Memories of a Memoir

It's an age old question, really.

If you were given the chance to have a conversation with someone from the past, who would you pick?

A president, perhaps? Or, maybe you'd have liked to pick the brain of a scientist who was only recognized for their work after their passing? What about a civil rights activist, who boldly led crowds in the marches that demanded reform for the unjust treatment of the minorities?

Whatever the choice may be, I'm certain that you wouldn't have chosen a sarcastic, aristocratic arsehole from the 1800's.

Alas, I didn't get the much coveted information that could actually change the world but that didn't stop me from biting my lip in anticipation as I waited for the elegant scrawl of ink to bloom across weathered pages that signaled a response from my… pen pal?

What an odd term to place on my correspondent.

Surely the Ambrose Vaughn Sterling, Duke of Calvaire wouldn't be quite so pleased with the reduction of his utmost importance.

You're probably wondering who I am and who Ambrose is.

Me? I'm just a college student — but not the kind that is thriving with a social life, excellent grades, and a loving partner. Oh, no. I'm the stressed, depressed, lemon zest type of student; struggling to maintain my good grades and woefully single.

I’m Arista Nyland, though typically I go by Aris, even if it makes me sound like a pompous airhead. I’m in the middle of my post-graduate studies at University College London with a focus in Architectural Design and History. I’m 23, well travelled, focused on my studies, and absolutely not focused on finding a person to spend the rest of my life with — or, as Ambrose has taken to calling me, a spinster with no hopes of securing a suitable match.

How rude.

Ambrose Vaughn Sterling, the Duke of Calvaire, was the fourth of his line. His great grandfather was the very first and they apparently own, and I quote, “vast plots of land and an extensive list of properties, with the two main ones being Calvaire Castle, which sits looking out across the stormy waters of the Isles, and Calvaire House in Central London.”

Even with all of his ‘extensive duties as the head of house’, he still has the time to converse with little, irrelevant me. A spinster of my time.

Honestly, I’m not annoyed. Not at all.

... Maybe the tiniest bit. There are certainly times that I want to throw the damned book across the room, with how badly I want to strangle the man.

And, yet, I don’t regret picking up the worn, leather-bound, black journal from the tiny antique shop that sits nestled next to one of my favorite coffee shops. Truly, it was such an odd coincidence. I was drawn to the store when the journal caught my eye, sitting untouched and collecting dust in the corner of the storefront display, almost as though the owners themselves were not aware of its existence.

How poetic.

Which is not the way in which my highly esteemed correspondent sounds as his response finally makes its way across the aged paper of the journal.

“You insufferable girl. Do you not have classes to attend that will soften that sharp tongue of yours?”

I roll my green eyes as I pick up the fountain pen, my answer already being scrawled out beneath his, pouty lips quirked up in a sarcastic smirk.

“Don’t lie, you enjoy it when I talk to you like a normal person and not some groveling, sniffling idiot. You’re too egoistic for your own good.”

His answer came back before I could even finish writing the word ‘good’.

“With that tongue of yours, you would never find a husband in my era.”

I snort to myself as I pen my scathing reply.

“Who the hell said I wanted a husband? Besides, if I was there I would have surely set my sights on you, the ‘aloof, damningly handsome, Duke of Calvaire’, one of the most ‘sought after’ bachelors of 1832.”

There was a small pause, and I could just imagine his dark brow creasing at the absolute insolence in which I spoke to him; his lips downturned in a scowl; blue eyes stormy with barely held contempt, yet bright with clear amusement.

“I do not appreciate your belittlement of my dashing good looks.”

I giggle, a smile curving up the edge of my mouth as I picture him sitting in his office tapping a finger against the lovely cherry wood of his stately desk, frowning in a way that was most definitely not suited for someone of his rank.

Before I could scrawl back my response, my phone lit up with a reminder to pay the interest on my student loans. I bit back a groan, knowing that the money in my account would force me to choose between making a payment and getting groceries for the week.

I promised myself that I would graduate with no student loan debt. With graduation next year, how the fuck was I going to pay off nearly $20,000?!

A sigh left my lips as I made up my mind to make the payment and survive on the meager stash of canned goods kept in my small flat. I picked up the pen to write back to Ambrose.

“And I despise being in near financial destitution.”

The response was immediate.

“Are you in dire straits?”

I raised a brow at the response, cocking my head as I answered him.

“What does it matter to you? It’s not as though you could help me. Did you forget we live in completely different timelines?”

“Not at all, especially with how you act so far removed from the simpering airheads that beg for my attention. Tell me how much you need.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just tell me.”

“Ambrose.”

“Aris.”

Oh.

He underlined my name.

I could almost hear the scowl that must’ve adorn his handsome face. I stared at the weathered pages for a moment, picking up my phone to pull up an inflation calculator; knowing from my studies that people nearly two centuries ago could buy houses for far less than what is paid today.

Picking up the pen, I chewed on my lip for a moment before writing my answer.

“Nearly $1,000.”

Long minutes go by without response.

Just as I finished submitting the payment for my loans, already dreading the idea of heating up a can of soup from my precious stash, his response scrawls across the pages.

“You attend London University, correct?”

“I do.”

“Wait upon the steps of the main building a fortnight from today at half past noon.”

“Ambrose, what are you doing?”

I waited anxiously for his response.

“Follow my orders, just this once.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek pensively before writing back, hoping that he didn’t do anything that would change the friendship that we’d cultivated with months of notes being passed between nearly 200 years.

“Okay. I will. Just once.”

~o0o~

Truthfully, Vaughn didn’t understand why he was standing in the plaza of UCL’s main building, his Brioni suit tailored to fit his athletic body, a family heirloom tucked safely away in his breast pocket, a worn note from his great, great, great, great grandfather, the fourth person to hold the Sterling surname, indicating that for every generation to follow him, they must stand at the steps of UCL’s main building on this day at half past noon.

As a young boy, he accompanied his father to do this task, which he did without fail, and something he knew his father did with his grandfather. He knew that the directions of the note was to give the heirloom ring to a woman, a student at this school in graduate studies, with hair the color of sunlight on snow, and eyes the color of rain soaked ferns and a name that would make one reminisce of royalty. It was to be done without question, something that was noted in his ancestor’s will, his final, dying wish.

Vaughn had an idea of who he was looking for - a painting of a female hung in his family’s portrait hall, though no one knew her name, long forgotten when they’d moved the belongings from Calvaire Castle, which the family opened to the public for guided tours, to the London House.

In the painting, she was absolutely lovely; platinum hair an icy contrast against a warm complexion, green eyes that were bright with intelligence and perhaps, a spark of mischief, a feminine figure that was draped in clothing not of his ancestor’s time, a cherry wet mouth that curved in a playful and yet equally taunting smirk.

He looked around the central plaza, noting the students that sat on the steps and ate lunch, and others who strolled by with books and bags in tow as they trudged to their next class. A glance at his watch told him that it was just 12:30 now, a normal lunch time for so many people and yet still he looked for an indicator of the woman that his ancestor was so adamant on finding.

His father was intrigued about the entire situation, somewhat convinced that the woman didn’t actually exist at all and that his great, great, great grandfather had dreamt her into reality but he never strayed from doing the tradition that his father had ingrained into him and what Vaughn, who held the namesake of the man who started this entire thing, also did without much question.

He heard the doors of the main hall open behind him, and a flood of students exited the building, chattering about coursework, projects, and other trivial things. The rush of students eventually trickled to just a few stragglers and that’s when he heard it.

“...Ambrose?”

He turned, pivoting on the spot, his blue eyes searching for where that sound, that name, had come from.

Standing at the top of the main building’s steps was a girl, no, the girl from the painting.

Platinum blonde strands floated in the warm breeze, fern green eyes staring at him quizzically, a backpack slung over slim shoulders as she blinked dumbfoundedly.

Vaughn couldn’t have controlled the way he bound up the stairs even if he wanted, long legs taking the steps three at a time until he was toe-to-toe with the woman, towering over her slender figure.

“You’re her.” Vaughn murmured, amazement coloring the deep timbre of his voice, blue eyes taking in the way she looked like a mirror copy of the painting he was so familiar with.

“Do you know who I am?” She whispered, green eyes wide, glossy, red stained lips parted in disbelief.

“Does your name resemble something from royalty?” Vaughn crooned out the question, somehow dying to know everything about this woman.

“Royalty? Wha-” The girl stuttered before realization dawned in her clear green eyes. “My name is Aris.”

Aris.

Heiress.

Without a word, Vaughn reached into his pocket, retrieving the family ring and the note that came with it. He handed it to Aris, watching the way her green eyes widened and a hand clamped over her mouth as she read the note and looked at the glittering diamond and sapphire ring.

'Get yourself out of dire straits.'

“That ring is worth about $20,000 - I had it appraised two years ago.” Vaughn murmured. Aris blinked up at him, tears welling in her eyes.

“Thank you, Ambrose.”

He looked at her curiously, a knowing smirk tilting the corner of his lip up.

“My name is Vaughn," he paused, "would you care to have lunch with me?”

Aris looked up, startled, momentarily stunned by the intense blue gaze of her correspondent, or, rather, a descendant of him.

“I’d like that, I think,” Aris responded carefully, taking the proffered arm that Vaughn extended.

Perhaps, she was not destined to be a spinster after all.