Prologue
‘You are going to love this bar,’ Phoebe said, as she and Melissa left the museum that afternoon, stepping out onto the cold, snowy New York street which separated The Masters Gallery from Central Park, where they had both worked as art restorers for the past three years.
‘You’ve talked about nothing else all afternoon,’ Melissa said, ‘when you mentioned I might find a man there I nearly smudged the Reynolds. I am officially man free this season.’
‘Oh, forget Reynolds, it’s Christmas, and we’re going to have some fun girl, men or no men!’
The two women walked arm in arm through the park, it had been a long day in the museum where they had been working on a striking portrait of Maria Anne Fitzherbert, the illegitimate wife of a former Prince of Wales. But their love of art often came at the expense of the fun and glamour which living in New York City could afford them, their lives spent amongst the old masters rather than seeking out the excitement which so many of their artistic subjects had enjoyed themselves.
It was two days before Christmas, and the stores were full of people doing their last-minute shopping; it seemed that every corner had a Santa Claus or an elf on it, usually trying to sell tickets to a grotto, or a ride on a sleigh.
But Melissa was not feeling in a festive mood. It was a month since she had broken up with Danny, a security guard at the museum.
Happy Thanksgiving.
It had been the usual story: not you but me, things haven’t been right for a while, we’ll be better off as friends and all that trash. Naively she’d believed him, at least until Phoebe had seen him with Gabrielle, the blonde PA for Mr. Gribaldi, the museum’s chief curator. She was just thankful that she hadn’t agreed to move in with him last year when things were going so well. Something about it just hadn’t seemed right, and her hunch had been correct.
‘You need cheering up,’ Phoebe said, ‘and this place is right up your street, it’s one of the oldest bars in the city, the building dates from 1818, and it’s all decked out like a proper English pub, so quaint and charming.’
It had been some years since Melissa had been to England, a joint trip with her mother and sister to celebrate her mother’s 60th birthday. They’d visited London and not seen the Queen, Stratford upon Avon and found no sign of Shakespeare except a series of overpriced gift shops, and the Lake District where it had rained so much that their hotel had flooded. The idea of a quaint English pub was less than appealing, nevertheless Melissa did harbour a romantic attachment for what she thought England might once have been, a fact that Phoebe had discovered when she chanced upon her reading Jane Austen some weeks before during their lunch hour.
‘You can read all that?’ Phoebe had asked, her taste in literature more Avant Garde than regency romance.
‘I love it,’ Melissa had replied, ‘why are there no Mr. Darcy’s in real life?’
‘Because men are jerks, and there’s your case in point,’ she said pointing to Danny who had been making his security round, and looked towards them sheepishly whilst the two women refused to break their glare.
Now, as they walked through the snowy New York streets towards the bar Melissa was ready to leave Danny behind her, if there were no real-life Mr. Darcy’s then so be it, she and Phoebe could still enjoy themselves.
‘Why don’t we just have a drink at my place? I’ve got that case of champagne Danny left behind.’
‘Oh, come on, it’ll be fun, and anyway I’m buying, so who cares if you don’t like it, you’ll only get drunk someplace else,’ Phoebe said, as they now approached the bar.
It was certainly an attractive building and, by New York standards, it stood out as old, its façade built of red brick and timbers painted black. The sign above the door read ‘The Duke’s Head.’
‘How quaint,’ Melissa thought to herself as they made their way in through the large ornate doors.
‘I read about it in Place2BeNYC,’ she said, ‘it’s one of the most upcoming new bars in the city and, check this out, they have authentic art from the period on the walls.’
‘Oh, come on Phoebes,’ Melissa said, ‘authentic? We can tell a fake a mile off, I can guarantee everything in there will just be a knock off, or the cheap remnants of some second-rate auction on Southside.’
The inside of the bar was indeed decked out as Phoebe had promised, a bizarre mix (even by New York standards) of a medieval English pub, and a display of items assumed by the owners to have come from the period during which the building was constructed. The bar was busy, and along the walls a variety of clientele sat imbibing an odd variety of drinks, from traditional English style ale, to multi coloured cocktails, the tops protruding with paper umbrellas and exotic fruit.
‘What are you drinking?’ Phoebe said as Melissa took in the scene.
‘Oh, a white wine please,’
Phoebe ordered a bottle, determined that Melissa was going to forget about Danny and that evening have some fun. They took two empty seats at the bar and the barman, whose name badged announced him as ‘Squire James’ poured their drinks.
‘Cheers,’ Phoebe said, clinking her glass to Melissa’s, ‘here’s to us, and not them.’
‘Cheers,’ Melissa said, ‘and Phoebe, thanks. I’m a miserable cow at the moment, and I know you’re just trying to cheer me up.’
‘Hey, everyone’s allowed to be a cow sometimes. Drink up!’
Melissa’s prediction about the art work in the bar had indeed been correct, they weren’t fakes, but they weren’t worth the canvas on which they were printed either. There was one particularly bad one, and the largest in the bar, hanging on the wall opposite.
‘That is one bad painting,’ Melissa said, looking up at picture which showed a young man, who was certainly not unattractive, badly painted against a backdrop of a hunting scene.
‘It needs a good clean up, although I’m not even sure we’re good enough to make it a good painting. The guy’s cute though,’ Phoebe said, ‘is he like a Duke or something do you think?’
‘Maybe,’ Melissa replied, ‘yea, he’s kind of cute. But I am done with men at the moment. Duke or not.’
Despite the odd juxtaposition which the bar presented Melissa had to admit that she was beginning to enjoy herself. Phoebe was by now regaling her about the disastrous Thanksgiving she had spent with her sister, the oven (not her cooking skills) turning all the food to a charred, burnt crisp.
‘And then we had to go pick my grandmother up. Dear Lord, how she complains about the pumpkin pie, ‘no one makes it like your grandpa Joe,’ in that case no one ever will - he’s been dead twenty years,’ Phoebe said, concluding the story, by which point Melissa was in fits of giggles.
‘I just need to use the lady’s room,’ Phoebe said, ‘I won’t be long,’ as she got up from the stool and tottered away from the bar, leaving Melissa once more pondering the portrait of the Duke.
‘Nice painting isn’t it?’ A voice to her left startled her, and she turned to look at the person who had addressed her, looking at the painted hanging on the wall behind her. Melissa turned to face the painting of a woman dated 1886. It wasn’t a famous painting nor a copy of a famous painting, simply a common portrait of a lady, the artist name was unfamiliar, and probably unfamiliar to most. She looked for the title of the painting, which only said lady of the Regency. ‘What do you like about it?’ She was curious.
‘The regency era was a short but extravagant, yet this woman is plainly dress.’ It was clear that he was not a patron of the arts, he was only trying desperately to talk to Melissa and the painting was his icebreaker. Melissa, knowing the conversation was not going anywhere, there was no need to dig into her art history to reflect on the painting. ‘She is sitting posed, but the look in her eyes is sadness. She looks scared and alone. A gentle soul maybe trapped in a society that demanded too much of women.’
The man was about forty, though he had had his tips dyed blonde and spiked them with gel making him look like an older man clinging desperately to a younger persona. If it had been the summer Melissa might have thought he had spent a considerable amount of time outside, but in winter the orange glaze of his fake tan was rather more in evidence. He was dressed in a blue suit and unironed, open shirt, his cufflinks diamante and his watch a clear Swiss knock off. As she turned to address him it was clear that his eye line was directed downwards rather than towards her face giving an instant overall impression that this was a man to be got rid of quickly. But his attempt at a demonstration of artistic knowledge had, without him realising it, magnificently backfired, and so Melissa proceeded to have some fun with this letch who had waited for her to be alone before moving in for the kill.
‘I don’t know about that, she looks pretty happy to me,’ the man said. Annoyed that the conversation was really going no where, feeling unchallenged, ‘If you see happiness in that, then you must be blind’ she snapped, their eyes now having met. ‘Okay, forget the painting, how about a drink?’ She was irritated at his inability to read a painting, not even to say what he personally sees. ‘I’m so not impressed,’ she turned to walk away but the man insisted ‘Maybe she is not scared or reserved. Maybe she is cold and brutal, not a lady at all. And yet somehow finding herself still single eludes her.’ The man looking decidedly unimpressed by arrogant women. ‘Modern women think they are so great. So, I ask you, what’s so great about you?’ Melissa was taken aback by the question that seemed to expose her lack of greatness and elegance as he so firmly expressed. She walked away frowning at the man’s accurate and quick assessment of her.
‘Who was that?’ Phoebe said as she returned to the bar.
‘Oh, just some jerk’ she said, feeling self-conscious.
‘I’m guessing you put him straight,’ Phoebe said laughing.
‘You bet,’ Melissa replied.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully as the two women continued drinking in the bar, their stories gradually becoming more outrageous as the night wore on.
Eventually the mock grandfather clock in the corner of the bar struck midnight and ‘Squire James’ rang the bell announcing that last orders were imminent.
‘You want to call it a night?’ Melissa said.
‘Oh, come on, one more drink won’t hurt you, one for the road?’ Phoebe replied.
‘Alright, just one, but if I get the shade for Maria’s hair mixed up tomorrow, I’m blaming you.’
‘She’ll look just fine when we’ve finished her, don’t you worry about that, here’s to Maria Fitzherbert, luckier in love than we are!’ Phoebe said, raising her glass and clinking it with Phoebe’s.
There was no sign of the man who had called himself an art expert as they bid goodnight to Squire James and the Duke’s Head.
‘Hope to see you ladies again,’ the barman said as the two women left.
‘We might try something a bit more modern next time,’ Phoebe admitted, as she linked arms with Melissa and headed for the subway.
‘Well it was an experience, maybe not one to repeat in a while,’ Melissa said, ‘well I’ll say goodnight now, see you in a few hours. Maria’s waiting for us!’
She rented an apartment on Washington Streetin the building next to Stacks’ Pancake House, it was a tiny pocket one-bedroom place, hardly an apartment, but she loved it, and had lived there for the past seven years since coming fresh from Berkeley and her fine art degree.
Her parents lived in San Francisco, and it was her dream to one day return there and set up a little art shop in the Mission District, she’d go home for the new year, the flight booked for the 29th of December. Christmas would be spent with some friends who had just had a new baby and wouldn’t hear of her being alone when she had mentioned the fact some weeks before.
Secretly though she rather liked to be alone, surrounded by her books, the apartment walls covered in reproductions of her favourite works of art. She let herself in and poured a glass of water from the tap. It was nearly 1am and she had to be in the museum for 9am, getting into bed she smiled at the memory of the wannabe art critic in the bar, did he even tell me his name? She thought to herself. Too busy pretending to be something he wasn’t, but then how many works of art try to make their subjects appear like that too?
And with that thought Melissa fell asleep, the happenings of that evening drifting round in her mind.
~
‘Hey there sunshine, how’s the hangover?’ Phoebe said breezing into the studio the next day, ‘did you get here early or something? Here, I bought you a coffee, I certainly needed one.’
‘Thanks,’ Melissa replied, ‘I was awake early, so I thought I’d make a start, no hangover here.’
‘Lucky cow,’ Phoebe said setting the coffees down.
‘You shouldn’t have those in here anyway,’ Melissa said.
‘Oh, knock it off, it’s Christmas, there are no rules at Christmas, it’s like Thanksgiving but with less thanks and more giving, get in the spirit girl,’ Phoebe said.
‘I will once we’ve got this job finished, there’s so much dirt on the frame, and I’m trying to get this shade just right.’
‘Here, let me see,’ Phoebe said.
The painting, unlike that in the bar last night, was striking. It showed a woman: Maria Anne Fitzherbert, against a red backdrop, her well formed figure and attractive face looking out from a mass of immaculately curled hair, her long flowing dress the epitome of the regency style, yet in her eyes a touch of sadness, the stillness in her slight smile, rather than releasing a breath, it seems as though she is taking in a breath, remaining reserved as she is reminded of her place in society and ultimately through her husband’s eyes. It was not just the paintings themselves which Melissa found so fascinating but the stories behind them, stories which were often so remarkable, and so tragic, Maria’s own being such a tale.
‘I’d love to be able to speak to her, wouldn’t you?’ Melissa said as Phoebe began delicately cleaning a new part of the frame.
‘What would you say?’ Phoebe asked, ‘I’d like to know who her hairdresser is.’
‘About her life, who she was, what she did.’
‘You can get all that from books, I’ve just finished writing the description for when she’s finally hung in the gallery again.’
‘No,’ Melissa said, ‘about how she feels, what drives her, what her passions are, not just facts and figures.’
‘I reckon right now she’s feeling pretty pissed off to be stuck inside a painting with the two of us cleaning her up,’ Phoebe said, ‘I need another coffee, did they get hangovers back in the Regency period? I’ll just go over to McCluskys, I’ll get you a doughnut, they’re doing the ones with cinnamon sprinkles on. Happy Christmas!’
And with that Phoebe left the studio leaving Melissa to her work, the eyes of Maria Fitzherbert looking down on her as she mixed the shades to delicately bring the painting further back to its original glory.
Outside it was snowing, and despite being still early morning the sky was dark and foreboding. Due to the nature of their work the studio was kept purposefully cool, the precious art works taking priority over the preferences of their restorers. Melissa shivered a little as she mixed the paints together and pulled her shawl around her a little more tightly.
‘Oh, it’s no use, I’ll need an overall,’ she said out loud.
They were supposed to wear white protective overalls for the restoration work but both women had agreed that they were not flattering to the female form, and whilst Mr. Gribaldi was absent, which being the curator of the most important art collection in New York City he often was, they had ditched them in the run up to Christmas. But now needs must, and at least another layer would provide some warmth.
The overalls were kept in the store room at the back of the studio, and Melissa was now rummaging through what had once been a rear entrance to the building, partitioned off and full of the tools needed for the art restorers trade.
‘Why is there no light in here,’ Melissa said as she stumbled over several buckets and a mop, the semi darkness of the cupboard unforgiving upon her eyes which were failing to adjust to the gloom. As she moved further inside the door swung shut, a characteristic which she recalled only after each time it occurred, her usual mental note to have it fixed immediately forgotten upon emerging back into the bright lights of the studio.
The overalls were towards the back, and taking hold of one Melissa turned awkwardly amidst the frames, buckets, paint cans and canvas covers to fumble her way back towards the door. She could see the outline of the frame, the light from the studio shining through the gap under the door, but it seemed further away.
‘Oh, damn it,’ she said, as her foot caught itself in yet more of the art restorer’s paraphernalia. She was at the door now, feeling for the handle, the overall grasped in her right hand, there it was, she turned and pushed it open, but the scene that met her was not what she was expecting.
~
The studio was gone, and in its place, she found a long formal hallway, what they called a gallery in the English stately homes. It was lined with portraits, including that of Maria Fitzherbert, the vibrant colours and fresh gold leaf frame a remarkable contrast to the dirty picture she had been working on just a few moments before. Melissa blinked, and looked back into the cupboard which was dark and filled, not with buckets and frames but all manner of clothing, some hung up, others folded at the back. Was she dreaming? She couldn’t possibly have fallen asleep standing up in the cupboard, she’d only been in there a moment.
‘Phoebe?’ she said, but the gallery was empty, lit only by the day light coming in through the lead lined windows which ran along one side, opposite the portraits.
‘What the hell is this,’ she thought to herself, ‘I didn’t have that much to drink surely.’
Humouring herself she went back inside the cupboard and shut the door, she closed her eyes, counted for ten seconds and then pushed open the door, opening her eyes at the same time. Nothing had changed. She was still looking out onto the long gallery, the portraits gazing down forebodingly upon her. The situation was beginning to freak her out, was this some kind of bizarre joke, or maybe she was in some kind of concept art work, a living subject being viewed from an unseen location.
‘Okay Phoebe, this isn’t funny now,’ she said, but her remark was only greeted by silence, ‘come on, the bar was one thing, but do you want me to really believe I’m in merry old England?’ But still nothing.
Now her curiosity got the better of her, she moved from the doorway of the cupboard out onto the gallery itself, looking out of the window she saw not the New York skyline or McClusky’s Coffee Shop across the busy road outside the museum, but a series of long formal lawns, edged by box hedges and large, neatly kept flower beds, paths ran vertically along each side stretching out towards parkland beyond. It appeared that she was in the wing of a large stately home, for across from where she herself looked out was another part of the building, with similar lead lined windows running along a gallery.
‘What the hell?’ the words slipped out, ‘this is one funny dream, I must have breathed in some cleaning fluids or something in that cupboard.’ She shook herself and opened and closed her eyes once again. Still the same view remained, though now she saw, striding across the lawn, a figure, dressed in a blue frock coat and white leggings, coming purposefully towards the house.
It was gradually dawning upon her that this was neither dream nor hallucination and despite the obvious shock – for anyone would be shocked at having left a New York art studio only to find oneself on an elegant gallery lined by paintings in what appeared to be a period quite different from one’s own – she was not in the least bit phased by the experience, a fact which would hold her in good stead as our story develops.
The one continuity between New York and here, wherever here was, was the painting of Maria Fitzherbert which now looked down upon her from the centre of the gallery. It looked almost brand new, certainly no more than ten or so years old, the colours vibrant and the frame a striking gold such as that which she hoped her own hand would restore it to in her own time.
She was still clutching the paint covered overall which she had hoped to find warmth from wearing when the door at the far end of the gallery opened and two women appeared in the throes of an animated conversation.
‘Well I wore that to the Harcourt ball in January, I can’t possibly wear it now.’
‘You can’t take a new dress for every social engagement Ellen, if it’s no good, hand it on to Charlotte, she’ll be glad of the hand me down I’m sure. Oh, speak of the devil.’
‘Charlotte, what in Lord’s name are you wearing?’ And what’s that in your hand, have you been dusting the portraits?’ And the two women began to laugh.
Melissa was speechless for a moment, the two women were dressed in long white dresses, their heads covered in similarly coloured lace caps, each wore a shawl around her shoulders, for the gallery was remarkably cold.
‘Whatever’s the matter dear?’ one of the two said, ‘Ellen and I were just on our way to the morning room, we’re going to read to one another and see if mother will play the harpsichord, though you know she doesn’t like to do it before luncheon.’
‘What are you staring at?’ the one called Ellen asked, ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost Charlotte, pull yourself together, and don’t let mother see you in those ridiculous clothes, did they come out of that cupboard, heaven knows what’s in there.’
‘I, er —, I was just …’ Melissa said.
‘Oh, good heavens, what an awful accent, why to heavens name are you speaking like that? You sound like a skivvy from the kitchens. Do pull yourself together Charlotte, come now Ellen, let’s find mother. And Charlotte you know how your wild antics upset her, we shall have no more of this silliness, it’s time you grew up.’
And with that the two ladies walked the length of the gallery and exited through a door at the far end, their chatter about the state of their sister’s condition reverberating through the corridor.
Melissa, or rather Charlotte as she appeared to be known here, remained somewhat flabbergasted for a further minute, this was all too much to take in. Had she really been somehow transported into a period in the past filled with the characters she read about in the pages of Jane Austen, or was this just some elaborate hoax? Perhaps, she thought to herself, she was starring in a bizarre reality television show, some sort of Christmas special, if truth be told she was rather excited. She decided to play along, at least for now, and to see what else the house had in store for her. It was clear she had a role and, having done a term at acting school before college, she was pretty certain she could mask her New York twang with an approximation of an English accent.
Turning to the cupboard it seemed that the best option was to ditch her clothes and change into something more becoming the period, and shutting herself inside once again, though leaving the door ajar in order to see, she selected one of the dresses which was stored in there, and in the semi-darkness managed to change her way into it.
Emerging from the cupboard, though she couldn’t see it, she looked the picture of a regency lady, dressed similarly to Maria Fitzherbert herself. She wore a pretty ivory dress, modest yet attractive, and over her shoulders a red shawl. She wondered where to explore first, should she take the door through which the two women, who she assumed must be her sisters, had come from, or follow them towards their mother. who presumably was her own mother?
‘Well wish me luck, Maria,’ she said, looking up at the portrait, and turning to follow the two women, to wherever the path might lead her. Melissa, whom we shall now refer to as Charlotte, set off down the portrait lined gallery, opening the door at the far end and stepping out into the unknown.
~
The gallery led out onto a landing, which joined to another landing, emanating from the opposite wing of the house and leading to a central staircase, carpeted in rich red carpet, the walls hung once again with portraits, including another which she recognised. At the point where the staircase separated, one floor down, was none other than the portrait she had seen hanging in the bar the evening before. It, like Maria, was far cleaner, and in much better condition than when she had seen it a few hours previously, though she once again acknowledged that it was simply a bad painting to begin with. Underneath it was a plaque which read ‘Frederick, VI Duke of Langburn,’ she was struck by just how young he appeared, perhaps he was some relation, the portrait certainly seemed prominent, maybe it was even the man she had seen at a distance just now in the gardens. There were certainly many unsolved mysteries still to be uncovered. She made her way tentatively down the stairs; hearing voices in the hall below.
‘It’s got to be red, the Dowager Duchess said so, she wants the red hangings in the ball room and the blue in the dining room, you’ll just have to change them round, you know what she’ll say … oh begging your pardon Mistress Charlotte.’
The woman speaking appeared to be a maid or perhaps she was the housekeeper, Charlotte had no idea but this was a perfect opportunity to practice her Queen’s English, and to find out a little more about what kind of world she had entered. If this was a reality television show she intended to win the prize, at least by getting into the spirit of it.
‘What are the drapes for?’ she asked.
‘Why the ball ma’am, for tonight, why you were only saying how much you were looking forward to it when you went upstairs a while ago,’ the maid said.
‘Oh, silly me, I’d totally forgotten,’ Charlotte said, drawing her hand to her brow as if indicating a lapse in consciousness.
‘Well it is your ball ma’am, your birthday ball, your mother has had us run off our feet in preparation.’
‘Aw jeez my birthday?’ Charlotte burst out without thinking, back home it wasn’t her birthday until July.
‘Jeez, ma’am?’ the maid said with some confusion in her voice.
‘Oh, er —, jeez, Jesus, yes, no er —, what time is it? I should be getting on, so many preparations to do before tonight,’ Charlotte said, but at that moment the clock in the hall struck the eleventh morning hour, and the two servants made remarks about not standing around all day, leaving Charlotte reminding herself to check her Americanisms, and only speak as a character from an Austen novel would speak, preferably only when spoken to.
‘With elegance and decorum,’ she said to herself making for a door off the hall from which the sound of a harpsichord was playing.
‘Oh, Charlotte, darling,’ her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Sittingbourne, whose real name was Victoria, said as she entered the room, ‘Ellen and Isabella were just telling me you were fooling around upstairs on the long gallery instead of getting ready for this evening. Come now dear, it’s your birthday, there is much to do, come and sit while I play for you and tell us which dress you’ve chosen, I hope the one your brother has sent from Brighton.’
‘Er — yes, it’s lovely, so … so, so white,’ Charlotte said.
‘It’s gold,’ the Dowager replied quizzically, ‘blue with a purple sash, they’re wearing a sash at court you know.’
‘Gold of course,’ Charlotte said.
The harpsichord music ceased.
‘Are you alright?’ her mother asked.
‘We told you her voice sounded strange,’ the two sisters said in unison giving Charlotte a look.
‘I’ve just got a bit of a sore throat coming on,’ Charlotte said, ‘it’ll pass by this evening, I’m so looking forward to the ball.’
‘And so, you should be,’ her mother replied, ‘your brother has spared no expense, I’ve never seen such preparations in this house, even for your father and I’s marriage,’ and she continued to play as Ellen and Isabella sat listening, whilst Charlotte gazed out onto the gardens and parkland before her. The room itself was beautiful, a baroque vision of gilding and blue with a ceiling painted like the branches of trees in which birds sang and flew.
Charlotte congratulated herself on playing the game thus far, it was certainly a change from her restoration work, and if indeed this was some kind of reality television show, though how they had managed to transport her to this astonishing television set so immediately was anyone’s guess, she intended to play along. Nevertheless, something about it seemed much more real than actors putting on a show, the house itself was most definitely real, a grand stately home, befitting the people who appeared to occupy it. She was curious to meet her brother the Duke, he sounded an awfully decent kind of guy, though she made a mental note not to refer to him in those terms given her earlier faux pas with the maid.
The prospect of tonight’s ball, held in her honour, would present some considerable challenges, but Charlotte felt certain she could handle them. Besides, perhaps Christmas in the regency period would be fun, maybe she’d even meet Maria Fitzherbert herself!