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“Did you think it would be difficult to crash a Victorian party?” he asked.
She nodded fervently, her rosy cheeks a beacon of feminine youth and vitality. It could have been the alcohol in her punch. Or the overly stuffy room, grand though it was, ablaze with hundreds of candles.
Mostly, Ben supposed it was Annie’s natural good cheer. She was an eternal optimist and romantic, and took on every project with the utmost enthusiasm and verve.
Annie never took no for an answer. A far cry from the relatively shy, quiet girl Ben had first met over art class at her mother, Clara’s, studio in NYC.
“With all the titles and lineages that get trotted out when guests are announced, I thought we were done for,” she shared.
“But we came with known entities,” Ben pointed out.
“And we’re dressed for the part.”
He clinked his glass with hers to toast their unexpected coup.
Annie pulled a little on her dainty borrowed pearl-drop earrings.
“Bless the Rathbournes for their generosity,” she said. “Thanks to them, we’re attending a real Ball! In Victorian London of all places! I can’t believe this is my life.”
“We’re not here for pleasure, you know,” Ben reminded her like an old stick in the mud.
Sometimes, he himself wondered where his solemn, rule-abiding side came from.
He could never relate to other young men his age, not since he was a child. He preferred to spend his time with adults and have discourses about ancient history, versus spend all his waking hours playing video games, exerting himself in sports, or trolling for girls.
When he wasn’t reading everything about lost worlds and rare artifacts that he could lay his hands on, he was training to be a dragon warrior.
And one day, a dragon.
“We have a mission to complete,” he intoned liked he was thirty-nine instead of ten and nine.
Annie snorted and gave him her unimpressed side eye.
“Live and let live, Ben. I don’t know about you, but I’m having a blast! I don’t even mind wearing bloomers and corsets.”
“Psst,” she leaned closer to whisper.
“I’m even wearing a petticoat. And there’s this thing over my butt that makes it look gigantic, though I admit the overall shape it creates with the dress looks extremely flattering. I suppose it’s called a bustle. Très chic.”
“Glad you’re having fun,” he muttered, nudging her back to a respectable distance.
“Sure, I’d kill for some modern ventilation, especially on these premises,” she allowed. “And the water closet at Rathbourne Place can use an upgrade, but at least it flushes. At least I don’t have to stoop over a bucket. I wonder where it all goes.”
“Really? You want to talk about the destination of bodily waste at a Ball?” Ben said dryly, arching a sardonic brow.
“I’m curious,” Annie muttered.
“What do your romance novels say about it?”
“Not much,” she admitted.
“It’s not romantic to describe plumbing and bowel movements in those types of books. But I always wondered. I mean, everything looks so beautiful in movies, even the more realistic ones. But I’m seeing first-hand that living in this time has its challenges.”
“Even so,” she added stoutly, “I love the opportunity to visit for a while and experience it for myself. I just wish I could pull out my iPad and Google all my questions.”
“If you must know,” Ben relented, “the waste goes into cesspools away from the house, and emptied when full by night soil men.”
Annie wrinkled her nose in disgust.
