Chapter Text
Lucy considers herself a modern woman; she does not require any thing or any one to function, thank you very much. When she declares this to her family, it’s met with a smack on the arm from her mother and an eye roll from Mary.
“You can hardly call yourself a woman,” Mary says, pink painted lips pushed into a pout as she plaits Lucy’s hair. The older girl tugs harder than necessary. “I sure didn’t know what I was doing when I was sixteen. You’ll forget about all that working gibberish when you meet your first beau and start discovering more important things.”
Lucy digs her nails into the tartan fabric of her school skirt. She’s had this argument enough times to know that snapping back will do nothing, but thousands of rebuttals whirl around in her mind regardless.
Wanting to be respected for my achievements isn’t gibberish.
I was accepted into Fittes Academy for a reason.
And, because Lucy is still very much a sixteen year old:
It’s not my fault you have the abilities of a goldfish, Mary.
She doesn’t say any of this. Instead, when Mary finishes her braids, Lucy gets to her feet and haughtily remarks “I think I can handle both.”
…
It’s 1938. A year that, to Lucy, holds a lot of promise.
It’s her first term at Fittes, and she’s a year younger than her peers, but she does her best to hold her head up high. At first, she was grateful for the identical school-provided skirt sets than all the girls wear, but she still sticks out. The girls at Fittes are all pale and petite, with delicate button noses and neatly set hair. Lucy tugs self-consciously at a dark braid and tries to ignore the stares.
She’s bright but silent in the classroom, so no one is outright rude to her. At her old school, Lucy would have picked fights with condescending boys and lept to be included in football, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing she can do in these prestigious halls. Lucy takes home economics instead of fencing, and learns to sew, knit, and curtsy.
In the third week of October, George Cubbins (the one boy in home economics) is the only person to try her lemon-chocolate-rhubarb digestives.
“Could use a bit more sugar, but not bad,” he says, and finishes off the plate.
And just like that, they’re friends.
…
The day she meets him is a normal rainy November afternoon. Thunder rumbles, wind blows, but Lucy is safe from it all underneath the awning of the Marissa Fittes Hall.
If, in her future, you were to ask her what the precise date was, or what book she happened to be reading while waiting for George, she would not be able to recall. If you were to ask her exactly what made that rainy day so notable, she would remember in a heartbeat.
On a horridly drizzly day in London, November-something, 1938, while Lucy is deep in the words of an unknown and utterly forgettable novel, she is suddenly splashed with rainwater.
She sputters out something rude, but is cut off mid sentence by warm pair of hands steadying her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the splasher gasps, and Lucy pushes her bangs up to meet the eyes of an angel.
He’s built like a dapper beanpole, bright eyes shining even in the gloom of the afternoon. His pale cheeks were flushed a pleasant pink, and his lips part slightly as he examines Lucy for any sign of harm. He was wearing the standard Fittes uniform, but it seems to fit him in a manner more flattering than it had any other boy.
“Um,” Lucy says, acutely aware that his slender fingers were still gripping her arms. “Don’t do that again.”
Lucy had been referring to splashing her with water, but the boy clearly misunderstands her and releases his hold. He smiles sheepishly.
“Apologies. I was looking for someone and lost my balance. You’re absolutely wet, aren’t you?”
Lucy blinks up at him. “Pardon?”
Before she can get the word out, however, he’s already shrugging out of his dark grey jacket and slipping it over her shoulders, filling her senses with the aroma of Earl Grey and sunshine.
“You can keep it,” he says breathlessly, chest heaving. “I have to go.”
The dark-haired boy turns and dashes around the corner; Lucy is left there, warm, flushed, and confused.
She shifts the jacket around and reads the name patch sewn onto the breast pocket.
- Lockwood.
…
She hadn’t noticed until then, but he’s in her English class. He sits at the front, next to a sour-looking ginger boy. He offers to read passages a lot, and his accent is so unique that Lucy can’t help but pay rapt attention. It’s similar to the RP accents everyone puts on at Fittes, but there’s something light and airy about it, like he’s dancing around the r’s.
She doesn’t usually offer to read in class — Kat Godwin made fun of her voice once, and she’s been hesitant ever sense — but when the professor announces passages from Much Ado About Nothing , she immediately raises her hand to play Beatrice.
It should be unsurprising, but she’s still stunned when Lockwood volunteers himself as Benedick.
They recite.
“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me,” Lockwood says.
Lucy sits up in her seat and tries to draw herself like Beatrice would, sharp-tongued and witty. Powerful, lovely, contrite. “Do not swear, and eat it.”
“I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make him eat it that says I love not you,” Lockwood responds, glancing up from his book to lock eyes with her. She’s certain that the teasing look he gives her is a part of his acting, and not actually intended for her.
They read through the scene, and the hammering of her chest quiets down to steady beat as she grows more comfortable in the role. Lockwood’s eyes are encouraging, even as Kat Godwin mutters something snide to the rat-faced ginger boy.
Down the page, they reach her favorite part of the play, and Lucy doesn’t even need to look at the script.
“...With public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor,” Lucy reads, slamming her book close. The students around her start at the sudden display of passion, but Lucy is too excited to care. She stares over Lockwood’s shoulder and meets the eyes of Kat Godwin.
“Oh God, that I were a man!” Lucy exclaims, “I would eat his heart in the marketplace!”
She delivers the line with such fervor, such earnestness, that a few of her peers actually seem impressed. Kat looks away from her, pale lips curled into an unpretty snarl. The ginger boy looks more amused than anything.
Pleased, Lucy turns back to Lockwood, and his expression sends a flutter down to her stomach. His face, normally composed, is beaming up at her with astonishment. Though the weather outside the walls of the classroom is grey and drab,the way he looks at Lucy feels as if a ray of golden light has fallen on her.
Lockwood collects himself and they continuing reading, but there’s something soft in his voice that wasn’t there before.
…
The members of the Carlyle family are as listed:
Simon Carlyle, blond, once-handsome, a Great War veteran who saw very little combat but drinks it away nonetheless. Or, perhaps it should be “drank,” but Lucy isn’t certain. Her father left when she was little, and for all she knows, he’s dead in a gutter somewhere.
The matriarch, Veena Carlyle (née Desai), is swarthy and distant. Despite having grown up under her care, Lucy knows very little about her mother, and thinks herself better for it.
And then the seven daughters, in order from oldest to youngest. Charlotte, Priya, Indira, Tara, Beth, Mary, and Lucy. They’re scattered over London, and Lucy doesn’t blame them for not visiting often; they’re all kind enough and seem to like her, but they avoid their mother. Charlotte and Priya have married handsome fellows, Indira works in radio, and Tara’s moved in with a milkman. There’s little reason to come to the sad little flat where Lucy and her mother stay.
…
Sometimes, Lucy stares at herself and wishes parts of her body away. Her hair is dark and heavy, and she thinks her mouth is too long. When she stands with the other girls in the class, she looms over them, and she’s had to sew extra trim onto the hem of her skirt just to stay within dress code. She’s not plump — her family could never afford enough food for her to be so — but broad, and Lucy hates it.
There are times when Lucy is grateful for her appearance, and she feels even worse then because she’s glad that her skin isn’t as dark as her mother’s, and that her nose is thin and straight. When she thinks this, she’s overcome with a heavy sense of guilt.
No one calls her names on the street, and she’s lucky that her name is English enough that most people don’t even realize her background. But Lucy is realistic, and accepts the fact that she’ll never be beautiful.
Good riddance to the braids. She takes her mother’s crafting scissors and cuts her hair into a bob.
…
Lockwood approaches her after class one day.
“I like your haircut.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“You’re Lucy, aren’t you? Lucy…”
“Carlyle. You’re A. Lockwood.”
“How did you…” A pause, and then laughter. “My jacket. I’m Anthony Lockwood.”
“I still have it — do you want it back?”
“No, it’s fine. I said you could keep it.”
“I really don’t need it. I’ve washed it and everything, so I really should give it back.”
“How about you bring it to me tomorrow, then? I can meet you at Figment’s.”
Lucy blinks. Figment’s was a cafe, nicer than any she had ever gone to. She hesitates.
“Alright then.”
…
Lockwood is kind. Lockwood is dashing. And Lockwood is exceptionally handsome, so really, Lucy can’t be blamed for fancying him. When they meet at Figment’s he takes the jacket, but he also takes her hand and leads her into the cafe. She feels silly sitting there among the Tiffany lamps and the leather seats, but his gaze is on her and she really can’t protest.
He pays (“What kind of gentleman would I be otherwise?”), and Lucy enjoys the meal greatly. She feels like a proper adult, sitting and talking with a boy in public. There are even daubs of rouge on her cheeks and she had smushed a pouf of powder on her nose a few times. The effect is imperceptible, but Lockwood compliments her appearance all the same.
Lucy finds that she enjoys their conversations. They flit from topic to topic easily: their studies, movies, Neville Chamberlain, and ghosts are all discussed in rapid succession. Neither of them know much about international politics, but Lockwood’s parents are well traveled and Lucy reads, so together they manage a decent global discussion.
She tells him of her desire to do a little of everything; Lucy’s ambitious, but she’s not yet sure what for. She wants to pen books, to adventure, to create. The world seems so ripe with possibilities that Lucy can’t bear to section herself to one career.
Lockwood is agreeable, eyes shining as she tells him about her future.
“I want to do something that no one’s ever done before,” she announces, feeling unusually bold from her full stomach and Lockwood’s encouragement.
“I can hardly wait to see it,” he says.
It hadn’t crossed her mind that Lockwood might have any genuine interest for her, so when he stands and asks her if she’d be open for another lunch, Lucy nearly chokes on her tea.
There’s such sincerity and eagerness on his face, a puppyish sort of love, that Lucy has no choice but to say yes.
…
She falls quickly, much to the annoyance of George. Lucy doesn’t talk about Lockwood much, but she thinks of him often, and more than once she’ll fade from a conversation, thinking about the tall boy. They flit around each other, nothing quite confirmed or denied between them. Subtle glances, demure greetings, and smiles; Lucy wonders is this is what love feels like.
It’s 1939, a new year, her final one at school. She wonders what she’ll do afterwards; the whole world seems ripe for her picking, but the adults around her seem frayed at the edges. The history professor devotes an entire week to an impromptu lesson about Germany. Lucy tries to keep up with the news, but it’s hard when there’s so much more going on in her life.
“After I graduate, I’m going to marry Quill. He’s of a good family, and he’s not terrible to look at,” Kat Godwin announces during lunch one day. Lucy glances over to where Quill Kipps is sitting, out of earshot. She tries to imagine the pair together: waifish, sneering Godwin arm in arm with a top-hatted Quill, and laughs. The girls around Godwin chime in with their own hopes. Lucy turns to George.
“What do you want to do after graduation, George?”
George swallows his bite of apple and shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter. Haven’t you heard what’s going on in Poland? We’ll be in the trenches again by June.”
Lucy’s not really sure how to respond to that, and she takes an uncomfortable bite of her sandwich. She’s heard stories of the Great War before, from her mother and neighbors, even from her eldest sister’s faint recollections. War still seems too distant to be real to her. She can’t imagine how her life could continue — it sounds like the end of the world.
George, flippant as ever, reaches for her fruit cocktail with enviable calm and plucks it off the table.
…
Here’s how it finally happens:
(Love, that is, not war.)
The grounds are usually empty after class hours, with most students tucked inside their dormitories, but Lucy likes to walk around the campus from time to time. It had been raining the past few days, but it’s blessedly clear that evening. The grass grows green and lush in this little spot outside London. Stars sprinkle the deep night sky, and every so often an airplane cuts a light across the dark expanse. She’s never been on a plane before but it seems magical. Lucy is lost in her thoughts, as she often is, and is awoken from her reverie by a warm voice.
“Lucy.”
She turns her head and finds Lockwood standing a few paces away from her, snugly bundled in a blue greatcoat that complements his eyes. His face lights up at her attention, and a few long-legged strides later, he’s standing next to her.
“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Lockwood murmurs, his gaze fixed on the streetlamps further down the pathway. She agrees, and looks down at his hands. His fingers are long and slender, stiff from the cold. Lucy wonders if reaching out and grasping them would help.
Lockwood’s unusually quiet tonight; ordinarily, the boy has a considerably liking for prattling on. Conversation between the two usually went well because he was so good at chattering away. Lucy wracks her head for a decent topic.
“I’m glad that oranges are back in season. Fresh marmalade is one of my favorites on toast, “ she says. It’s a dull topic, but she looks back to see that Lockwood is now staring at her with rapt attention.
“Lucy, I like you terribly,” he declares, with all the conviction that only a teenage boy can muster. Lucy blinks.
“What — because of the marmalade?”
In her confusion, he takes her hands into his. She can feel the chill on his skin through the leather of her gloves, but she the goosebumps she gets underneath her shirt aren’t from the cold.
“I know we haven’t much time before we leave the academy, but if you let me, I’d like to get to know you better,” Lockwood says, his bright eyes earnest. “You’re so brilliant, Lucy. Your passion is infectious, and I find you fascinating.”
An older, more experienced Lucy would have probably laughed at the boy’s naivete, but this young Lucy is endeared. She’s never been described in such flattering words by anyone other than her sisters, and to hear them from the dashing boy seems to be some sort of fantasy come to life.
“Lockwood — Anthony, I mean — I like spending time with you too,” she says, heart hammering beneath her winter coat, and yes this is probably what true love feels like. His face is close enough to hers now that she can see every delicate freckle, can feel the graceful curve of his dark lashes against her forehead. The world around them seems to be holding its breath.
She stands on her tiptoes, inching imperceptibly higher until their lips meet. It’s her first kiss, and it becomes clear that it’s his first too; it’s not unpleasant, but Lockwood misses her mouth a little bit and Lucy’s painfully aware of how chapped her lips are.
Still, when they pull apart and smile at each other, Lucy feels as if she’s conquered the world.
…
The time that they spend together is sweet. Neither of them feel particularly inclined to display their petting in public, choosing to indulge in their affections for each other in private instead. They don’t do anything beyond kissing, but Lucy’s more than content with that.
She meets his family at 35 Portland Row. His parents are loving and eager to learn more about her, and Lucy enjoys the stories that they tell of Indonesia and South Africa. His sister, Jessica, is kindhearted and every bit as handsome as Anthony.
“You’re welcome here anytime,” Mrs. Lockwood says one night, giving Lucy a warm hug.
Lucy doesn’t tell her family that she’s going steady with a boy; her mother hardly cares what she does with herself to begin with, and Lucy doesn’t need her older sisters chaperoning her and Lockwood. The only person she tells is George, who gives her a long-suffering sort of look and says “I know , Lucy. He won't stop talking about it.”
One day in April, Lockwood sits Lucy down on the steps outside the library and hands her a small velvet box.
‘I thought it was perfect for you,” Lockwood says, giving her his signature brilliant grin. Inside the case sits a signet ring, golden and with a thin band.
“Lockwood, I—” Lucy says, her heart blooming. The gesture warms her soul, and she gives Lockwood a kiss on the cheek as he helps her put the ring on. She looks down at her hand. The design on the face of the ring is simple: two interlocked rapiers and small character beneath the blades.
“Is that your family crest?” Lucy asks.
“Yes,” he says, and takes her hand into his. As he speaks, his finger traces the designs on the ring. “The two rapiers are a symbol of the trades my family used to have in Hong Kong. Below them is the Chinese character for “Leong,” which was our surname in Cantonese.”
As he says this, his voice is even, but there’s a pulse of nervousness beneath his facade. Lucy doesn’t ask why he’s fidgety, or why his family changed their surname when they reached England. She doesn't need to. It’s the same reason her sisters lighten their skin and Lucy only speaks English.
She squeezes his hand, and they share an understanding that’s more meaningful than any kiss.
…
She turns 17 in July. Priya takes her shopping for a nice dress, and Indira promises that she’ll teach her how to do makeup. Lucy and Lockwood enjoy a picnic at sunset.
...
It couldn't last. They make it through graduation and the summer, but all the rings and picnics in the world can’t bridge what happens next. In autumn, Germany invades Poland, France declares war on Germany, and England follows suit. There are people singing “God Save the King” and waving flags on the third of September, but none of Lucy’s countrymen look particularly joyful. When the news breaks over the radio, Lucy sees her neighbor, the normally brusque Mr. Shaw, break down and clutch his son into his chest.
(Later, she’ll learn that all three of Mr. Shaw’s brothers died in France. The wailing that comes from their flat the day Ned Shaw is reported as killed in action is harrowing.)
Kat Godwin and her family flee to their Canadian estate the day war is announced. Quill Kipps, who is a year older than Lockwood, has already been conscripted into service — so much for the Kipps-Godwin wedding Lucy had dreamed of attending.
George turns 18 in October, but he fails the vision exam and is sent to work in radio instead. It’s a good fit. He’s always been a thorough researcher, and knowing that he’ll be safe in London makes him hug Lucy in relief.
Lockwood turns 18 in November, and is conscripted the week after.
She remembers seeing the draft letters, and feeling the paper in her hands. She remembers his forlorn expression and the whispered promises from the both of them, the tears in the corners of his eyes as he holds her face.
“I love you,” Lucy says, emotions overwhelming her. They’ve never called what they have “love,” but at this moment, it feels right. She tightens her grip on his shirt and kisses him so fiercely that Lockwood is breathless.
“I—I love you too,” he murmurs. “And I will see you again, when this is all over.”
She opens her mouth, ready to reassure him that he will, but she can’t say it. The words fall dead in her throat, and she lets go of him. They stare at each other, and Lucy desperately wants to say you’ll be back before you know it or they might not even send you overseas or I’ll write to you , because none of those seem true or feasible.
Instead, all she can choke out is a “Goodbye.”
She doesn’t cry when she gets home that night. Instead, Lucy sits silently on the bed, fingers twisted around her ring, and wonders how she didn’t see how fragile it all was.
...
It’s 1939, the year that Lucy’s life was supposed to begin. Instead, it seems to be falling apart around her.