December 31, 1802 - Kilsyth House, Edinburgh
Things to accomplish by age one and twenty

1. Wear dampened petticoats.
2. Walk down Princes Street unaccompanied.
3. Meet a Sassenach.
4. Marry a fierce, handsome, wealthy Highlander.
5. Dance on Sunday.
6. Wear paint, or at least lip rouge.
7. Travel the continent  extensively.
8. Read Minerva Press novels.
9. Produce one truly excellent watercolour.
10. Abandon the pianoforte.

December 31, 1812 -  Kilsyth House, Edinburgh

Octavia laughed, with tears in her eyes, when she found the list tucked away in a long-unopened book. How could she have forgot it? How could she have forgot that evening--Hogmanay--the old year's end, ten years ago? She and her cousin Martha, earnest, contentious fourteen year olds, had sat in this very bedchamber before the evening's celebrations had begun, writing their lists. Lists of all the things they wanted to do, lists that told of the women they wanted to become.

If she turned the page over…yes, there was Martha's list. A gentler, more reasonable list than her own; a list now destined to be forever unfulfilled. Her dearest cousin was dead these three years, had died in childbirth. Did Martha know that her son had lived and had flourished? Did she know that his father adored him as his only legacy from his beloved wife? She hoped so; her cousin deserved that comfort. She had done her grieving for Martha; she would treasure their shared memories forever. And she could feel her cousin's presence at her shoulder now, conning the list and smiling.

She turned back to her own list of items. They had had difficulty, she recalled, in limiting themselves to ten items, so numerous were their dreams and desires. Innocence, such innocence, echoed from the page as she scanned the it.

They had wished to travel to the continent, see the wonders of Florence, Rome, Paris and Vienna. They could not have imagined that ten years on war would still rage across Europe and travel would be virtually impossible beyond their own shores.

She particularly had wished to flout every convention of dress and manners. She had got over her desire to wear paint--her skin did not demand it and she was fortunate in her looks. Damped petticoats had seemed, within a year or two of the list, only vulgar and uncomfortable. More decorous fashions satisfied her now, and her husband's admiration was all the notice she wished to attract.

She had read Minerva Novels; they palled quickly, and eventually bored the reader utterly. Dancing on Sunday had been like dancing any other day, and had not brought eternal damnation on her head as her grandmother had predicted. Not, at least, as yet.

Number 2 on the list mocked her former naïveté. Walking anywhere unattended had lost its appeal when, in 1803, not one but two young ladies had been attacked in one of the lanes off Princes Street. What had been done to them had been spoken of in whispers by her grandmother's friends. She and Martha had wondered and asked and had been told that proper young ladies did not speak of such things.

She had improved at watercolour painting, and had produced several pieces with which she was happy. Excellence…? That surely depended on the judgement of the viewer, independent of the artist's prejudice. She had listed no goals for her musical accomplishments, but had hoped for freedom from the tyranny of practice. She had not, fortunately, achieved that goal. That music would become her joy and solace she could not have imagined at that young age.

Number 4 caused her to laugh aloud. Marriage…she had never met a handsome, wealthy Highlander, but only fierce ones. They were good enough men in their way--some fine-looking, and some land-rich at least--but they were rough and unrefined. She had met all manner of men in her seasons in Edinburgh society; she and her cousin both had. Then Martha had found her true love, and they had giggled their way through her courtship and her marriage.

And then finally Octavia had met a Sassenach.

A knock on the bedchamber door disturbed her reverie, and it was followed by the entrance of her beloved husband.

"You are missed, my lady. I hold your family in the highest esteem, but they desire your presence more than mine, as they see you now only twice or thrice in a year." He came to her, took her hand, and raised her from her seat at the dressing table. His intent gaze admired her peach-blush satinet gown, and the way her silk bandeaux contained her glossy curls.

"You look ravishing, my darling." He kissed her once, twice, and finally on her white throat above the diamond necklace he had given her at Christmas.

Octavia relaxed into his familiar, ever-exciting embrace. "Do look at what I found," she said.

He took the list from her and, still circling her waist with his arm, he read it, laughing as she knew he would. "You were a challenge to your poor grandmama, I see. And all your wishes have not come true."

She turned back into his embrace, and brushed the dark hair from his blue eyes. It was always tumbling from its careful ordering across his broad forehead, despite how often he thrust it back. She smoothed the blue superfine coat across his broad shoulders, tweaked his neckcloth, and touched a fingertip to his lips.

"All my wishes did come true," she corrected him. "For I met my Sassenach, and that was all that mattered."

Hogmanay - 'New Year's Eve in Scotland; a time of particular celebration and custom'