Claimed in Another Century

Chapter 2

Milly stopped in the doorway. "Season? Like... football season?"

Rose's hands paused mid-fold. "Pardon?"

"You know, sports? No? Okay, then—what is a Season?"

The look Rose gave her was almost comical at first, but it didn't last. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were trying to decide whether Milly was joking or had taken leave of her senses. "The Season, miss. Presentation at court. Dinners, balls, suitors... the whole of society will be watching."

"Right. Well, that sounds... great. Except, uh—" She rubbed the back of her neck. "I think there's been some kind of mix-up."

Rose's smile faltered. "Mix-up, miss?"

"Yes. I'm not... this person you think I am. I mean, I'm me, obviously, but—"

Rose tilted her head, concern creeping into her expression. "Are you feeling quite well? You sound..." Her brows drew together. "Different."

Milly stiffened. "Different how?"

"Your voice — softer, rounder, and there's a... drawl to it I've never heard from you before. Almost as if you'd been raised far from here."

Her pulse thudded in her ears. Because I was. "Maybe I hit my head or something," she blurted. "Or maybe I'm dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or—"

Rose set the gloves down very slowly. "Miss Charlotte, may I speak plainly? If anyone besides me heard you asking such a question, they'd think something was very wrong."

"Wrong how?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Wrong enough to have you packed off to the country or shut away in an asylum. I've seen it happen, miss — to ladies with less peculiar turns than you've had this morning."

The words hit her like ice water.

"Oh," Milly said faintly. She knew enough about "back then" to picture it: barred windows, locked doors, the smell of damp stone. No thank you.

Rose must have seen the panic flash across her face, because she added quickly, "Don't fret. You've been anxious before big events, but nothing we can't smooth over."

Milly forced a nod, even though her hands were clammy. "Right. Sure. Just... anxious."

Rose studied her for a beat longer, clearly unconvinced, before smoothing her apron. "You've a full day ahead, miss. Your stepmother's already arranged for the dressmaker to come at eleven. Best you're ready for her."

Dressmaker. Like this was all normal. Like she wasn't standing here wondering if she'd had a full mental break somewhere between the antique shop and breakfast.

"Actually," Milly said quickly, "maybe you could... take the rest of the morning? I'll be fine."

Rose hesitated. "If you're certain?"

"I'm certain." She managed a weak smile. "Just need a little quiet."

Rose nodded, though she still glanced back twice on her way out, as if worried Milly might collapse the moment she left.

The second the door clicked shut, Milly exhaled hard. Her pulse was still racing. The words asylum and packed off to the country kept looping in her head like a warning. If everyone here thought she was this Charlotte, she was going to have to play along—at least until she figured out how to get back home.

She paced for a bit, then collapsed onto the edge of the bed. The room felt too quiet without Rose moving about. Heavy curtains muted the daylight, the air smelling faintly of lavender and old wood polish. Every single thing — the carved wardrobe, the porcelain washbasin — looked like it belonged in a museum.

She caught sight of a small leather-bound book on the vanity, its corner peeking from beneath a folded shawl.

It wasn't hers.

The cover was worn smooth, the brass clasp just barely holding. Milly hesitated... and then curiosity won. She opened it.
The handwriting was neat, curling across the page in dark ink. April 4th, 18—.

Clara is to have her second Season. Father insists there is no reason for me to sit out again, but Lady Whitmore disagrees. Loudly. She says I would only invite comparisons... and not in my favor. Father argued for me, but in the end, as always, he yielded to her.

It has been three Seasons now. Three years of watching Clara sweep into ballrooms in new gowns while I sit in drawing rooms, invisible. I have not yet been presented to the ton — they do not even know I exist. Sometimes I think Clara prefers it that way. She speaks to me as though I am a guest in my own home. Less than a guest — a shadow. And Lady Whitmore has never allowed me to forget that I am not hers by blood.

Still... I cannot help but hope. Perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps I will finally step into the light and take my place, and the ton will see me for who I am.

Milly's throat tightened as she read on, each line a little colder, a little sadder.

This wasn't a costume party. This wasn't a quirky London history experience. Whoever Charlotte was, she had been locked away from her own life... and now, somehow, that life had been handed to Milly.

Milly shut the diary with a snap, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Her palms were damp. She stared at the neat cover for a long moment, her mind spinning.

Three Seasons. Three years locked away in the shadows while her perfect stepsister waltzed through candlelit ballrooms. And now — somehow — she was in this Charlotte's place, in this Charlotte's house, with Charlotte's life stretching ahead of her.

Her breath came shallow.
No one back home was going to believe this.
Hell, she didn't believe this.

A soft knock rattled the door before she could collect herself.

Rose stepped inside, a measuring tape looped around her neck and a bundle of pale silk in her arms. "There you are, miss. We mustn't dawdle — Madame Elcourt is expecting you in half an hour."

"Expecting me?" Milly echoed, instinctively sliding the diary under the coverlet. "For...?"

Rose gave her a puzzled look. "Your first gown fitting, of course. We've a Season to prepare for." She moved briskly toward the wardrobe, humming as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Milly sat frozen on the edge of the bed. "Right. Of course. Season prep. Totally normal."

Rose glanced over her shoulder. "You're pale, miss. Nervous?"

"Terrified," Milly admitted before she could stop herself. Then, quickly — "I mean, not terrified. Just... a lot to take in."

Rose's eyes softened. "It's always a whirlwind, that first Season. But by the end of it, you'll have the whole of the ton at your feet. You'll see."

The ton. The diary's words echoed in her head — they do not even know I exist.

Milly forced a smile, because the alternative was blurting out something that would land her in one of those asylums Rose had warned about. "Lead the way, then."

As she followed Rose out, her mind was a mess of questions she couldn't ask. About Charlotte. About Clara. About how she was supposed to survive a ballroom full of strangers without giving herself away.

And underneath all of that, one thought pulsed like a drumbeat —

If Charlotte had been waiting her whole life for this moment... what right did Milly have to ruin it?