November 1817
House of Hastings
Mayfair, London
England
On a crisp autumn evening, the illustrious Hastings family hosted a grand celebration to mark the sixteenth birthday of their eldest daughter. Guests from across the county gathered beneath glittering chandeliers, the scent of beeswax and roses lingering in the air.
Lord Robert James, the Earl of Hastings, and his countess, Lady Catherine, were proud parents to five children: the graceful Alice, the earnest Henry, quick-witted Abigail, the spirited Christine, and the youngest, sweet Clara.
"Lady Hastings, your Alice has blossomed into a true beauty," remarked one noblewoman approvingly. "With your guidance, she is certain to be the diamond of her season."
“Indeed,” another chimed in, “she’s the image of her mother—who was, if I recall, the incomparable diamond of hers.”
The countess laughed softly, her eyes drifting fondly to Alice, who offered a modest smile. Beside her, Abigail stifled a giggle and nudged her sister’s elbow, delighting in Alice’s faint blush.
“Ladies, you are too kind. Alice has always been a joy to raise—clever, poised, and a fine example to her sisters,” Lady Catherine began.
But before she could continue, her expression froze. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Christine, Clara, and Henry dashing upstairs—each with a plate of cake—trailing their younger cousins behind them in scandalous disarray. Though hidden from most of the guests, the children were clearly visible from the upper hallway.
Alice and Abigail exchanged amused glances as their mother forced a pleasant smile.
“Is something the matter, my lady?” asked one of the ladies.
“My apologies,” she replied, rising with practiced grace. “My daughters shall entertain you in my stead—I’ve a small matter to attend.”
---
Though fifteen and expected to show growing maturity, Henry had little interest in such notions that evening. Dessert had just been set upon the long glass table, and the thought of enduring dull conversations with guests made his skin crawl.
Fortunately, his father believed him when he claimed he wished to speak with the Marquess of Curling’s son—his “dear friend.” In truth, Henry had far more mischievous plans.
He slipped into the hallway with a pile of cakes, distributing them generously to his sisters and cousins.
“You’ll never catch me!” he shouted gleefully, darting down the corridor. “Not with those short little legs!”
Christine huffed in protest—his height gave him an unfair advantage, especially when they were all trussed up in heavy gowns. She was determined to outwit him.
“Clara,” she whispered, “wait here in case he returns.”
“But that’s against the rules,” Clara whispered back. “Henry said we must run the whole time!”
“No one’s watching,” Christine replied with a conspiratorial wink.
The moment Christine gained on him, disaster struck. Their mother appeared at the corridor’s end with arms folded and a thunderous look. Henry skidded to a halt, but it was too late—a collision ensued, cakes went flying, and the hallway was a battlefield of frosting and laughter.
Christine burst into hysterics, followed by the other children—until they noticed their mother’s face.
---
That night, Henry lay awake, unable to forget how their mother had scolded Christine more harshly than anyone else. He himself had not escaped reproach—but he noticed, with a pang of guilt, that Christine bore the brunt of it.
“But I asked her to play,” he had confessed.
“And you, Christine,” Lady Catherine snapped, “ought to have had the sense to refuse.”
It wasn’t fair. Christine was brave, perhaps too much so, and always spoke her mind—traits their mother found intolerable in a girl. Henry, on the other hand, often escaped worse punishments for far greater mischief.
Yet their grandmother once whispered to him that Christine reminded her of their mother as a girl.
Christine loved to study the very lessons prepared for Henry’s future earldom—mathematics, geography, and history. Their mother disapproved, but their father allowed it, knowing Christine’s sharp mind needed feeding. When Cornelius, Henry’s brilliant friend, joined their lessons, Christine was secretly thrilled—though Henry was less so, as Cornelius often outshone him.
Alice, of course, was the ideal daughter: graceful, obedient, and maddeningly fond of lecturing Henry. Abigail, though taught to emulate Alice, had a tongue nearly as sharp as Christine’s—though she used it more discreetly.
Feeling remorseful, Henry tiptoed into the girls’ room. Clara lay asleep beside Christine, who was reading under the covers. At the sound of his steps, she clicked off her lamp and feigned sleep.
“Christine,” he whispered, sitting beside her, “it’s me.”
She peeked out from beneath the blanket.
“Are you cross with me?”
A pause.
“Yes,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to be scolded.”
Christine sighed. “I’m not angry about the game. I’d play again. But I’m angry that Mother didn’t scold you.”
“She didn’t—but father did,” Henry offered.
Christine’s eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”
“He told me not to drag you into trouble again and said I ought to set a better example.”
Christine softened. “Father does love us.”
“He does,” Henry said. “Now, will you forgive me?”
Christine hesitated.
“Only if you take me to the fair in Town Square next week,” she said slyly.
“I should’ve known you’d ask that,” he groaned. “No.”
“Then I shall remain furious with you forever.”
Henry stood to leave.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he whispered. “Good night.”
Christine pouted but didn’t dare wake Clara, who snuggled close in her sleep.
---
The next morning, Christine endured a tedious lecture.
“You must learn to behave like your sisters,” Lady Catherine said firmly. “Do you wish to end up a spinster like Miss Imogene?”
Alice and Abigail chimed in with pointed remarks. Christine clenched her fists, cheeks burning.
“In that case,” she shouted, “I do want to be a spinster—if it means I can skip these absurd lessons!”
“Christine!” the countess cried, but she had already fled.
She escaped to the library, seeking solace in her astronomy books. Outside, her brother practiced archery with Cornelius and others. Christine felt a familiar ache in her chest. She loved them all, but sometimes she longed to be Henry.
“Christine?”
She turned to find her father at the doorway, his expression gentle.
“I heard what happened,” he said. Christine rushed into his arms and burst into tears.
“There now, my little star… That was unkind of you, what you said to your mother.”
“But I don’t want to dance or sing or learn table manners all day,” she cried. “I want to paint, and ride horses, and learn everything Henry does. Everyone says it’s wrong.”
Her father chuckled and brushed her hair back. “Who says you cannot?”
Christine looked up in surprise. “Mother does.”
“She only wishes to see you flourish,” said the earl gently. “Show her you can do both—be clever and composed. Then I shall insist she let you ride and study freely.”
Christine’s eyes lit up. “Truly?”
He nodded. “In fact, I’ve asked someone to help with your riding—once your mother permits it.”
Just then, Cornelius appeared at the door.
“Cornelius!” she squealed and threw her arms around him.
“Christine!” the earl laughed. “Propriety, please!”
Realizing her blunder, Christine quickly stepped back and curtsied.
“My apologies, Cornelius.”
Cornelius smiled. “Quite all right. You’re still learning.”
“Now,” said the earl, kneeling beside her, “if you wish to keep riding, you must go make peace with your mother. Can you do that for me?”
Christine nodded, beaming. “Yes, Papa. Thank you!”
She ran off.
Watching her go, the earl mused aloud, “Sometimes I wonder if she wasn’t the second son I once hoped for.”
Beside him, Cornelius gave a quiet, thoughtful smile.
Though only slightly older than Henry, Cornelius was far more composed, with a sharp mind and unmatched skill in sport. Yet, despite his gifts, he bore the weight of a father who seldom praised him.
From that day forward, Christine dedicated herself to her mother’s lessons. Lady Hastings was surprised by her daughter’s sudden discipline and grace—though she secretly knew the girl still slipped away to study with Henry afterward. As long as Christine fulfilled her duties, the countess turned a blind eye.
Until, of course, that one eventful day…
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