A Lark

It was supposed to be so much fun.

A lark.

How had it gone so wrong?

She looked out the window, absently picking at a loose thread on her left sleeve.

The house would never get done, she lamented. Looking at those grand plans, sighing hopelessly, and remembering the floral speeches the architects filled Henry's head with. Grandiose ideas about the biggest, the finest, and the most lavish.

But there had been a thousand and one glitches and problems and gaffes. Henry's presence was summoned to England. England, of all places. What was it that was so important? And she had tagged along, hoping against hope that the change of scenery would lift her mood.

She was vaguely bored by it all.

Was Henry missing his saucy soubrette from the French madam's whorehouse?

That thought brought the hint of a smile to the somber mask she wore almost daily.

She'd grown up in luxury, and over the years, it had begun to lose its luster. The same crowd repeating the same lines over and over and over. And it was so tiring to spend so much time and money on one-upping those in their circle.

Not to everyone else, it seemed, but to her, it certainly was wearing thin.

The interiors of the houses had certainly become larger and more elegant, and of course, the imported handmade costumes and jewels that decorated the rich ladies of her set changed from season to season. But life had to be something more, she mused.

What could she do to stimulate her senses? To regain her joie de vivre?

Nothing at the moment. For she was stuck in this moldering old wreck of a manor house that Henry called a cottage, and yearning with every fiber of her being to get back home to New York.

Her fingers strummed the top of her husband's ornate desk. She glanced at the back of her hand, noting the foreign looking appendage at the end of her wrist.

Horrific, she thought. Absolutely horrific.

I am getting old.

***

Shunning oil and steel, Henry had amassed his money in real estate, land, and banking. Of course, it hadn't hurt the family's coffers that Lavinia brought her father's railroad empire to the table as part of her dowry.

Not that her father needed it. In 1899, he barely saw her off to wed a future Duke before succumbing to cancer. Putting his daughter on a ship a mere seventy-two hours before he gave up his mortal ghost, as a matter of fact.

Although she didn't know it, her father's demise turned out to be Lavinia's greatest bit of luck. She'd dropped the Duke like a hot potato and opted for Henry instead.

More cash. More panache. And certainly better looking.

And at first, her new husband was all she'd dreamed. Until she saw him by accident one day in a carriage near Central Park. His companion was breathtakingly beautiful, and the kiss Henry gave the woman made her run to the bushes and lose her lunch.

And they'd been married less than two years! How could Henry do that to her?

If her mother had been living, she would have carted her belongings home. But Mother was dead. Buried decades before Father. There was no loving shoulder for her to cry on.

Unless you counted Denny. And Denny did not count.

So she held up her head, acted as if nothing had changed, and made the rounds from one extravagant gala to the next. Wasn't that all a woman could expect from Life?

No, she thought. Decidedly not.

And then, Henry had hit it big. Really Big. Wall Street was not a dragon, according to her husband, but a tiny lizard tamed by Henry's acumen and daring inclination to take a few calculated risks.

And then, he cashed in his winnings and embarked on this glorious idea of building the finest, the biggest, the most in-your-face mansion Fifth Avenue had ever seen.

And that was seven years ago.

Their union had produced no heir, but there was still time. Though every year it seemed the ticking clock in her head grew louder.

Now she was stuck, an ocean away from all that was familiar. Even if, mundanely so.

She picked up the latest edition of the London newspaper, and that's when it hit her.

"Perfect," she said. "Simply superb."

She grabbed her purse and called for Brimstin to get the motorcar. She stopped at the full length mirror, adjusted her hat, threw a veil over that, and headed out the door.

It was easy enough to purchase the first class tickets. But persuading Henry to move up his plans would be harder.

Much harder.

She'd use all her feminine wiles. Henry's hussy would look like a cloistered nun by the time she'd finished, she mused, rubbing her gloved hands together and feeling the heat in her cheeks.

Yes, she thought, there might even be a little Henry IV to come out of all this by the time she'd finished with Henry III. Her husband wouldn't know what hit him.

There was a lightness to her step when she returned home, a joyous lilt in her voice, and her lovely eyes sparkled with glee. She hadn't felt this happy since she was a little girl.

She placed the tickets in the bottom of her bureau and began to put her plan into motion.

First off, she'd see Gwendolyn. The woman was an absolute genie when it came to putting together a look that would impress her husband. After that, some fresh air. Perhaps a ride on her favorite horse, Hatchett.

That would make the roses in her cheeks bloom.

And she must see that Henry cleared his calendar. She wanted the whole night with him. Alone. The two of them.

Barring that, a few concentrated hours of her lavish attentions should get her what she wanted.

***

It had taken her longer than she thought, But Henry had finally bowed to her wishes.

Today was the day.

She hummed softly to herself. For some reason, the smile would not fade from her lovely lips.

"You have the tickets," she asked before leaving the manor.

"They're right here," Henry said, digging into his coat pocket and producing them.

"Let me have them."

She giggled. He swept her in his arms and kissed her.

"I love you more today," he said, "than when we first married."

"It's going to be wonderful," she said. "And to think, if I'd never picked up that newspaper, I would have never bought those tickets."

"It is funny," he said. "Life and chance go hand in hand. Serendipity is a marvelous thing."

"But we're leaving chance on the shores of England. Imagine, Henry. Unsinkable. This is a sure thing," she said. "The biggest. The finest. The best. Just like us."

She sat in the car seat, idly fingering the tickets in her gloved hands.

The date of their departure was printed clearly on them.

April 10, 1912.

A keepsake, she decided. Cheap. Common. And tacky. But these two little pieces of paper meant a new start. A new life.

Yes, she thought, I'll keep these forever.