Lise: Tomboy to City Lady (#4)

A tiny bonus chapter based on and inspired by “The Color of Courage.” A first chance to get to know the characters and the new dual timeline series, “Timeless Agents.”

Lise: Tomboy to City Lady

Curepipe, Mauritius, July 1918

The afternoon sun blazed over the endless rows of sugarcane, casting golden hues across the green fields. In the distance, the rocky peak of Pieter Both Mountain loomed lazily, a silent guardian over the island. A warm breeze, carrying the faint scent of salt from the Indian Ocean, rustled the sugarcane like whispered secrets, stirring the dry leaves.

Lise Boucherville de Baissac, her heart pounding in sync with her bare feet on the soft, brown earth, raced across the fields with her makeshift parachute fluttering behind her. Sixteen years old, with her brothers’ laughter echoing behind her, she ran faster, relishing the freedom, knowing they could never catch up.

Her lungs filled with the sweet air as she sped toward Maison des Palmes, the family estate. Its red roof stretched long and low, while the whitewashed walls rose above the immaculate gardens like a sentinel watching over the land. The wraparound verandas gleamed in the sun, the palm trees lining the driveway swayed gently, their tranquility in contrast to Lise’s wild exuberance. She ducked low, trying to avoid being seen from the front of the house, where her mother was undoubtedly holding court with the servants.

Lise slipped through the back door, which creaked slightly as she entered. Her dark-blonde hair, once neatly tied in a ponytail, now hung loose and tousled from her makeshift parachute jump. She cringed as she looked down at her dungarees, torn at the knee, dirt smeared across the fabric. Quickly, she tugged at the tear, hoping to minimize the damage. If Maman found out...

Tiptoeing into the hallway, her only goal was to sneak upstairs, change into something clean, and fix her hair and hands before the inevitable teatime lecture. But just as her mud-streaked hand reached the banister, the dreaded voice rang out from the parlor, sharp and unmistakable.

“Lise! Come here at once!”

She froze.

I need to work on my stealth techniques, she thought wryly.

Her mother appeared in the doorway, her expression shifting from restrained frustration to sheer horror as her eyes fell on Lise’s disheveled state. The contrast between them could not have been starker. Both shared the same petite frame, clear blue eyes, creamy skin, and thick dark-blonde hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Marie Louise stood poised as ever, her mauve afternoon dress immaculate, her hair coiled in perfect waves. She was the very picture of French elegance and propriety, every inch the refined lady she expected Lise to become.

“Mon Dieu.” Her mother reached for her lace handkerchief, delicately dabbed in lavender water.

Please don’t faint, Lise silently prayed. There’s nothing here that can’t be fixed.

She forced a smile, hoping for leniency, but it wasn’t to be. Her mother’s eyes had that heavy, droopy look, and her knuckles whitened as they gripped the sliver of lace.

“Maman—” Lise began to plead.

“Tais-toi! Don’t speak!” A single long, white finger shot into the air. “What in Heaven’s name have you been doing? Your clothes are torn, you look like you’ve rolled in the mud, and—what is that thing on your back?”

Before Lise could answer, her brothers dashed in, looking just as bedraggled. They received only a curt, “Be good boys and go wash for tea, mes garçons,” from Marie Louise, her stern gaze snapping back to her daughter.

Lise bit her lip. It was so unfair to be a girl.

“You simply cannot continue like this.” Her mother’s voice carried that familiar note of lamentation, one that Lise always resisted. She resisted any sign of weakness, especially in emotion. But her mother was just getting started. “Running wild, tearing your clothes like a common girl! How am I to make you into a lady if you refuse to act like one?”

“I was just with Jean and Claude,” Lise muttered, eyes downcast. “We were... parachute jumping.”

“Parachute jumping?” Her mother’s hand flew to her nose, dabbing at it with the lace handkerchief. “What on earth do you mean, para—”

“Like this.” Lise climbed a few steps of the grand staircase and, with a grin, billowed out the silk contraption on her back. She leapt from halfway up, landing squarely at her mother’s feet.

“That’s it!” her mother squeaked, regaining composure. “As soon as that wretched war in Europe ends, we’re going to Paris. Tout de suite!”

Lise’s head snapped up. “Paris?”

“Yes, Paris.” Marie Louise’s voice regained its strength as she spoke, each word as final as a locked door. “Mauritius has made you far too... untamed. You need refinement, culture. You need to become a lady, not a wild child playing in the dirt. I will not allow you to throw away your future. It may be too late already, but Mon Dieu, I will try.”

Lise’s heart sank deeper than the tear in her dungarees. She loved Maison des Palmes—the fields, the sea, the freedom—with all the fierceness of her loving heart. Paris was her mother’s dream, not hers. But in her mother’s determined gaze, there was no room for argument. She could only hope the Great War dragged on forever—though, in her kind heart, she knew she didn’t wish that on anyone.

“Yes, Maman,” Lise murmured, but inside, the wild spirit that had raced through the fields would not be tamed. Maybe her mother could teach her to be a lady, but no one could teach her how to stop being herself.

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