Excentryke's Musings

Title: Marco II: Mentally Challenged
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Sequel to: Marco
Written: primarily 08-09 January, 2019
Pairing(s): Marco/George Bligh, James Bligh/Olivia, (past) Marco/Darcy
Fandom(s): A Place to Call Home (pre-season 1), Pride and Prejudice, Lost in Austen
Warnings: time travel, mental institution, prejudice
Summary: Marco Darcy had died but woke up in 1948.  After spending four years in a mental institution for delusions of being a country gentleman’s wife in the 1800s, she meets George Bligh who is in England for his son James’s graduation from Cambridge and his marriage.  Despite himself, George falls in love with a mental patient he meant to study, and she finds a future within his arms.
Author’s Note: May 2025: This has been in my files, with several sequels, since January 2019. I thought “Why not post it? Someone may enjoy it.” I’m not putting it on my posting schedule so everyone does not miss out on my P&P/Twilight Friday postings. However, in case you want to read this–here it is. -cen

Mentally Challenged

Marco was still uncertain how it had happened.  She had been the wife of Fitzwilliam Darcy, had given birth to their child, and then had thought she had returned to the twenty-first century.  However, she had been wrong.

It had been England in the late 1940s.

They came for her in the night.

It was a pleasant facility, but she was forced to speak to psychiatrists and was deemed “difficult.”  She fell into depression and they shoved pills down her throat.  When she came out of it and was hoping to find a door that would lead her back to her husband, they called her delusional and labeled her a manic-depressive.

Knowing little about psychiatry, she cast her mind to everything she knew about manic-depressive disorder, also known as bipolar disorder, and attempted to make herself as calm as possible.  She dressed herself neatly in her hospital uniform every day, combed her hair, and looked at herself and wondered how this had become her life.

She never had any visitors until one day in 1953.  “This young woman is a successful outcome,” the doctor said as he led in a man in a well pressed suit with graying hair and extraordinary eyes.  “Miss Hightower believed she was the wife of a nineteenth century gentleman with a child when she arrived here in her teenage years.  She seems to have no family, so we have taken charge of her although she appears to be an American.”

Marco was sitting at a table with her hands clasped as she looked at them.  Her hair, as black as sin, was dull from washing it in this horrible place.  She couldn’t help but remember what it was like for her beloved Darcy to run his hands through it in the night.  But no more.

“Miss Hightower,” the man stated in what she believed was an Australian accent.  “I’m George Bligh.”

Looking up at him, she acknowledged, “Forgive me, but your name means nothing to me, as I’m sure my name means nothing to you.”

“Should it?” he asked, his hat which was in his hand being placed on the table.

She smiled at him bitterly.  “Of course not, Mr. Bligh.”  Her eyes turned to his left hand and she sighed wistfully.  “They took away my wedding band.  Of course, that never happened.”

“Tell me of your husband,” he asked her, sitting back.

Eyeing him, she took in his thin frame and wondered at him.  “Are you a test?  If I pass do I get my freedom?”

The idea seemed to shock him.  “Well, Miss Hightower, I am visiting on behalf of Sir Henry Swanson, a member of the Australian Parliament.  He wants to know the innovations of medical health here in England.”

“I did not have a husband,” she lied.  “I purchased the wedding band to further my fantasy that I had a husband who loved me.  Now I suppose I am too damaged and too old for a husband.  I could not give my husband children, I suppose.”

He leaned forward, his fingers tapping on the table.  “Who did you think you were, Miss Hightower?”

“When?” she asked.  “Before or after my marriage?”  Laughing, she looked away from him.  “Go away, Mr. Bligh.  I’m not in the mood for games.”

His piercing eyes fell on her.  “At least tell me your name—”

“So you can find my hallucination?” she shot back.  “I do not believe so, Mr. Bligh.  I am not an object of idle curiosity.  The woman I thought I was loved deeply and she died.  I only carry her name because no one knows what else to call me.”

He came the next day.  Her hair was falling into her eyes because of the way she had brushed it.  She pushed it back from her face to take him in, the change in tie, the different hat.  Wondering how wealthy he was, she decided it would be impolitic to ask.  Marco had been the wife of an incredibly rich man before.  Subtle signs always interested her now.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hightower,” he greeted.

She drew her chair up slightly so she was closer to the table.  “Hello, Mr. Bligh.  You have more questions, I suppose?”

“Idle curiosity,” he admitted with a wry smile.  “I have looked at your medical file.  You have given birth to a child.  And for one so young…”

This made her incredibly angry.  The doctors had invaded her privacy by forcing her to undergo such an examination, and now he had gone even farther as a private citizen had done the same.  Clenching her jaw, she nonetheless met his eyes.  “So they say,” she agreed.

“It must be horrible to lose a child,” he commiserated.

“Perhaps my child is well,” Marco suggested.  “She may be with her father.”

“Then you are married?—How can that be?  They believe you are eighteen or nineteen now.”

Yes, that was a peculiarity.  She remembered nearly thirty years of life and yet she was trapped in the body of an eighteen year old.  Perhaps she really was insane.  “I am told that I never have been,” she informed him, repeating the doctors’ words.  “Still, I have hope for this child.  You are married.  Certainly you have hope for your children, although you must be raising them.”

His eyes went down to his hand and he smiled to himself.  “I am a widower.”

“I am sorry,” she offered sincerely, thinking of her own loss.

George Bligh was looking at her strangely.  “You have been here for over four years and yet you don’t look a day over twenty.”

She laughed at this.  “Forgive me, this reminds me of a conversation I once had.  I was taken for a young girl of sixteen or eighteen when I was in my late twenties.  Still, I cannot tell you when I was born.  I could be twenty, Mr. Bligh, twenty-two perhaps.”

At first it looked like he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself.  Instead, he asked, “Tell me of yourself, Miss Hightower.  Not your delusions, not your name.  What do you enjoy?”

Marco was honestly surprised by the question.  No one had ever asked.  She had been shown the hospital library, the game room, where the cards were, but no one asked what she liked.  Rubbing her hand in the other, she admitted, “I was taught piano from a young age.  I haven’t played since I came here.  I must be out of practice.  I compose.  I enjoy taking the holy sacrament, but of course this is not a Catholic institution.  I enjoy poetry.”

A smile touched his face.  “I should like to hear you.”

“I’m afraid I’d disappoint,” she murmured, thinking back to her first concert, wearing a white dress with a white rose in her hair, only seven years old.  Shaking herself away from the memory, she took in George Bligh, and observed, “Surely you have enough for Sir Henry.”

He did not answer the question.  “How would you like to play again?”

“I would answer you honestly, but I know I am being recorded.”  She wanted to say that the last person she played for was her husband—what made him so special?

“You would get out of here for a few hours,” he promised her, leaning forward.  “I would be able to do this for you.”

It was tempting.  An affirmative answer was on her lips, but she then shook her head, looking down.  Getting up, she walked to the door and knocked on it, waiting to be let out.  Marco felt his gaze on her. 

“Tell me your favorite poet,” he begged, getting up and coming over to her.

The door opened and she looked toward him.  “You read my file.  You know what year I claimed I left to come here.  Surely you can guess.”

A book of Byron was given to her the next day with an inscription.  Darcy had hidden this exact edition from her and she had stolen it the day he confessed to his cousin, the Viscount, he wanted to marry her.  It brought back bittersweet memories for her.  Still, she traced George Bligh’s signature and wondered why anyone would care about a mental patient enough to buy a book of poetry.

The next week, she was given a dress.  It was simple and black and she was told to make herself presentable.  Her shoes would never be anything to look at but she braided her hair and looked at her reflection.  She was hardly beautiful anymore.  Marco was too wan.  It was amazing how she had clear signs of Italian heritage, her hair, her eyes, and yet her skin was so pale she appeared to be British or a WASP.

A nurse accompanied her to a small hall which had a baby grand piano.  Mr. Bligh was sitting in the audience, but he immediately stood when she arrived, taking her hand and kissing it.  How strange.  She hadn’t realized she had missed that pleasantry. 

Falling into the music, she forgot where she was, who she was, what had happened to herself.  She allowed her stiff fingers to stumble at first but to then skate across the keys as if they were there only for her amusement.  She switched from Debussy into Faure and then in Mozart, pausing in Purcell, and then onward. 

She hadn’t realized a voice had called her name until a gentle hand alighted on her shoulder and she suddenly stopped, her hands resting on the keys in shock.

“Yes, Mr. Bligh?”  Marco didn’t turn to him.

“I’m afraid I did not reserve the hall for any longer.”

After a moment, she nodded.  “Of course.  Excuse my ignorance, Mr. Bligh.  I was unaware.”  She covered the keys and stood, not looking at Mr. Bligh and then tried to move past him, but his hand was still on her shoulder.

“That was simply beautiful.”  His voice and face were full of such awe that she felt humbled.

Bowing her head in recognition, she accepted his arm. 

Later Marco blamed the pills they made her take.  Mr. Bligh would come and visit and bring her little presents.  He would take her to tea.  She learned he had a son, nearly ready to graduate Cambridge, a daughter, a mother who was the matriarch of the family.  He truly believed she was about twenty and on one walk told her he forgave her her youthful indiscretion as he realized she had been ill at the time and any man who took advantage of that was despicable.

Her face began to get a bit of color in it as she now took sunlight. 

Still, she did not delude herself.  Mr. Bligh was only amusing himself.  He had said he was visiting on behalf of a member of parliament in Australia.  Surely, he would one day go back to Australia, sooner than later though she was beginning to doubt that, or his report would be finished.

The day was a sunny one.  Marco had once again been given a dress, this one floral, and a hat.  She brushed out her long hair, too long to be fashionable, and left it falling down her back.  Her dark eyes looked out at her in the mirror and she wondered if Darcy would call her an adulteress for allowing a man to squire her around, albeit one who was old enough to be her father—in this body.

He took her to a restaurant with large windows and plenty of light.  There were white table cloths and flowers on the table, making this place seem almost idyllic.  The name was on the back of the menu, but Marco didn’t care enough to check.  She just wanted to enjoy the experience for as long as it would last.

As they were drinking their coffee, Mr. Bligh reached over and gently touched her wrist, just above where her glove ended.  “I thought, perhaps, on Friday you might like to play the piano again.”

“Today is Tuesday,” she checked carefully.  “We don’t have calendars so the days get a bit muddled.”

Looking up at her with an emotion she couldn’t exactly read, he murmured, “Yes, Miss Hightower.  Today is Tuesday.”

“May,” she suggested.

He nodded to her with a small smile. 

“I am surprised it is so warm for May.  Up at—” she paused, having been just about to speak of Pemberley.  “It can still have a chill up in the northern counties.”

Pulling away, he fell into conversation.  “Australia can be quite hot.  Sometimes the flies are unbearable.”

She laughed at this, remembering her childhood in Boston.  “I grew up in the city,” she confessed.  “We didn’t quite have to deal with flies as I imagine you do.  The heat would come off of the pavement in the summertime and we children would skip rope and run in and out of sprinklers.”

“What’s a sprinkler?” he asked, and she looked at him in shock.  Was it possible they had not been invented yet?

“A sprinkler,” she lied, “is a person who sprinkles water down so children can run under the stream and cool off.—It’s a game of sorts.”

“Is it?” he asked indulgently, picking up his cup of coffee.  “How utterly charming.”

Carefully running her hand against the bracelet he had given her, beautiful metal work with small gem stones—a bracelet she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to wear except when she was strangely allowed to go out with him.  “May I ask about your family?” she questioned.  “You once said you were a widower but you had children.  What are they like?”

At this, he honestly smiled.  “There’s James, my eldest.  He’s graduating from Cambridge this month.  It’s why I’m here, actually.”

Sitting back a little, she remarked, “But you’ve been here for quite some time, haven’t you?  Five Sundays have passed.”

“And what, Miss Hightower,” he asked in playfulness, “is so special about Sundays?”

“We get to go to mass,” she responded, “and receive the Holy Eucharist.  It tends to stand out in a girl’s mind, as you might imagine.  I always shine my shoes with a tissue and braid my hair.  I have no pins to put it up, so it’s unfortunately the best I can do.  Still, I have to wear the same gray dress.”

Mr. Bligh looked thoughtful.  “Your gray dress,” he remarked, “makes your eyes seem even blacker.”

Marco was honestly astonished by the strange compliment.  She had always been fond of her eyes.  Darcy used to stare into them for hours, the two of them lying on a blanket somewhere on the estate, just turned to each other and looking at one another.  Then she realized it: George Bligh was looking into her black eyes with a strange look in his own.

Glancing down at her hands and then back up again, she asked, “Any other children?”  Hadn’t he mentioned a daughter once?

“Anna,” he responded.  “She is quite willful.”

“Some men like willful young women,” she thought to herself.  “Perhaps she’ll find a suitor here in England.”  Pondering, she whispered to herself, “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone.”

His hand alighted on her wrist again and she turned to him, his gray eyes shining out of his face.  “That is kind of you.—James is actually engaged to be married—to Olivia Bowes-Lyon.”

This stopped her short and her mouth opened slightly in shock.  “Am I very much mistaken, but is not the—the queen’s own mother—”  She just stared at him in shock.  “Should I congratulate the bride, the groom, or you as the father who is bringing such a catch into the family?”

He smirked at her.  “It was all James.”

“Congratulations, James,” she murmured, still shocked.  Then, coming to herself, she suggested, “Well, you’re certainly well connected, Mr. Bligh.  First Sir Henry Swanson, and now this.”

A string quartet started up somewhere behind them and he looked at her kindly.  “You’re so beautiful today.”

Somehow she wondered exactly what he wanted.  Was he a man who wanted a pretty woman on his arm, albeit a mental patient?  He dressed her up, gave her pretty gifts.  He’d even gone and purchased her a pair of black heels and stockings.  If he really was this well-connected, then certainly everyone must be thinking she was his mistress, though nothing could be farther from the truth.

No, she reminded herself.  This is all one large test.  She just couldn’t divine the purpose of it yet.

Grasping for something to say, she asked, “Is Miss Bowes-Lyon beautiful?  She will certainly make a beautiful bride.”

He pondered a moment.  “There’s a certain sort of prettiness to her.  What matters is that she is a kind and warm-hearted woman, that she loves James, and that my son finds her pretty.”

“Well,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “be sure to tell her she’s beautiful on her wedding day.”  Remembering her own wedding day to her beloved Darcy, she added, “Brides like to hear that sort of thing.  The world revolves around them and their happiness and in their minds, nothing should go wrong, though it often does—I understand.”  That had been close.  She had gotten caught up in her own memories.

“Thank you for the advice,” he stated sincerely.  “As you’re a young woman, I’m certain you know exactly what I should do or say to make another young lady happy.”

“Mention how the dress suits her, if the occasion calls for it.  Mention to your son how happy and beautiful the bride looks.—I’m sure you know what sort of fatherly advice to give before the wedding.  I wouldn’t know, obviously.”  No one had been there to tell Darcy what marriage would be like.  No one had been there to tell her.  They had sort of fallen into it together—and been blissfully happy—though the transition from guardian—to lover—to husband had been an interesting one.

Out of curiosity, he asked, “When is the last time you went to a wedding?”

That was easy: Bingley and “Amanda!” she suddenly whispered desperately, searching her memory.  “I have no idea where Amanda is.”

Fingers curled into hers and she clutched at them through her glove, wishing to feel skin against skin for once, even in a simple act of kindness.  “This is good that you remember aspects of your life before—”  Before the mental institution.  It didn’t need to be said.  They both knew.

“Amanda,” she breathed, looking at him.  “Oh no, Amanda.”  Then she laughed.  “I had to convince her that she was in love, she was too occupied with other aspects of the marriage.—Fortunately, your son doesn’t seem to have had this problem with Miss Bowes-Lyon.”

“No,” he agreed, squeezing her hand.  “And now I think it’s time to dance.”

“Dance?” she asked in confusion, looking over toward the string quartet where, indeed, several couples were now dancing slowly in each other’s arms.  “I haven’t danced since—ever.” 

“Come,” he stated, lifting her to her feet.  “It’s simple, no set steps.”

Did she really want to rest in this man’s arms?  Could she do it?  Was this betraying Darcy if she danced with another man?

Before she realized what was happening, Marco was being led through the tables, her hand warm in his, and then they were in the middle of the dance floor, his hand around her waist, hers placed on his shoulder, and he held her closer as he began the two-step. 

It was so peculiar to her.  She hadn’t really expected to dance close to a partner ever again.  When she had been in her old life, the life she must forget, she had learned how to dance down the lines, which had a certain romanticism to it.  However, resting her cheek against his shoulder, smelling Mr. Bligh’s cologne, had a sensuality to it.  No wonder they had been afraid to allow young ladies close to their suitors in the Regency Period.

Her free hand was in his and she became all too aware when his fingers stretched out and played with the thick strands of her Italian hair that had fallen in front of her shoulder.  Her hair had the natural Italian curl and was barely covered by the jaunty little hat she wore for the day.

Lifting her head and pulling back a bit, though never breaking the dance, she looked into his eyes in confusion. 

“Would you like pins for your hair?” he asked her carefully as he took a step forward so that they were once again close to each other.  “Your hair is wondrous—”

“I like my hair,” she stated coolly.  She would never change it.  It reminded her of her time with Darcy, of how his hands would plunge into it when they were alone.  Marco would only consider putting it up now for church, and even then it was only a misplaced sense of propriety from living so many years as the ward (then wife) of Fitzwilliam Darcy.  “Blame it on the fact that I’m American or that I’m sentimental, whatever you prefer, Mr. Bligh.”

“I’ve never seen hair like it,” he murmured, but she didn’t answer.  Instead, they just danced until her shoes began to pinch as she was unused to it, and he escorted her back to the mental institution, always a silent reminder to her of what she really was although he never said a word.  Her nurse trailed after them, at a respectful distance, but it certainly was another aspect of her life she couldn’t escape.

Then one day, a girl who looked like Amanda came in.  As soon as Marco saw her, she put down her cards and quickly walked up to her.  She seemed bewildered and was looking out at the windows when Marco touched her arm.

Amanda swung around and immediately hugged her.  “Oh, Marco,” she whispered, “what hell is this?”

“We’ve come out of the novel,” she whispered, “but it now shows that we married Darcy and Bingley, but nothing about time travel.  Have you told them your name?  They think I’m delusional.  Don’t say a word about the 1800s or the twenty-first century.”

Pulling away, Amanda asked desperately, “What year is it?”

“I think it’s still 1953.  We’re in London.”

“London,” she murmured.  “I thought you died.”

“I did,” she responded, drawing her over to a small table where they could talk.  “But I woke up here and found a bookstore and read the novel about Darcy and Marco—The Pianoforte, not Pride and Prejudice.  It changed.  I know he’s supposed to be proud, but I don’t think I was particularly prejudiced.”  She reached out and ran her hand through Amanda’s hair, which was still that wonderful auburn color and cut with a fringe and grown to her shoulders, perfectly straight.  It wasn’t quite 1950s but it was something.

At this point, a nurse came up to them and Amanda stiffened.

“Mr. Bligh would like to take you to dinner, Hightower.”  Her voice was cold and clinical. 

Marco wondered what she would be given to wear.  “Is it a Friday?”

The nurse’s face softened.  “Yes, dear.  Gentlemen often take their dates out to dinner on Fridays.”

Amanda’s eyes had widened and she grabbed Marco’s hand.  “What does she mean—date?  I thought you said this was a mental institution.”  She looked around at all the inmates who were either wearing gray pullovers and trousers or the gray dresses for women.

“He’s doing a study for a member of parliament on us mentally ill people,” she explained, standing.  “For some reason, this includes meals and giving me a piano to play on.  I’m convinced it’s some sort of test.”

The nurse looked at her incredulously.  “Now, Hightower.”

She nodded and, leaning over to kiss Amanda’s cheek, she went to go get ready. 

It was a sweet little cocktail dress with a hat she’d seen in the movies.  It was slim and went over the top of her head before rounding out on either side of her head.  She was given back her bracelet, which was fastened over evening gloves, and then she slipped on her hose and pumps.  Then she was given a hairband.  Looking at it, she sighed and gathered her hair in a side ponytail, secured her hair, and let it fall forward over her shoulder.

“Do I look presentable enough?” she asked the nurse who was patiently waiting.  “We wouldn’t want to embarrass Mr. Bligh.”  This bit was muttered under her breath. 

“You are very beautiful, Hightower, but I expect that is part of the reason Mr. Bligh appreciates your company.”

Looking at the nurse oddly, she was given a coat, which she put on, and then was led out a side door so none of the other patients would see her.  The nurse had a suitcase, which was perplexing.  Mr. Bligh was waiting for her in a motor and she stepped into the back seat as the nurse went to sit beside the driver.

“Thank you for the dress,” she murmured, glancing at him.  “What are you going to do with all this female clothing once you go back to Australia?”

“I expect they’ll be yours,” he answered with a glimmer in his eye.  “Drive on, Smith.”

They were at another upscale restaurant, this one lit with a chandelier, no more than six tables.  Looking around, Marco saw that there were none available and was wondering if they would have to wait, but then she noticed that a pretty young thing with blonde hair stood from her table and waved.

Turning to Mr. Bligh, she gave him a questioning look.

He placed his hand at the small of her back and whispered, “That’s Anna.”

“How—lovely,” she stated.  “You do remember that I live in a mental ward.”

“She doesn’t know that,” he assured her, which somehow didn’t make Marco feel any better.  Still, she wended her way through the tables until she reached Anna who had hair that went down to her shoulders in a sweet cut and a sparkling headband in red to match her dress.  The color really did suit her, Marco thought.

Her own dress was a deep blue with a gold and blue hat. 

As soon as she got to the table, before anyone could say anything, she stretched out her hand.  “I understand you’re Miss Anna Bligh.”

“I am,” she agreed with a tentative smile as she looked over Marco’s shoulder, most likely to her father who was still standing there with his hand at Marco’s back.  “I only know that you’re Miss Hightower.  Goodness, you sound American.  Daddy never mentioned that.”

Marco wondered what exactly Mr. Bligh had mentioned.

“I’m afraid I am,” she answered as her seat was pulled out for her and she was placed in a perfect triangle to both Blighs.  “Have you ever been, Miss Bligh?”

“No,” she answered quickly, clearly wanting to please.  “What’s it like there?”

“Well,” she answered carefully.  “I had a rather sheltered upbringing.  I mainly was off at boarding school most of the time, and that was one large mansion with twenty girls all in uniform.”

Anna grimaced.  “Oh dear.  I would chide Daddy if he ever did that to me.”

Nodding, Marco confessed, “My parents wanted me to have a religious upbringing.  They were both deeply—”  (She noticed that Mr. Bligh was looking at her with something akin to adoration, mixed in with his obvious interest in her answer.) “religious,” she finished lamely. 

“Oh dear,” Anna confessed.  “We only go to church on Christmas and Easter.”  She looked over at Mr. Bligh with some sort of desperation.

“Most people do,” Marco quickly stated, wanting to put the girl at ease.  “My parents were just a special case.”

Anna seemed to internalize this and they all accepted their menus.  While Mr. Bligh ordered a scotch and soda and allowed Anna a glass of champagne, Marco took nothing.  She never did.  The doctors weren’t certain how it would interact with her medication, and she didn’t want to get used to such niceties, only to have them be taken away.

When they had decided on their meals, Anna took up the conversation again.  “I must say, Miss Hightower, I’m surprised by how young you are.  How—forgive me—it’s impolite.”

“I’m twenty,” she answered, deciding that was a good number.  “How could you not know?  Didn’t your father tell you he’s writing a report or something for Sir Henry Swanson on some topic of interest?”  Marco was careful not to mention mental institutions.  That would probably be very bad.

Marco’s wrists were resting on the table, remembering the manners her mother had been certain to drum into her, and she was surprised when Mr. Bligh took her hand.  She stared at it for a long moment and then whispered, “She was right.”

Mr. Bligh looked at her.

“She said ‘date’—what other kind of ‘date’ can there be?”  She looked over at the direction where the nurse was sitting in a chair and reading a book.  “Are we now—”  Marco didn’t want to voice it in front of Anna.  Are we now prostitutes?

Squeezing her hand, Mr. Bligh called her name and she turned to him.  “I wrote my report two and a half months ago.  I asked the Warden—since you have no father—for your hand in marriage.”

This was certainly not what she was expecting. 

Marco swallowed and then stated in her bewilderment: “You’re proposing in front of your daughter?—I think I’m dreaming.  I’m definitely dreaming, this is so peculiar.”

“Oh dear,” Anna whispered.  “I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

He must have made some signal or said something, but Marco was in her own little world.  This was a delusion.  Darcy had been the truth.  Or had she time traveled twice?  What if she had a second husband and children and then died and woke up in 1492 with Columbus thinking she was a witch since she just appeared on his ship?  At least they didn’t quite think people were delusional there unless they were religious, and she knew now to keep her mouth shut.

His hand was still enveloping hers.  Perhaps she should stop it.  Perhaps she shouldn’t.  This could mean that she would leave the mental institution—then again, she would be leaving Amanda behind.  But perhaps she should just try to survive?  Try to live?

“May I—” she whispered and she realized that the Blighs must have been talking as it suddenly became silent.

“Yes, Miss Hightower?”  It was the solicitous voice of Mr. Bligh and she looked into his eyes.

“I know I never indulge, but I find I would appreciate a glass of wine or something else that’s appropriate.  I just—never expected—to ever marry”—again.  Never marry again.

Anna leaned forward and touched her shoulder.  “But you’re so young and so lovely,” she murmured.  “I’m such an idiot.  I’m sorry.”

Coming out of herself, she whispered, “No.”  Then, stronger: “No.  No need to apologize.  I just didn’t realize because it never occurred to me that Mr. Bligh was being anything but kind to someone displaced in the world.”

Mr. Bligh was signaling the waiter and then asked, “Would you like champagne?—Not necessarily to celebrate anything but new friends, Miss Hightower.”

She nodded her head and the order was made. 

The small group fell into silence again, the father and daughter catching glances at each other, and Marco just looking in question at Mr. Bligh.

When her glass of champagne came, she took a quick sip of it.  Wonderful and bubbly, she sighed happily.  Then, she spoke, “Although you haven’t asked and I haven’t answered, may I call you ‘George’?  You may, of course, call me ‘Marco’ if it pleases you in return.”  That sounded a little too formal.  She was sounding like a woman of consequence from the 1800s.  Here she was a girl in a mental ward.

“I would be honored, Marco,” he told her.

She gave him a small smile and took another sip of her champagne.  “How many of these do you think I can sneak?  I don’t want to drink it all before my dinner comes.”

Anna looked over at her.  “I must admit I was expecting a woman several decades older than you, Miss Hightower.  When Daddy told me—”

Suddenly, understanding her meaning, Marco blushed.  Perhaps Mr. Bligh wanted someone young and pretty in his bed.  Then again, why would he look at her that way?

“I can imagine,” she agreed.  “May I ask how old you are, Miss Bligh?”

“Anna, please,” she insisted.  “If I may call you ‘Marco.’  What a wonderfully peculiar name!”  Not waiting for an answer other than Marco’s nod, Anna continued, “I’m nearly eighteen.”

“Then I suppose I am definitely a surprise.  Your brother must be about twenty-one, twenty-two to be graduating from Cambridge.—And engaged!  Are you looking forward to the wedding?  Do you like Miss Bowes-Lyon?”

This seemed to be a topic that Anna enjoyed.  As she began to speak, Mr. Bligh let his thumb rub over her hand in thanks: “She’s a sweet little thing.  Not too obsessed with position.  I mean, we’re the foremost family in the county” (weren’t their counties unbearably large?) “but some Brits look down on us because we’re a former penal colony, and Olivia doesn’t.”

Trying to smile, she agreed, “That’s fortunate.  I’d hate to have a sister-in-law who thought she was better than me.”  Memory: Lady Catherine DeBourg.  At least she got to leave that horrible matriarch behind in the pages of a book. 

“Exactly,” Anna said enthusiastically.  “I’m so glad you understand.—If you agree to marry Daddy, please don’t make me call you ‘Mother’.”

The last bit threw her.  “No,” she answered honestly.  “That would be more than a little weird.—Who,” she swallowed, “who knows about me?”

Mr. Bligh opened his mouth to answer, but Anna quickly put in.  “Oh, everyone.  James, once he came round, is dying to meet you.”

Taking her hand away from Mr. Bligh, she set both her hands in her lap.  “How long has this been under discussion exactly?”

Anna bit her lip and looked over at her father.

“I confess,” he admitted, “I’ve been thinking about the possibility since you first played the piano for me.  I thought you had the most wondrous eyes as they skipped over the keys and the beauty of your music—”

Tears formed in her eyes as she looked at him and she took him in.  He was much older than Darcy.  She wouldn’t necessarily grow old with him.  “It’s a little strange,” she confessed.  “This is going to seem a little forward—”

“Do be forward,” Anna begged.

“But my father was in his sixties when my mother married him.  She was twenty-four, I think.  I grew up with the idea of a May-to-December romance and all my cousins teased me—for other reasons, too, of course.  Daddy left the faith to marry Mom and so we were always—unpopular.  Daddy never married before Mom, so he didn’t have children, but I wonder how she felt if she considered the fact that he was—”

“Old enough to be her father,” Mr. Bligh answered for her as she stumbled over her words.  “Was your father—Catholic?”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “The entire Hightower family is Catholic, but Daddy wanted to marry Mom—so they converted to Episcopalianism.  It’s why I have a religious education.”  She glanced at Anna and offered her a small smile.  “Do you have a Catholic church near where you live?”

“There are a few,” Mr. Bligh promised.  “You’d have to go into Sydney, I think, for the closest, but that’s only a half day’s drive.  It’s not possible for every Sunday but for special occasions.”

“Hmm,” she murmured to herself.  Taking another sip of her champagne, her mind flitted here and there in her confused thoughts.

“Marco,” Mr. Bligh whispered softly, “I never meant to disquiet you.  I thought my gifts were an obvious sign of my devotion.”

She looked at him and smiled sadly.  “You forget.  I’ve never heard of a marriage between anyone at the—dormitory.  It never occurred to me because it wasn’t an option.”

When they continued to stare into each other’s eyes, her mind thought that Darcy’s gaze had been so blue and yet Mr. Bligh’s was a gray.  They were like a storm, a quiet storm that washed away your sins, never one that was blustery or would destroy.

“Yes,” she stated firmly and he looked surprised.  “If you ask, the answer is ‘yes’.”

Anna clapped her hands happily and reached out to Marco.  “We must promise to be the best of friends.  We can be like sisters—I know you’ll be Daddy’s wife—but do say we can be sisters.”

“I—” she laughed a little, her mind turning to Georgiana Darcy.  “Of course,” she agreed, “as long as you never call me ‘sister’.  That would be—startling.”

At this point their meals arrived and Marco looked down at the chicken cordon bleu quite happily.  She did so enjoy dining out with Mr. Bligh.  Not only was it a nice change, but hospital food was horrible.  One got used to it, of course, otherwise one would starve—but to have actual, hand cooked food was brilliant.

She had completely forgotten about Mr. Bligh’s promise that she could play the piano on Friday (and it was Friday; happily she thought that she would now have a calendar).  However, after their meal was finished he took her hand and led her up to a grand piano that had sat silent all night. 

Looking up at him in shock, she asked him to take off her bracelet and then slipped off her evening gloves before letting her fingers touch the ivory keys.  It was haunting, beautiful.  She played love songs from all the artists from the twenty-first century she could think of.  She enjoyed the softer Beatles songs she chose, switching into a jazz variation, and then into The Music of the Night.  After about twenty minutes, she chose to end on Taylor Swift’s Love Story, to raucous applause from the tables, a few people getting up and standing. 

Mr. Bligh had been standing beside her the entire time and he drew out a small jewelry box before kneeling beside her as she still sat at the piano.  He didn’t say anything but open the box, which showed a small ruby in a gold setting.  It was small, so not bling, and utterly tasteful.  She lifted her hand from where it was sitting on the piano bench, and presented it to him.  He already knew the answer.  Slipping it on her finger, he stood, pulling her up with him, and kissing her there—just a press of lips against lips.

At first she didn’t realize that people were applauding them again.

It was utterly different from kissing Darcy.  It was wonderfully firm and she felt wanted. 

It ended just as chastely as it had begun and she blushed as she turned to pick up her gloves and let him secure the bracelet back on her wrist.

Anna was standing at their table, which had a bottle of champagne sitting in the center with three fresh glasses.  Marco laughed happily as the sommelier poured for them and then tira misu was brought out for them as they all chatted happily.

They all stood finally, several hours after they had first sat down, Anna linking arms with Marco as she began to gab happily.  “This means you can come to the graduation—and again to the wedding!  This is marvelous!  I’ll have to go through your clothes—”  She walked right past the nurse who seemed to be holding the suitcase—which must mean—

“Am I going somewhere?” she asked Mr. Bligh, turning back toward him.

He was now carrying the suitcase, as battered as it was.  “You are sharing a suite with Anna at the Grand.  I thought you might want—to get away.  I’ve had some things of yours brought to the hotel” (what things? Marco wondered) “and then we have your suitcase.”

“How did you know I would agree?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow before turning again to Anna who was telling her all about ‘Grandmama.’  The lady sounded frightening.

They all loaded back into the car—sans nurse—and headed across London.

Marco had never been in such a beautiful place before—at least in this reality.  There were gilt edges to everything her eyes fell upon, several candelabras, and tiles that seemed to glitter in the lamplight.  She was instantly issued a key to her room as soon as she signed in with a flourish, just enjoying holding a pen again.

“Would you like me to hold onto your passport, dearest?” Mr. Bligh asked, surprising her with the fact she somehow had a passport and that he had called her ‘dearest’.

“Of-of course,” she agreed as they got into the elevator.  “May I just check something?”

He reached into his formal jacket and handed her a decidedly British passport.  Flipping to the page that stated her nationality and her name, she saw that she was listed as ‘Marcelle Hightower’ and that a photograph of her a few years earlier when she first came to the mental institution was on display.  At least she looked pretty in it, with shining black hair, intelligent eyes, though she was clearly not smiling.  She was also wearing clothes suited to the 1940s.  “I suppose not all passport pictures are dreadful,” she sighed.  Then, leaning in, she whispered, “Marcelle?”

“That’s what’s on your official papers,” he explained carefully.  “I thought ‘Marco’ was a nickname.”

Shaking her head, she confessed.  “No.  I was named for my mother—long story.  She was ‘Marco’.”  Still, Marcelle wasn’t so bad.  “I can live with it,” she told him carefully.

Anna was looking between them with a small indulgent smile. 

“May I go to a Catholic service on Sunday?” she asked as the doors opened to the third floor.  “I grew up going to both Episcopalian and Catholic services—and I always preferred Catholic.”  Looking at her fiancé (and how peculiar was that?), she waited expectantly.

It seemed like Anna was going to object, but Mr. Bligh took off his hat as they came up to Suite 307 and put down the suitcase.  “Of course, Marco.  I would be pleased to escort you.”

She nodded and then walked into the large suite which had a small sitting area with a couch and two armchairs against the left hand wall, and then opposite two twin beds with royal blue coverings.  “This is lovely,” she complimented.  “Which bed is mine?”

“I just moved in yesterday,” Anna told her as Mr. Bligh walked in behind them.  “I took the one closest to the door—but if you’d rather switch.”

“No,” she said hurriedly, thinking how it was always good to be away from doors because nurses with drugs might come through, “that’s perfect.  Thank you.”

“I have your vitamin regimen,” Mr. Bligh lied.  Wonderful.  Lithium.  The stuff gave her dry mouth, she was convinced of it.  She’d been slipping the ones that made her really dopy behind her left molar for two years now before spitting them out.  She’d just flush them down the toilet.  She’d have to broach the subject with Mr. Bligh if she was going to continue with these medications.

“Just put them in the bathroom,” she stated airily, “or the bedside table.” 

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded before setting her suitcase down.  Going to the chest of drawers, he showed her how he’d purchased her pajamas and a robe and a few trouser and blouse combinations for the daytime.  He made it sound like they were all hers, and she thanked him before going to the suitcase and finding three dresses he had given her and all the small gifts—the book of poetry, the journal although she had never been given a pen, the gloves, the watch she could never wear until now.

“My hats aren’t here,” she stated carefully.  “I think I have two besides the one I’m wearing.”

“They’re in the closet,” Anna put in helpfully.  “This strange woman brought them earlier just before I went out.”

“Ah, perfect,” she stated as she took out the dresses and flapped them in the air to get the wrinkles out before going to the closet. 

“Shall I come get you two for breakfast tomorrow?” Mr. Bligh asked as he stood by the door.  “We can all go down together as a family.”

This, certainly, alarmed Marco.  “Family?  How much family?”  Looking over at Anna, she grimaced, and then turned back to Mr. Bligh.  “It’s just—I only just met Anna and now we’re roommates—which is fine,” she instantly added.  “It’s just so much.”

He came over and took her hands in his.  “My mother,” he told her.  “James is at Glamore Castle.  I’ll be there at breakfast the entire time.”  He was looking down at her adoringly and she wondered what she had ever done to deserve such admiration.

Anna cleared her throat, and the two looked over.  “Tell Grandmama her age.  She’ll think she’s a friend of mine or Olivia’s otherwise.”

“Of course,” he added, a little self-consciously.  Leaning forward, he kissed the side of Marco’s head and whispered, “I’m sorry about your name.  I didn’t know.”

“Fresh start,” she murmured back.  “Perhaps it’s better that I’m not Marco Hightower, the pianist, or Mrs. Darcy, the lady of society, but Marcelle Bligh—whatever that means.”

“Darcy?” he asked carefully.  “As in Marco Darcy?”

She gave him a fearful look, but he merely reached a hand up and brushed the back of his knuckles against her cheek. 

“You poor, sweet girl.”  He kissed her head again and then drew away.  “Sweet dreams, my love.”

Now he loved her?  Who was this man whom she was marrying?

“Goodnight,” she whispered in return and he gave her a soft smile before kissing Anna on the forehead and leaving them.

As soon as it clicked shut, Anna asked incredulously, “You really didn’t know he was dating you?  I couldn’t be more pleased that you’re marrying Daddy.  I want a friend who isn’t Olivia—who is sweet but so dull—and I don’t want Daddy to be alone and you’re so different from Mum that you wouldn’t be replacing her—But why did you accept?”

Going over to the closet with her floral dress to hang it up, she responded: “His eyes.  I could marry eyes like those.  Until you know true unkindness, I don’t think you can understand what the eyes of a person tell you.”

Anna nodded carefully.  “I could never marry without love.”

Liking the turn of the conversation, Marco smirked at her.  “There’s a story.  I won’t make you tell me because we just met tonight, but I hope I get to hear it sooner rather than later.”  When the last dress was put away and her belongings put beside the bed, she offered her wrist to Anna who took off the bracelet.  Then something occurred to her, “Are we getting married here in England or are we going to Australia sometime soon?”

This caused Anna to laugh as she got out her pajamas and Marco did the same.  “I have no idea, but I’m sure you can discuss it with Daddy.”

“It will have to be an Anglican service,” she mused as she wondered if she had a toothbrush as there hadn’t been one in her suitcase.  “Not that I mind, of course.  Daddy was Anglican and Mom pretended.”

Anna whisked into the bathroom to change and Marco sat on the bed, took out her hair and took off her hat, and then began to put her long black mane into a braid. 

Soon it was her turn and there was a toothbrush waiting for her in a case marked “M. Hightower” that included several beauty creams and cosmetics.  He really was taking care of her, she thought to herself, and he had known—or at least hoped—that she would agree to marry him.

It was strange sleeping without the sound of the night warden walking the halls and without the dripping of the faucet.

Her mind was awhirl with everything that happened and soon she found that her eyes were opening when Anna was carefully shaking her awake.

“You want to look your best,” she stated as Marco blinked at her.  “Gran is the head of the family.”

“Not Mr. Bligh’s” (she shook her head) “George’s father or George himself?”

“My grandfather is dead,” Anna stated carefully, “and Grandmama owns everything—Daddy’s her heir, obviously, and James is his.”

“Right,” she answered as she sat up.  “Do you want the bathroom first?”

“Oh,” Anna answered, batting her eyes.  “I’ve been up for half an hour.  I just need to choose a dress.  The bathroom is yours.—Did you know that all your cosmetics are new?”

Opening her mouth, she closed it again.  “Religious school.  We weren’t allowed, you see.  I saw them last night.  It was very kind of your father, but I haven’t used cosmetics—” (in over four years, and could she even count the powders of the 1800s as cosmetics?) “—ever.”

“I’ll do them for you,” Anna promised, placing a hand on her shoulder.  “I’ll teach you over the next week and we can find out what you like.  Let me show you what creams to put on your face before we begin.”  She smiled down at her.  “You’re a convent girl, aren’t you?”

Thinking of her mother who was a nun, she swallowed.  “Something like that,” she answered, pushing back the covers.  “I’ll just do my hair and those creams.”

Next was a half hour of pure fun as she put various face creams on her cheeks and neck, another for under her eyes.  There was a third cream for her hands.  Then Anna was showing her the cosmetics, many of which were cruder versions of what she was used to in the twenty-first century which was forever and ever ago, and she applied it all carefully, jumping for joy when she found eyeliner (something Anna wasn’t allowed).  Anna was surprised by how perfectly she put it on, Marco having used it countless times for her concerts. 

Anna picked out their dresses and the two giggled like sisters as they zipped up the backs for each other and went in search of their day gloves as they would be appearing in public.  They were lying down on Anna’s bed, laughing about boys they had known when they were younger (someone named “Gino” in Anna’s case, but mum was the word). 

When the knock came on the door, Anna called that whoever it was should come in while Marco was telling the story of Pete.  “Peter, I should say,” she corrected as Mr. Bligh walked in.  “He was a member of my father’s congregation and he thought that Daddy would write him a letter of recommendation if he were my boyfriend.”

Gasping, Anna clutched her arm.

“What happened?”

She grimaced.  “Well, let’s just say that poor Peter was disappointed.  However, he did go to West Point so all ended well.”

“I never asked you what your father did,” Mr. Bligh stated as the two girls giggled and then sat up, ready to go except for their shoes which had been tossed to the side.

Looking at him carefully, she answered, “You won’t believe me.”

Sensing that the mood had shifted, Anna put on her shoes quickly and whispered, “I’ll be outside.”

As soon as the door closed, Mr. Bligh walked up to her and took her hands before crouching before her.  “Darling, I realize you have a difficult past.  However, if you remember your childhood, then I will believe you.”

“They’re dead,” she answered carefully.  “They’re not alive.”  That sounded better.  “Daddy was a Catholic Archbishop who fell in love” (she was leaving out the part where her mother was a nun) “So he converted to Episcopalianism so he could marry Mom.  They made him a Bishop given his position—it’s rare,” she added carefully, “but it does happen when Catholic priests convert so they can marry.” 

Mr. Bligh ran his thumbs over her hands although she was wearing gloves, looked down at their joined hands, before his kind face lifted up to gaze at her lovingly.  The sense that she was undeserving hit her again, but she just breathed out.  “What was his name?”

Deciding to be vague, she answered, “Hightower?”

At this he smiled.  “Of course.  Bishop Hightower.”

Nodding firmly—because, after all, that’s who her father was—she watched as he stood up and then helped her up.  She grabbed her pumps—her only pair of shoes—and then put them on. 

“Mrs. Bligh,” she doublechecked.  “I can call you ‘George’ and ‘Anna’ in front of her?”  She was still getting used to ‘George’ after all these weeks. 

“I expect you to,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek before he opened the door for them. 

Anna was waiting patiently for them and gave them a large smile.  “Oh good, I was afraid I was going to have to fix her make up.”

Remembering lazy mornings with Darcy in bed, she blushed.  “We’re going down to breakfast!  Give your father more credit, if not me.”

“Of course,” she agreed, leaning up to kiss her father’s cheek.

Mr. Bligh offered them each an arm, and Marco took it with a smile.  She enjoyed walking on a man’s arm.  She had missed it over the past four years. 

The matriarch of the Bligh clan was a formidable woman of impressive size and a grumpy face.  Mr. Bligh went up to her and kissed her cheek and she only grunted.  “I suppose this ill-advised engagement actually took place since there are four chairs at our usual table?”

At this, Marco stood a little bit behind the woman because she was suddenly terrified to meet her.  When she had met Lady Catherine, she had been in love with Darcy and nothing was going to stop them.  Also, she’d been married already, come to think of it.  Darcy had kept them sequestered away, always wanting the other, loving the other, but never stepping out of their prescribed roles as guardian and ward.

Now she was a teenager or twenty, as she was pretending, and—come to think of it, her passport made her out as nineteen if she did the math correctly.  Marco also wasn’t in love with George.  She felt like she wasn’t worthy of his affection.  She had taken his kindness, taken his gifts, and given him nothing in return.  Part of her had thought he had been playing with her for his stupid report for Sir Henry Swanson, but that had turned out not to be the case.  Now she felt nothing but gratitude that he was taking her away from the mental institution. 

“Where is she?” Mrs. Bligh asked and Marco took a deep breath and came forward.  “My God, you weren’t joking!  What possessed you to engage yourself to a child?  If you wanted something young and pretty—” she carried on, but Marco didn’t want to hear it.

“I beg your pardon?” she interrupted.  “I would never dream of interfering in your relationship with your son, but I would kindly ask that you at least give me credit to know if someone wanted to marry me simply because I am ‘young’ and ‘pretty’.”  Her black eyes looked at the woman who stared back before letting out a laugh.

“I like you.”  This was said with all the gravitas of a royal edict.

Nodding her head, she tried to keep her voice strong.  “Thank you.  I hope I will be able to return the sentiment soon.”

She threw back her head and laughed again.  “Oh, I see why you’re marrying her, George.  This creature is delightful, if a little young.  Come, dear,” she indicated the chair to her left.  “Sit by me.”

Marco and Mr. Bligh shared a look, his of bemusement and hers of horror, but she took the seat dutifully. 

“Tell me of your people,” the matriarch started as she took her napkin and put it on her lap, everyone following suit. 

Glancing at Mr. Bligh, Marco told the truth, “Daddy was a Bishop in America.”

“That would explain your deplorable accent,” she decided.  “But you must have been sent to boarding school here, surely.”

Marco nodded as she was served a fruit salad.  “I’ve been at a private institution for the past four years.  I’m an orphan, unfortunately.”  She glanced at Mr. Bligh who reached his hand out to her under the cover of the table, and she took it, looking for strength.  “Mother was the quintessential priest’s wife.  She was always canning fruit for the poor so they’d have something to combat—illness.”  She almost said ‘vitamin deficiency.’  Did they have that?  “Visiting the sick, of course, and the ladies of the congregation.”

Chuckling to herself, the matriarch asked as she ate, “And you’re not marrying a priest.”

She had been asked this question quite a bit when she was growing up.  Would she follow in her father’s footsteps?  Would she marry into the clergy?  “It seems not,” she told her, uncertain what else to say.

Anna gave her an encouraging look. 

“What is your name, dear?” she asked.  “I know it’s ‘Hightower’.”

“Marcelle,” she returned, remembering her passport.  “I’m called ‘Marco’, however.”

“No,” the matriarch stated.  “You will be ‘Marcelle’ in the family.  I can’t control what my son calls you, but, Anna, you will call Marcelle by her Christian name.  Is that understood?”  She stared at her granddaughter who quickly nodded her assent.

Marco took a deep breath as their fruit salads were taken away and she was given a full English breakfast.  She just stared at it in shock as she was used to corn flakes—without milk.  “What are the Bligh family plans for the next few days?”

The graduation, apparently, was next weekend and they were all going down to Cambridge on Tuesday.  It seemed like Mr. Bligh had been on a tight schedule with his proposal. 

When they were walking in Hyde Park, Anna having leant Marco a parasol even though she had a hat, Marco asked her fiancé, “May I go back once more before we leave for Australia?  I have a friend and I never said goodbye.”  She looked up anxiously.  “Please.  The last thing she said was that I was going on a ‘date’—but she said it in such a way that I thought I was going to become your mistress—I don’t want her to worry that I’m being mistreated.”

He reached over and placed his hand over hers that was on his arm.  “Who is this friend?”

“Does it matter?” she whispered.  “We’re all faceless and nameless.”

They walked on in silence until Mr. Bligh broached the subject of their wedding.  “I don’t want to steal my son’s thunder, but it might be a bit peculiar if I bring back a young fiancée without having married her first.”

“Then let’s marry as soon as possible.  Quietly.  We could just have the family.  James could stand up for you, Anna for me.  What could be more perfect?  We’ll have the banns read or get a special license.”  Yes, they still had those, she thought.  A special license perhaps.

“Then you need a dress,” he told her.  “Doesn’t the bride always wear white?”

“We can’t deprive Anna of helping me choose it—or perhaps not even Mrs. Bligh,” she added hastily. 

“Then I’ll make a quick appointment with the Archbishop of Canterbury,” (Marco looked at him in confusion—he was wealthy enough to do that, especially considering he was an Australian?) “and you go shopping, and we’ll get married when we return to London from Cambridge.”

“All right,” she agreed. 

That seemed to settle that, then.  He got his appointment with the Archbishop on Monday, traveling ahead of the group as he was going to meet them in Cambridge.  He’d already booked a small Anglican chapel for two weeks from the previous Saturday—and the three women went out dress shopping.

Remembering the blue gown she had worn to her previous wedding, Marco decided she was going to have a traditional white.  Also, it was clearly expected in 1953.  She was drawn to a white dress that cinched at the waist and came down to the knees with tulle.  The neckline was sweetheart, with lace going up to her neck.  Fortunately, they could alter it to her measurements by the wedding day. 

Anna chose a pillbox hat with a blusher that came down over her eyes.

The last touch was the shoes, which was easy enough.

After five excruciating hours, the three women left the bridal boutique with smiles on their faces.

Marco collapsed into an armchair in their suite, her shoes tossed off toward the bed.  Trying on so many dresses was exhausting.  She missed the days when she pointed to a particular style in a fashion book from Paris and then discussed fabrics, only her measurements needing to be taken.

“I think we need champagne,” Anna suggested as she fell into the armchair.  “That was a good day’s work.”

“Yes,” Marco agreed.  “However, if I hear ‘Marcelle’ one more time, I think I will cry.  I’ve always been ‘Marco.’”  Then she broached a careful subject, “Is Gino Italian?  Luigino?  Luigi even.”

“How did you know?” Anna gasped. 

Not quite answering, Marco asked, “How are Italians viewed in Australia?”

“It’s dreadful,” she stated, sitting up.  “They’re considered fascists even though the war is long over.”

“It’s not long over,” Marco refuted.  “It’s only been eight years.  It’s too soon, perhaps, to forget.”  At Anna’s betrayed look, she told her, “I don’t think that way.  I’m just saying the Germans, the Japanese, the Italians—they kind of tried to spread Fascism throughout the world.  The Nazis exterminated the Jews or at least attempted to.  The Gypsies, Slavs, Homosexuals—people don’t forget even if no one particularly likes Gypsies, et cetera, et cetera.”  It was so much fun to quote movies when no one knew what she was talking about.

Of course, they hadn’t forgotten back in 2015 when she had first left America.  The war veterans were dying out, but their children remembered, their children’s children still carried some of the prejudice.

“Gino and his family have been in Australia since before the war.”  Anna certainly sounded petulant.

“Of course,” she responded, trying to soothe her.  “I would never think to accuse them.  I’m sure they’re good people and I look forward to meeting Gino.”  A smile crossed her face.  “However, I doubt your father feels the same way.  You’re his ‘little girl’, I’m certain.”

“He’s marrying you,” she pointed out. 

At first Marco thought that Anna meant that she was Italian, but then she remembered that nobody knew—and she was going to try and keep it that way.  Sitting up, she refuted: “I may be an orphan and a ‘convent girl’, but my father was a well-respected Bishop.  He’s a pillar of the church.”  Of course, she had been in a mental institution.  However, she had been married to one of the most eligible bachelors of the first circles, the richest land owner in Derbyshire, even over the Matlocks, his mother’s family.

She missed Derbyshire suddenly, but she could think of no excuse to go there.  Perhaps it was a bad idea, though.  Marco wasn’t certain she could bear to see Pemberley again.  It would be worse if it were neglected or crumbled to ruins.  What if it wasn’t even there?  The thought had haunted her ever since she had found herself in ‘modern’ London.

Anna grumbled.  “He’s a good man.”

This was certainly going to be a problem, she realized.  Now the question was whether or not to snitch.  She never liked being a snitch.  Perhaps she could sabotage this from the inside.  It was certainly possible.

Driving by motor with their suitcases was an experience.  When Marco realized that the car was a stick, she didn’t offer to drive.  Instead they seemed to have a chauffer.  Come to think of it, Mr. Bligh always seemed to have a chauffeur, which was mildly hilarious given the fact that it was the 1950s.  Marco wasn’t certain how all of their suitcases fit until she realized that they were leaving some at the Grand and continuing to pay for the rooms.  As it was, all of Marco’s possessions fit in the large suitcase that had mysteriously appeared in her room, the tag reading her name, just that Sunday.

George Bligh was waiting for them with a handsome young man in a suit.  This must be James, then. 

Marco let everyone get out before her and greet the two men before she stepped out of the motor.  Mr. Bligh immediately saw her and came over, placing his hands on each of her arms and kissing her cheek, just barely not touching her lips.  They hadn’t shared a kiss since their engagement, and Marco found that she missed being kissed.  Was it betraying Darcy?  He had never existed except inside of a book.  If it hadn’t been for the novel, The Pianoforte, which told their story so closely, she would believe that it hadn’t happened.

The young man came up and offered his hand, which she took.  “I hear congratulations are in order,” he stated, his smile a little strained.

“I thought it was the other way around,” she suggested.  “A Cambridge graduate and a groom!  You are to be commended on achieving two milestones within a month of each other.”

He laughed a little and looked her over carefully without seeming so obvious.  “I must admit, you’re not what I was expecting.”

Glancing at Mr. Bligh, she asked incredulously, “Did you fail to mention my age again?  I’m going to get a complex that I should be in my thirties or forties.”

“No,” James stated quickly, “he did.  It’s just—your eyes.  I’ve never seen eyes like them.”  Well, if he hung out with Gino as Anna clearly did, he might see eyes like hers. 

Uncertain what to say, she decided to stay close to the truth.  “I inherited them from my mother.”  Oria Hightower, the former Sister Marco, had been a true Italian beauty with her dark hair, black eyes, and caramel skin.  She was voluptuous in a way that Marco could only ever hope to be.  It was the sort of figure that would be appreciated in the 1950s, but she supposed she wasn’t trying to be attractive for anyone but George Bligh—and wasn’t that a peculiar thought?

They all went inside the quaint Bed and Breakfast, and Marco discovered she was sharing with Anna again.

“You’re going to get sick of me,” she proclaimed as they got ready for dinner.  They were meeting Olivia and her family.  Marco was once again in the dress that she had worn when she got engaged. 

“You need more clothes, Marcelle,” Anna stated carefully, clearly not wanting to offend.

“I’m an orphan,” she told her.  “I’m lucky to have what I have.”

“I’ll talk to Daddy—”

Marco turned to her.  “Don’t tell him it was my idea.  I’m not grasping.  I don’t need anything else.”  Of course, she had over a dozen day dresses as Mrs. Darcy at any given time, and then there were of course the ball gowns and the evening dresses for when they had company.  Still, she had spent four long years when she had only that horrible gray dress.  She really needed to see Amanda.  Hopefully Mr. Bligh was good to his word—not that he had actually promised her anything.  The thought caused a stone to sink into Marco’s stomach.

Anna just huffed.  She would probably speak to Mr. Bligh about the dresses, and Marco doubted she could stop her.

“He loves you, you know,” Anna whispered as she traced the pattern on her quilt.  “I remember Daddy and Mum being in love.  It’s different now, with you, but he’s definitely in love.”

“I’m a different woman,” she told her.  “Your father met me much later in life, so he’s different than the man who met your mother.—I didn’t even realize he loved me until after the engagement.  Then again, I did think I was sort of a pet of his.”

“Daddy,” Anna stated as she came up and placed a jewelry box in front of her, “would never keep a pet.  These are from Daddy, for you to wear tonight.”

Carefully, Marco reached for the box after examining it visually for a good few moments.  She was already wearing the bracelet and her engagement ring under her evening glove.  Opening the box, she saw two sapphire earrings set in gold to match her dress and hat.  Sighing, she smiled and then glanced over at Anna.  “Does your father take to spoiling?”  Darcy certainly had.  He tried to hide it, but she would find small gifts.

Anna laughed and got up, taking a look at the earrings.  “He was so secretive when he went to go buy those.  He told me to keep you occupied so that’s when we went for a full English tea.”

“Clotted cream,” Marco sighed.  “There is nothing quite so divine.”

The two went over to the mirror over the dresser and had fun trying to put the sapphires in her ears as they were both already wearing evening gloves with jewelry securing them.

“Let me do something with your hair,” Anna begged.  “Something very simple.  I want to show off the earrings.”

“If I don’t like it, you’ll take it out?” Marco checked, but Anna didn’t answer. 

She just went and fetched clips that were jeweled (of course) and pinned Marco’s hair back behind her ears to show off the earrings.  “There,” she declared, turning Marco toward the mirror.  Your hair is still down your back but you can see those beautiful sapphires.”

“Fine, you win,” she declared and the two girls laughed as they headed out for the evening.

Olivia was a little thing with a semi-full figure, an oval face that begged for acceptance, and black hair.  Her smiles didn’t fool Marco.  She was deluding herself that she was happy.  And James spent the night between being the not-quite-adoring fiancé when everyone was watching and chatting with his best friend and Olivia’s brother, William Bowes-Lyon.  It seemed their uncle was the Earl of Strathmore and Kinghorne.  They themselves didn’t have titles, but their relatives did.  They were third cousins to the Queen of England.  What world did she now find herself in?

Marco had her suspicions, just by watching James with William, but she would never dream of calling James out on them.  That would be cruel.  She knew what the 1950s were like.  At least the AIDS epidemic wouldn’t start for several decades.

In the end, when the young people were ordering more and more drinks, Mr. Bligh caught her eye and she took her cocktail and moved over to a separate room which was full of plushy armchairs, men smoking cigars, and matrons sipping champagne.

“Alone at last,” he murmured as he took her gloved hand and kissed it.

Walking up to him and realizing they hadn’t quite sat down at their private little table, she asked, “George, why haven’t you kissed me again?”

He seemed genuinely surprised by the question.  “Well, dearest,” he answered as he led her to a table with two chairs and opened the cigar box on the table.  The pink cocktail glass was set down.  He lifted a cigar in question and she gave him a one shouldered shrug as she wasn’t sure if she’d like the smell or not.  “I was letting you get used to me.”  He picked up a matchbox and she decided to pretend she was in the movie Gigi. 

Taking it from his hands, she selected a match and struck it.  It took her two times as she was wearing evening gloves and he leaned forward toward the match, which she placed at the end of his cigar.  Blowing out the match when he sat back, she looked at him indulgently.  “Men and their cigars.”  Darcy had smoked when he went out with his cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, when they were in London, but that had only happened three times and she usually went to bed before he got home.  He would wake her up with kisses the following morning and they would make love, the taste of cigars dissipated from his tongue though the smell still lingering on his previous day’s clothes.

She looked at her fiancé for several long moments.  “I think I’d like you to kiss me,” she stated.  “When Anna’s not forever around.  I’m learning to love her, it’s quite easy, but since we share a room at all times, I don’t have much privacy.”

“She’s there to protect your virtue,” he stated carefully.  “I know how things look with the two of us.”

Marco could only nod.  “I do understand, George.  I’m just saying we don’t have privacy—not even here.”  She nodded to the side to a man whose chair’s back was against Mr. Bligh’s.  He was reading a paper as if they were in a gentleman’s club, but he certainly was hearing every word they said.

Mr. Bligh puffed on his cigar, clearly thinking.  “No, we are never alone,” he finally agreed.  “I do understand, my love,” he promised.  “I want to kiss you every morning when I see you at the breakfast table.  I want to steal them when we walk through the park.  I want to whisper in your ear that I adore you when we’re in a crowded room and I want to kiss you until you forget that you want to go to sleep every night.”

“Well,” she decided.  “I look forward to you finding an opportunity.”

He gave her a loving look and reached out for her hand, which she gladly gave him.  “I hope I’m dispelling all the ghosts of the past.”

Breathing in deeply, she admitted, “It’s nice to be away from that horrible place.  I still find it difficult to sleep with the quiet.”

“I can cure that in less than two weeks,” he teased, and she knew exactly what he was talking about.

She blushed and then glanced up to catch a look of him.

“Darling,” he stated quite seriously, leaning forward.  “Do you need my mother to speak to you before the wedding?  Or some other woman that we trust?—though I cannot think who in this country.  I know you gave birth to a child—”

For ten months she had been married to Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, but that was all gone now.  It was the ‘perfect illusion’.  It hadn’t happened, technically, except in the pages of a book.  She couldn’t admit her knowledge from those ten months of being made love to by a virile man who adored her.

But this man adored her as well.  He thought, as far as she could tell, that she was precious, that she was fragile, that she needed protecting.  Maybe that was true in this world of 1953.  Grasping on what he said, “I think, from that very fact, we can assume I know at least the bare minimum.”  Squeezing his hand, she let go of it and settled both of her gloved hands in her lap.  “I wish I could show off my engagement ring.  Is there a reason why I’m a ‘close friend of the family’ at this dinner?  Not even James has mentioned it.”

“You show it off every time you take off those gloves, and you will be walking around Cambridge—”

“With my day gloves on,” she argued.  “Really, are you ashamed of me?  I thought we had it all sorted out that I went to ‘convent school’, that I’m an orphan, and my father was a Bishop.  It’s barely even a lie except for the bit about the school, and I did go to a Catholic School in America, so we’re barely stretching the truth.”

“It’s not that,” he promised.  “It’s just, I’m trying not to steal James’s thunder.  He’s graduating, he’s marrying—”

“And I’m a second wife,” she sighed.  “I don’t blame you for that.”  This was said in a hurry at the look at his face.  “You know I will be Mrs. George Bligh at his wedding.  They’re going to know.”

“I know, my love,” he answered honestly.  “But for tonight, we’re celebrating James’s engagement.”

She sighed and leaned back into the chair.  “Marcelle Hightower,” she tried out.  “Marcelle Bligh.  I think that sounds better.”

Twirling the cigar between his fingers, he agreed, “I rather like the sound of it myself.”

They shared a smile.  She was breathing out of her nose slowly and didn’t realize she had fallen asleep there in the chair until she was being lifted by strong arms.  They felt different, strange, but she curled into the warmth.  “Fitzwilliam,” she breathed.  “If you wake me up I will tell your cousin I am one and thirty—”  She didn’t finish her the thread of her words as she clung onto the coat.

She felt it when the cold hit her and she was placed onto soft cushions and then the sound of a motor starting.  Immediately, she jerked awake and looked around desperately.  She was seated next to James Bligh, her fiancé on his other side.  Trying to think, she then said, “I had the strangest dream.”

“Dreams are like that,” James agreed blithely.  “Sometimes I am surprised by them myself.”

Her eyes moved across him and she met the concerned eyes of Mr. Bligh.  “Just a dream,” she promised, her voice full of conviction.  “Sometimes I dream of things that never happened.”  If only that were the truth?

Mr. Bligh nodded in understanding.  At least he seemed to believe her and wasn’t going to send her back to the mental institution.  She would do almost anything not to go back.  At least she was nearly certain she wasn’t prostituting herself.  Marco enjoyed her fiancé’s company, was learning to appreciate his family as she got to know them, and was trying to act like Audrey Hepburn when she was out in society.  Audrey really was her best guide.

She made it back to the room after Anna who seemed to be in bed reading when she arrived.  They had to drop off James at King’s College.  She had just opened the door and peaked in, when Mr. Bligh grabbed her around the waist and the door snicked shut quietly behind her. 

He smiled down at her, his hat on his head, making him look like a Classic Hollywood Movie star to her.  “No one’s in the hallway,” he told her carefully.

Realizing what he meant, she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned up on her tiptoes, and met him in a kiss.  At first it was chaste like their previous kiss, but then he was moving his lips against hers and she opened hers decadently.  Her tongue slithered out carefully, uncertain how she would be met, but as soon as it touched his lips, his mouth opened obligingly.  As his tongue smoothed over hers, giving her the first taste of cigars, Marco’s knees weakened so that he had to catch her, a laugh on his lips.

“Sorry,” she murmured.  “I wasn’t expecting to practically swoon.”

Before he could answer, however, the door behind her opened and Anna stuck her head out.  “We’re not celebrating your engagement tonight.  I had to watch James and Olivia—and I don’t want to watch you!”

Turning her head toward her friend, Marco suggested, “Close the door, then.”

She harrumphed and then pulled Marco back by her skirt.

Mr. Bligh laughed.  “Goodnight, my darling.”

She waggled her fingers at him with a smile and then the door was shut in her face from behind.  Her skirt released, she turned and glared, “Was that really necessary?”

“He’s my father,” she stated dismissively.

“Yes,” Marco agreed carefully as she took off her hat and then the pins in her hair.  “However, he’s a man and he’s my fiancé.  Trust me, I get it.  I saw my parents—kissing.”  Having sex, actually, which was seriously disturbing.  “It was weird and I prefer to think I came about by immaculate conception—but I’m a young woman and a bride.”

Anna was silent for a long moment before she murmured, “Do you think he wants more children?”

Frankly the thought hadn’t occurred to her, and Marco turned to Anna with shock on her face.  “I have absolutely no idea.”  Then she took a breath.  “I’m sure it’s something we’ll discuss later.  However, think: you’ll have someone to spoil.”

Anna sat cross-legged on her bed.  “I thought I’d spoil James’s children—when I heard about the engagement.”

“Well,” Marco stated carefully.  “I doubt there are ever too many children to spoil unless you can’t keep them straight.”  She grimaced, thinking of the large Sunday nursery at the cathedral.  “Let’s not have too many children in the family.”

Reaching over, Anna offered in apology, “Let me take off your bracelet and unzip you.  You can keep the clips.”

However, Marco was only partially paying attention.  She breathed out and began to get ready for bed, taking off her cosmetics with a wet cloth, and brushing her teeth.  “I never finished my cocktail,” she realized as she turned out the light.  “I was sitting with your father and forgot about my cocktail.  I don’t even know what it tasted like.”

“You’ll have another, I’m sure,” Anna promised as she shifted in her bed. 

Then the two girls fell asleep, and for once Marco didn’t quite dream of Darcy.  She was sitting on the tree where they had first discussed the American holiday of Thanksgiving, but she was wearing her blue dress from the 1950s, her legs encased in stockings.  On her lap was a book by Anya Seton—Dragonwyck.  She remembered reading it on one of her tours.  She’d have to get a copy, she realized, if possible.

She woke, quiet and content, and got up for the day.

The three young ladies had tea later that day as the soon-to-be Cambridge graduates were out doing something (possibly making love, Marco thought wryly to herself) and the ‘adults’ were off somewhere or other.

“How do you know the family, Miss Hightower?” Olivia asked curiously.  She really seemed to be a soft little mouse.  Not necessarily dull as Anna claimed, but certainly on the shy side.

Taking a breath and uncertain if she should be vague or tell the truth, Marco decided on the latter.  “I’m Mr. George Bligh’s fiancé.  We’re marrying next week in London.—Of course,” she added quickly, “this month is all about you and James.  I’m so pleased for both of you though I just met the two of you since I got to Cambridge.”  She offered a small smile. 

Olivia blinked for a long moment and then turned to Anna before looking back at Marco.  “What is your family?”  Her voice, though quiet, was a little hostile.

Oh, so she was concerned with dynastic complications and optics?  Just for the question (she hadn’t even led up to it!) Marco began to dislike her.

Sensing, perhaps, Marco’s discomfort, Anna leaned forward slightly, her teacup in hand.  “Oh, it’s marvelous, really.  Marcelle’s father was an Anglican bishop in America.  Where exactly, Marcelle, dear?”

“Massachusetts,” she answered with pride.  “You know, the land of the Boston Tea Party?”  Her displeasure must have coated her tone because Anna reached out and touched her arm.

“I’m sure it was charming.”  This was Anna now, Olivia silent and clearly peeved.

Taking a deep breath, Marco agreed: “We would never call it ‘charming’.  Mom disliked it.  She missed—well, she wasn’t from Boston.”  Great, she almost said she was part Italian.  She knew better.  From her life with Darcy, she knew how to lie about her parentage.  However, Marco was out of practice.  Usually, she just kept silent about anything she was thinking or anything about her two past existences.  Now, suddenly allowed to speak to a certain extent, she was saying things.  Or nearly saying them.  “I spent my time at a boarding school in New York and then in London.”

“For young ladies?” Olivia asked, clearly testing her. 

“Yes,” she stated, trying to keep the coldness from her voice, “for young ladies.—It was a convent school.”

Olivia clearly had nothing to say and looked between Marco and Anna in helplessness. 

Looking for something to say, Anna commented: “I noticed your passport was British.”

Uncertain exactly how to answer, she just nodded.  Marco had no explanation other than she appeared in London, had been a mental patient in London, so all of her papers were British.  There was no American paper trail. 

“Marcelle plays the piano beautifully,” Anna tried.  “Not even Grandmother is that talented!”

Turning to Anna, Marco asked, “Mrs. Bligh plays the piano?  Does that mean we have one back in Australia?”  She set down her teacup in excitement.  “Oh, this is wonderful!  Did you grow up listening to her?”

“I did,” Anna began, but Olivia interrupted in her little mousy way.

“I’m afraid I barely play the piano.”

The two friends looked at her and Anna smiled.  “No harm done.”

Of course, the rest of tea was strained and Marco was happy to finally leave and walk back to the Bed and Breakfast.  Anna took her arm and the future relations wound their way through the streets.  “James lives in the main house?” she checked.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll be seeing more of Olivia,” she stated glumly.  “A great deal of Olivia.”

At this Anna started giggling and Marco couldn’t help but join in.  The two were a heap of smiles when they returned, causing Mrs. Bligh to grin to herself when she saw the two of them.

“What has you so happy?” she asked.  “The prospect of a wedding?”

They started giggling again as they shook their heads before heading up the stairs.  “What is James thinking?” Anna thought aloud as she threw herself on the bed.  “That girl has nothing interesting to say—and asking an American about family is just peculiar.”

“We have family,” Marco refuted with another laugh.  “It’s just—it’s true what Mrs. Bligh said.  Everyone expected me to marry a young priest in a power marriage or someone higher up in the church, preferably.—The church, you’ll find, is terribly dynastic.”

“Instead you’re marrying a gentleman-farmer!” Anna decreed happily.

“Do we farm?” Marco asked in excitement, remembering Pemberley.  “Do say there are acres and acres to ride on.  I love riding.”  She sighed happily, falling down on her own bed.  “I could spend hours on horseback.—Are there places to hide?  To find secret spots?”

Anna glanced up happily.  “Oh, yes.  I have one myself, though I’m sure you’ll find your own.—Does Daddy know?”

Marco shook her head.  “We never discussed Australia except in the most abstract terms.—and my life was clearly in London, so that’s what we mostly spoke about.” 

Immediately, Anna was bounding out of the room to Marco’s confusion, but she followed close behind.  Anna was searching the entire Bed and Breakfast, not that it was very big, until she found Mr. Bligh in the sitting room.  “Daddy,” she stated breathlessly, a large smile on her face.  Marco came up behind her, nearly tumbling into her.  “Did you know that Marcelle loves to ride?  We must get her her own horse.  I have one.”

“Oh,” Marco breathed.  “I don’t need my own horse.”  Of course, she’d had one at Pemberley, but she had sort of fallen into that.  Had she fallen into this, too?

A large smile spread across Mr. Bligh’s face.  “I never knew you ride, darling.”

“I’m full of surprises,” she teased.  “But I don’t need my own horse, honestly, George.”  Marco came to sit next to him and he picked up her gloved hand and kissed the back of it in obvious affection.  “I expect nothing.”

“You’re to be my wife,” he stated firmly.  “When we get back to Australia, we can go riding together and I’ll see what type of horse would be best for you.  And everyone on the estate has their own horse.  We still have Mother’s old mare, although she’s out to pasture.”

Looking happily between them, Anna clapped her hands.  “We’ll go riding together and it will be perfect, Marcelle.”

Grimacing, Marco stated—again—“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“No one defies Gran,” she stated carefully, looking at her friend.  “Still, ‘Marcelle Bligh’ sounds terribly sophisticated.”

“Oh, if that’s all,” Marco laughed, turning back to her fiancé, who was taking her in adoringly.  She could see the heat in his eyes and she blushed.

“Darling,” he breathed.  “Come walk with me in the garden.”

There wasn’t really a garden, just a few bushes and a little table.  Anna had waltzed off with a knowing smile, and so the engaged couple were left alone together. 

“How did you find Olivia?” Mr. Bligh asked curiously, turning to her, but with a glance to the windows of the living room and the breakfast parlor and seeing no one, Marco took his face in her hands and kissed him.  He was clearly surprised as he just stood there for a moment before his right arm came around her back and the left pressed against the back of her head, his fingers flowing into her hair. 

Marco was uncertain how long they stayed out there, but then James’s voice broke them off.  “Oh, so you are really engaged.”

“Oh my God,” Marco swore as she broke apart from Mr. Bligh to see the torn look on James’s face.  “You frightened me!”

James looked more embarrassed at what he had seen than apologetic.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Mr. Bligh looked at his son.  “How may we help you?”

“Olivia called the dorm to say she is not feeling well”—served the little mouse right, Marco thought uncharitably—“Something about the food being too rich at tea.”  That was an excuse if Marco had ever heard it.  “So, a few of us are going out to celebrate the fact that we’re graduating day after tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Mr. Bligh stated with a kind smile.  “If you speak to Olivia, tell her we hope she’s feeling well soon.”  As soon as James left, and he beat a hasty retreat, Mr. Bligh looked at her, “Did she seem unwell at tea?”

“Tea was rather—I don’t think we like each other very much although everyone was perfectly polite.  I’m not certain she approves of Americans marrying into the family.”  Grimacing, she placed her hands on his shoulder.  “How are we any different than Australians, except that you’re still a colony?”

“We’re part of the Commonwealth,” he corrected and she looked at him before nodding.

“Well, then.  You’re still a subject of the Queen.”

“So are you,” he reminded her carefully.  “Or do you forget your passport?”

Laughing a little, she answered, “How can I forget that I’m nineteen years old?  How does it feel, Mr. Bligh,” she teased as she stretched her arms up so that they slid against his shoulders, pulling him closer, “marrying a girl barely a year older than your own daughter and a teenager no less?”  She smiled at him, her black eyes shining.

“I wonder,” he whispered as he leaned toward her, so close that he could kiss her, which sent a thrill through her, “if I’m ever going to keep up.” 

Then he did close the distance between them and as he kissed her slowly, the moment drawn out carefully, Marco somehow couldn’t bring herself to hate herself for accepting this man’s caresses, for wanting his kisses, for enjoying them. 

“My love,” he whispered as he pressed her cheek against his, the kiss having ended, “is there any hope for us?”

“Hope?” she whispered in confusion.  “I don’t know what you mean.  I had determined we were going to be happy”—that she herself was going to be happy despite being without her beloved Darcy.  “Aren’t we going to be happy?”

His arms squeezing her for a moment, he brought his hand up and drew it through her hair.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “I had determined to be happy, but I didn’t know if you were ready despite the fact that we’re marrying in just a week.”

“We’re putting the past behind us,” she promised.  “I’m putting my past behind me.  I just want to say goodbye to my one friend and then leave this godforsaken island forever.”

“I think I can promise that.”  Marco could hear the smile in his voice. 

She nodded and then hid her face in his shoulder although there was no one to see them. 

The two just stood like that until they realized it was time to change for dinner.  They parted on the landing and Marco went into her shared room with Anna, who was already flitting about.

Going to the closet to take out her cocktail dress, she ran her fingers along the satin and went to go into the bathroom.  “Olivia is apparently feeling ‘ill’,” she told Anna when she came out, her eyes made up to look like cat eyes, which perhaps hadn’t come in yet, but Marco was working with what she had.  “I think I frightened the little mouse back into her little mouse hole.”

At this, Anna began to laugh, putting down her hair brush, her evening hat, white with black cross stitch, on the vanity in front of her.  “Oh, poor little Olivia,” she crowed.  “We’re horrible.  I was perfectly prepared to like her before I met you and realized how,” (and now she waved her hands about to punctuate her point) “superior you are.”

“Oh, if I’m superior,” she grinned, going and finding her hair tie as she put her hair in a low ponytail, the clips near the tie to offset it before she put on her hat. 

“Why is your hair so long?” Anna asked. “It’s gorgeous, but it goes down to nearly your waist!”

“I remember my mother brushing it,” Marco answered truthfully.  “I can’t bear the idea of cutting it.”  And in that moment, Marco missed her mother dreadfully.  She had been without her for so long, and she’d have to go the rest of her life without even a grave to visit for comfort.

Anna stood and offered the chair, which Marco took.  She then picked up the brush that Mr. Bligh had purchased for her (which had the initials ‘M.H.B.’ in what seemed to be in ivory imprinted on the back) and began to brush it for her below the ponytail.  “It’s so wonderful and thick.  It reminds me of Gino’s sister’s hair.  And his mother’s.”

Trying not to blush, Marco tried to say as lightly as possible, “It must snarl terribly, then.  If I don’t brush it twice a day and sleep with it in a braid, then it knots something fierce.”

“Oh dear,” Anna murmured.  “That’s one of the nice things about shorter hair.”

“You won’t convince me,” Marco stated imperiously, Anna all the while brushing out her hair.  No, she would never cut her wondrous hair.  Hopefully, though, no one would notice that her hair was like the Poletti’s.  She couldn’t have anyone thinking she was part Italian in the current political climate just after the Second World War.  She knew that Mr. Bligh would not blame her—he would never do that—but she would certainly be considered even more foreign than an American bride.  An American had been a British-American once.  Truman was currently president, if she remembered.  Eisenhower would be elected next.  An Italian did not speak English, was inferior culturally and racially despite being descended from the Romans.  No, no one could know that she was half-Italian.  “No,” she declared as the soft brush strokes brought her back to herself, “never.”

The next day was a whirl of preparation and leisure.  She took a long tour of King’s College and then went walking with Mr. Bligh and Anna—the matriarch of the Bligh family staying behind because she was tired.

That night she was once again in her evening dress, at dinner with just the Bligh family, when James strangely asked her to dance.  “With your permission, Father,” he added as he stood behind Marco’s chair, ready to pull it out.

“Of course,” he answered, extending his hand. 

Offering her gloved fingers, she was lifted from the chair and shown to the dance floor.  She placed herself in James’s arms, a polite distance between them, his hands carefully placed. 

“Whatever did you do to Olivia?” he asked after the first half dozen steps.  “She was in tears yesterday and wouldn’t tell me why.”

Looking over his shoulder and catching a glimpse at Mr. Bligh who was watching them, she warned, “Your father is watching.”

“I don’t care,” he answered angrily.

“She suggested that in America we don’t have ‘family’ or ‘status’.  I believe she thinks I’m inferior because of my nationality when, frankly, if it weren’t for America, this island would have lost the Second World War.”  Suppressing her anger as much as she could, she knew this familiar prejudice.  She had toured England several times and during her first tour it was suggested she was inferior because of her nationality.

“You are inferior,” he stated calmly.  “I don’t know why Father is marrying you.  You don’t seem to have more than two or three dresses.  Do you have no pride?”

Gritting her teeth, she changed the subject.  She felt small and inferior, so she bit out nastily: “You need to hide it better.  I noticed your attention was split between brother and sister and you didn’t prefer your fiancée.”

At this, he suddenly stopped dancing and looked at her with barely concealed horror.

“I was right,” she murmured to herself.  “It’s advice for your wedding, James, if you are going to go through with it.  I couldn’t care less if Olivia gets hurt, but I care about George—which means I care about you, even if you do call me ‘inferior.’”  Removing her hand from his shoulder, she went to walk away, but he pulled her back into the dance.

“Who have you told?” he demanded angrily.

“Absolutely no one,” she answered, looking up into his eyes.  “I have no intention of telling anyone.  It’s private.  I know what to look for, so I saw.”

He snorted.  “You’ve known degenerates then.”

“My father was a bishop.  Of course, I knew degenerates.”  She didn’t care for the word, but Marco was prepared to use it.  “Some came to my father to be cured.  Others turned the church away because they believed that Christ had forsaken them.  A mistaken belief,” she added.  “Now may I go sit?  I think this conversation has reached its natural conclusion.”

However, he turned her again but suddenly stopped.  She looked over her shoulder and saw Mr. Bligh coming up to them.  She offered him a genuine smile and when her hand was released by the son, she walked into the arms of the father. 

He held her to him closely and she sighed, realizing that she would always be safe in these arms.

“My son doesn’t approve—though I had thought I’d won him over,” he guessed after several long moments.  “I’m sorry, darling.”

She shrugged although she was dancing and curled into him.  “I don’t need his approval.  I have Anna’s.  I have your mother’s.  Anyone else?”

“My sister,” he responded carefully.  “She moves with a rather fast set in Sydney.”

“Goodness,” she responded.  “Poor little convent girl might not be her idea of a sister-in-law.”

“I could care less what Carolyn says.  She’s basically been banished from the family and we rarely see her.”

Wondering what could be so bad as to banish someone when being a mental patient still gained you entrance as long as you appeared sane, Marco realized that it must have been particularly scandalous.

Without moving, she asked carefully, “Why are you marrying me?  We both know where you found me.  We both know that there was someone in my past, even if you have forgiven me.”

“I suppose you’ll tell me it was Fitz—”

“Fitzwilliam,” she breathed looking over to the side of the dance floor and seeing him in jeans and a pullover sweater.  It was certainly him, though.  Marco would recognize him anywhere.

His blue eyes met hers, widened, and then he hastily came over.  By then Marco had stopped dancing and was just staring at him in astonishment.  Mr. Bligh stayed by her side, his hand resting on the small of her back, and then Darcy stopped in front of her and just stared.

“You look so young,” he murmured.  “Just as beautiful—but so young.”

She smiled self-deprecatingly.  “Where you haven’t changed at all.  How old are you now?  Did we have a daughter or a son?”

“A daughter,” he answered, “the heiress of Pemberley.—I must be dreaming.  You died seven years ago in your childbearing bed.”

Leaning forward, she murmured, “You didn’t find a door?”

“No, I fell asleep in our bed, your perfume on the pillows, and I woke up here.”  He reached forward to touch her face, but Mr. Bligh stepped between them.

“I don’t know who you are,” he stated carefully, “but I would ask you not to speak to my fiancée so informally.”  He was strong, standing there, looking at a man younger than him by over a decade, dressed casually like a man in the early 2000s.  It was all too peculiar.

“Fiancée?” Darcy scoffed.  “She was my wife before her death—I don’t care what you think you are, angel, but I’m taking her back.”

Taking a deep breath, Marco admitted, “I can’t go back to Pemberley, Fitzwilliam.  That life is lost to me now.  There are no doors.  I’ve tried.  I went through every museum in London, trying all the doors, until I was arrested and declared insane.”

He seemed to be fading and he reached out to her again, but Mr. Bligh blocked him.  “You are the love of my life,” he promised.  “Our daughter is named Aurelia for your mother—the beautiful Oria Hightower you always spoke of.”

“Aurelia,” she whispered.  “Aurelia Darcy.”

Then it was as if Darcy had suddenly heard something as he turned his head and looked directly at the door to the outside.  “Come through,” he begged her. 

“I’m dead,” she responded.  “I can’t come back to life.”

He looked at her sadly and then walked through the tables and out the door.  Suddenly feeling a surge of panic that she would never see him again, she rushed to the door, opened it even though she was only in a cocktail dress, and saw empty sidewalks.  There was no sign of her husband from her former life. 

A sob caught in her throat and she clutched onto the door, looking out.  After just a few moments, her coat was placed on her shoulders and she looked up to see the kind and understanding eyes of George Bligh.

“They were wrong,” he murmured.  “It seemed you were at least partially telling the truth.”

She nodded.  “Can I stop taking the medication now?  I haven’t been taking most of it for years—but I’m sick of taking pills.”

He didn’t answer at first but caught them a cab back to their Bed and Breakfast, and he led her into the Drawing Room, closing the door behind them.  Pacing for a long moment, he wrung his hands.  Marco just watched him silently until he sat down beside her, clearly agitated.  Taking her hands in his, his gray eyes looked into hers imploringly.  “Tell me.  You were speaking about doors.”

Sighing, she looked away.  “I will not go back to the mental institution.  It’s a—delusion.  One massive delusion that my mind made up and Fitzwilliam—he—”  She really couldn’t explain it to him.  “At least I got to hear about Aurelia.”  She took her hands out of his and went to the door of the sitting room.  Touching the handle, she paused.  “May I stop taking those pills?  The ones I throw away make me sleep all day and the ones I do take give me dry mouth.”

“I would like you to see a doctor—” he stated carefully, and she snorted.

“A doctor?  A doctor would say that the man we just saw and spoke to, the man who disappeared through a door wasn’t there at all.”

She heard Mr. Bligh get up and come up to her, touching her shoulder.  “How do I know that he just wasn’t the father of your child?  That he isn’t some strange man from England who—you would have been a child yourself when it occurred.”

“Fine,” she snapped.  “Think that.  But remember, George Bligh, I did not go with him.  I went after him, true, because it’s hard to think that that life is completely gone, even after all this time.  But I did not walk with him out that door.  I did not touch him.  I did not kiss him.  I chose you—and the best you can do is accuse me?”

His hand ran up her bare arm and landed on her shoulder.  “How can I be sure he does not share in the delusion?  I know about Amanda Price—I shouldn’t let you see her, but I adore you, Marco Hightower.  I want to make you my wife, I want to make you happy, I want to give you the closure you need.”

Hesitating for a moment, she turned in his arms and looked up at him desperately.  “I said my goodbye tonight to Fitzwilliam.  Let me say it to Amanda.  Then I will sail away from this dreadful island and never look back.”

Mr. Bligh leaned down and kissed her lingeringly and she sighed against his mouth.  “I will love you until the day I die,” he swore, and she just clung to him knowing that the future might not be as bleak as it had been just a week ago.

The End