved fingers hovered with their touch, not quite touching the glass. Candles were burning in her room, and she had a feeling neither Lady Beresford who orchestrated the plot Jessie was in at present, nor Lady Seymour who knew nothing whatsoever of the same plot, would not approve of her loitering at the window— her sight obliged to the guests from outside before they even came in.
It was Christmas eve, and a battalion of family guests were expected at Wycombe. Jessie had, upon making as delicate inquires as she could under her new guise, found at that such was not in the norm, a custom for Wycombe. Guests were received on Christmas day, and the day after for belated celebrations. Christmas eve was meant to be or intimate family only, but , this year due to the presence of Lady Embry, exceptions had been made.
Presence, Jessie thought. What a false word. She shut her eyes tight and sent silent prayers to the real Lady Embry. The honest heiress torn away from her family and loved ones during such a time as this. While the streets of Southampton were alive with warm carols and tales of the spirits of Christmas past, present and future knocking one's doors after midnight, milk and baked biscuits being left near trees decorated with tinsel and sparling glass ornaments with a spinning fairy ceramic on top— Lady Aramina Embry was in captivity, with her life at stake, and Jessie Churchill was here, pretending.
It felt wrong. But hadn't Oscar Seymour convinced her that it was the right thing to do? He had, but was she truly convinced? Would the real heiress approve? The latter question plummeted into her heart whenever she thought of it. If she could open her heart up on a platter and show her true intentions to a raging Lady Embry upon her rescue, Jessie would.
Jessie's thoughts then drifted onto her father, content as he seemingly was with her presence with Oscar Seymour. Only, he wasn't aware of the entirety of that truth. She hadn't seen Oscar in days. She had wanted to, but Lady Beresford had kept her occupied. He had been occupied as well, rushing about Southampton trying to find the hiding place of that criminal. Now, he was in Portsmouth with Lord Beresford.
A hollow feeling twisted in her heart, like blood had long abandoned her veins and cold air had filled up the empty space.
Portsmouth. She had been used to hating a part of it. Jessie's aunt lived there, and on the few occasions Jessie had been sent to visit, she had hated the place. Her aunt lived in the city side, the hustle and bustle of working life spilled into her small house in between the window slits and door gaps. Jessie heard it for breakfast, for lunch and for dinner. She tasted the bitterness of it in the tea her aunt made. But it seemed to her now that there was more to Portsmouth than she had ever seen and that life was truly there somehow.
Her friends, Lady Diana Buxton and Lady Alicia Kirkpatrick inhabited stunning country side estates there, with their husbands. In the lively letters Jessie received from them, it sounded like heaven. Maybe it doesn't do to see a glimpse of something and form an opinion. First impressions. Those things deceived her. Maybe Oscar Seymour would stay there, his mother wouldn't mind. Maybe he'll like what he saw and stay there, and Jessie would never see him again.
She shook her head, forcefully ridding herself of the thoughts. How is it so hard to convince yourself of something that is fairly obvious? It was fairly obvious that Lord Oscar Seymour would prefer to take a chance jumping off a cliff than talk to her. When he did talk, he was reserved and cold. Why could her mind or heart not understand? What was this ever growing care in her heart that listened to no reason?
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𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒
Historical Fiction(Completed) When his best friend's cousin, an heiress, is kidnapped, Lord Oscar Seymour is inclined to oblige aid in the search. In the wake of the disappearance, when appearances become essential, Lord Seymour devises a scheme to render the society...
