What if a sword-wielding, outspoken time traveler found herself stuck in Regency England?
***
Clara Eaton has a secret: she's a member of an elite time-travelling society, concealed in the heart of London.
Clara has spent the last six years learnin...
"Many women are endowed with strong mental powers; unfortunately, few seem inclined to use them."
-Andrew Hamilton in 'A Treatise on the Duties of the Female Sex' (1797)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Clara rarely felt awkward.
She chalked it up to a worrying level of self-belief; if she was on a date and there were pauses in the conversation, she assumed that her confidence was intimidating. If she was caught stealing clothes from Emma's bedroom, she regretted that her sister wasn't good at sharing. Clara went through life with a sort of cheery self-assurance, and therefore she never experienced any awkward pauses.
Until now.
She licked her lips, her eyes darting between Violet, Francesca, and the two women hovering near the doorway. A terrible silence stretched out between them, snaking under doorways and settling on the sofas. Dear god. She was clearly expected to introduce herself, but she had no idea what to introduce herself as.
Violet cleared her throat. "Don't be silly, Francesca. You remember your cousin Clara." She turned to the other ladies. "May I introduce my niece, Miss Clara Pemberton? She's staying with us in London for the Season."
To her credit, Francesca recovered remarkably well.
"Clara!" Francesca engulfed her in a tight hug. "Oh, goodness, I haven't seen you in years. You're so very tall now." She pulled back, touching her cheek lightly. "Indeed, you could be a perfect stranger."
Clara smiled. "It's lovely to see you, Frannie."
Violet doled out tea and biscuits, keeping up a pleasant stream of chatter as the ladies took their seats. Clara bit into a lemony biscuit and tried to avoid looking at Lady Olivia Montrose, who was studying Clara with naked curiosity. Her blonde hair was pinned up in one of those fancy knots — a bun? A coiffure? — and she sat with the sort of ramrod posture that made Clara think of the girls in Chelsea, sipping delicately at pink lattes and dragging out the word 'dah-ling' like a string of spaghetti.
She didn't mind those girls. Most of them were nice.
Unfortunately, those girls also possessed a shrewd, cunning intelligence. They watched. They listened. And as Olivia sipped her tea, Clara braced herself for the inevitable.
"Tell me, Miss Pemberton," Olivia said, "are you from the country?"
"Indeed." Clara gave her a bland smile. "Just outside of London."
"And you had a governess?"
"Clara attended finishing school," Francesca said. "At Evendene Court." She stirred sugar into her tea. "Have you heard of it, Lady Olivia?"
"Of course," Olivia said. "My cousin speaks highly of Evendene." She looked at Clara slightly more appraisingly, as if she were a Chanel handbag that she hadn't realized was designer. "Did you enjoy it there, Miss Pemberton?"
