Mercedes Lackey - The Gates of Sleep

Sebastian heaved a theatrical sigh. “No, thank you, Elizabeth,” he said, and reached up, grabbing the rail at the side of the box, and climbing up onto his perch. Elizabeth closed the umbrella and handed it to Marina, then climbed inside. Marina followed her and laid the umbrella at her feet. It would end up there anyway.

“Good gad, he borrowed the parson’s rig, didn’t he?” Elizabeth exclaimed, as she settled herself on the hard wooden bench across from Marina. “I’d almost rather he’d brought the pony cart!”

The coach swayed into motion, and they both grabbed for handholds.

“Your lovely hat would have gotten ruined,” Marina protested weakly.

“Yes, and all the rest of my turnout as well,” Elizabeth agreed ruefully. “I fear I’ve cut rather too dashing a figure for this weather of yours. Well, no fear, my dear, I haven’t come laden like a professional beauty; this is about as fine a set of feathers as I’ve got with me. And there’s a certain relief in being among the savage Bohemians; you don’t feel required to attend church every Sunday, so if the weather’s foul, neither shall I! And at long last, I’ll be able to get through a day without changing my dress four or five times!”

Marina laughed. She had forgotten how outspoken Elizabeth was, and—to be honest—how very pretty. She could easily be a professional beauty, one of those gently-born, well-connected or marginally talented ladies whose extraordinary good looks bought them entree into the highest circles. The PBs (as they were called) had their portraits painted, sketched, and photographed, figured in nearly every issue of the London papers, and were invited to all important social functions merely as ornaments to it. And even to Marina’s critical eyes, educated by all of her exposure to art and artists as well as the press, Elizabeth Hastings, had she chosen to exert herself, could have had a place in that exalted circle. She must be nearing forty, and yet she didn’t look it. Her soft cheeks had the glow that Marina saw on her own in the mirror of a morning; her green-green eyes had just the merest hint of a crow’s-foot at the corners. That firm, rounded chin hadn’t the least sign of a developing jowl; the dark blonde hair was, perhaps, touched a trifle with silver, but the silver tended to blend in so well that it really didn’t show. And in any case, as Marina well knew, there were rinses to change the silver back to gold.

“Remarkably well-preserved for such a tottering relic, aren’t I?” Elizabeth asked, the humor in her voice actually managing to get past the gasps caused by the jouncing of the coach.

Was I thinking loudly again? A rush of blood went to Marina’s cheeks. “Oh—bother!” she exclaimed, as she felt tears of chagrin burn her eyes for a moment. “Lady Hastings, I apologize for—for being so—”

But Elizabeth freed a hand long enough to pat her knee comfortingly. “Please, dear, you are a Water child, and a powerful one—anyone of the same Element would have picked up the train of your thoughts no matter how much energy you put into those basic shields Thomas taught you.”

Marina shook her head. “But I wasn’t really trying hard enough—”

“Perhaps, but he hasn’t taught you how to make those shields effortless and unconscious; well, I can’t fault him for that. It isn’t as if Earth Masters are often called on to work combative magics.”

“What has that to do with my being rude?” Marina asked, the flush fading from her cheeks.

“That is what you will learn for yourself. And it’s Elizabeth, my dear. Or Aunt Elizabeth, if you prefer. I am one of your godparents, after all.” Elizabeth smiled into Marina’s astonished eyes. “You didn’t know? I should have thought someone would have told you.”

“No, Aunt Elizabeth,” Marina said, faintly. “But—”

Elizabeth chose to change the subject, bending forward to peer out one of the dripping windows. “I will be very glad when we’re all safely in Margherita’s kitchen, dry, and with a hot cup of tea in front of us.” The coach hit a deep rut, and they both flew into the air and landed hard on their seats. “Good heavens! When was this coach last sprung? For Victoria’s coronation?”

“Probably,” Marina said, torn between laughing and wanting to swear at her bruises. “The parson hasn’t much to spare, what with having all those children; his hired man fixes and drives this rig along with all his other duties—”

“Well, I hope that the parsonage ladies are considerably more—” the coach gave another lurch “—more upholstered than we are.”

Marina’s laugh was bitten off by another bump, but it was very clear to her that she and “Aunt” Elizabeth were going to get on well together. Heretofore, Elizabeth Hastings had been something of an unknown quantity; like the artists that arrived and left at unpredictable intervals, she was the friend of Marina’s guardians, and hadn’t spent much time in Marina’s company.

Oh, Marina had certainly had some interaction with Elizabeth in the past, but there had been that distance of “adult” and “child” between them.

Between that last visit and this, that relationship had changed. For the first time Elizabeth Hastings was treating her as an adult in her own right, and Marina was discovering that she liked the older woman. Certainly Elizabeth was making it very easy to become a friend; inviting friendship, welcoming trust and offering it.

Without knowing she’d been worried about that, Marina felt a knot of tension dissolve inside her. So, as well as they could amid the bouncing of the coach, they began to learn about each other. Before very long, it almost seemed as if she had known Elizabeth Hastings all her life.

Sebastian brought the coach as close to the door as he could, and a herd of flapping creatures enveloped in mackintoshes and rain capes converged on it as soon as it stopped moving—Uncle Thomas, Sarah, and Jenny, with Aunt Margherita bringing up the rear. Elizabeth was ushered straight into the kitchen by Margherita; Marina stayed outside with her uncles and the servants just long enough to be loaded with a couple of bandboxes before being shooed inside herself.

She shed her rain cape and hung it, dripping, on its peg, then brought her burden into the kitchen. Elizabeth had already divested herself of hat, coat, and jacket, and Marina found herself eyeing the fashionable emerald trumpet skirt with its trimming of black soutache braid and the cream silk shirtwaist with its softening fall of Venice lace with a pang of envy. Not that she didn’t love the gowns that her Aunt Margherita made for her, but… but they weren’t fashionable. They were lovely, very medieval, and certainly comfortable, but they weren’t anything like fashionable. Plenty of magazines found their way here, and Marina had been known to peruse the drawings in them from time to time, gazing with wonder at the cartwheel hats, the bustle skirts, the PBs in their shoulder-baring gowns and upswept hair. The village was hardly the cynosure of fashion; most of the people who came to stay at the cottage were of the same ilk as her guardians. Only Elizabeth Hastings came in the feathers and furbelows of couture, and Marina’s heart looked long and enviously at its representative. She wanted an emerald suit, an ostrich-plumed hat.

But you’d have to wear corsets! a little voice reminded her. Look at her waist—think about how tight you’d have to lace them!

But oh—replied another side of her—it would be worth it to look like that, to wear clothing like that.

She shook herself out of her reverie and joined them over their hot tea.