While I might hope for it, I lack the confidence to swan out in my finery. I actually try to slip from the room and beat him downstairs so I can be pouring tea when he enters and, therefore, avoid seeing his reaction lest there be no reaction at all.
I ease into the hall . . . and his door opens. I freeze, wondering whether I can back inside and act as if I’ve forgotten something. It’s too late, though. He’s stepping out and seeing me and . . .
He stops. His gaze travels over me.
“Better than what I was wearing before?” I say lightly, hoping my voice stays steady.
He chuckles. “I would be lying if I said I vastly prefer your current attire. However, with this, at least, I will not feel as if I should avert my gaze.”
“Good.”
I walk into the light filtering through the hall window, and he hesitates again.
“You look,” he begins; then, he falters, and I’m about to make some wry comment to save him from a forced compliment, but he continues, “beautiful, of course. That goes without saying. You were a pretty girl. You are a beautiful woman.”
The way he says it makes my heart flip. He speaks as if remarking that the sunset is beautiful tonight. Fact not flattery. I’m not beautiful. I know that. But he sees beauty, and he states it as if I’ve surely heard it a thousand times.
Before I can respond, he says, “If I hesitated, it is only because I have not seen you like this. Your previous dresses were obviously of another time, as you were obviously of another time. You were . . . otherworldly. Like something from my nanny’s fae tales. In that dress, though, you look as if you belong here, and that is . . .”
He trails, but his tone tells me that seeing me in this dress is as uncomfortable, in its way, as seeing me in shorts and a tank top, and I draw back, uncertain.
“Disappointing?” I say, forcing another smile. “No longer that otherworldly creature?”
“Not disappointing. Just . . .”
He looks at me with clear discomfiture.
“I can change my clothes,” I say. “Or I could go and come again another time.”
He snaps out of it. “Certainly not. Have I mentioned I’ve been in this wild place too long? Prone to moods and fancies, and I’ll beg you to overlook them, please.” He steps forward and loops his arm through mine. “I promised you food, and I should deliver, not gape at you like a schoolboy. Come. Your tea awaits.”
11
Downstairs, William insists on fixing the tea while I wait in the parlor. I wander the room, taking in the decor. It’s like when I found our old family home for sale on a real estate site, and I’d been fascinated, seeing my memories reimagined.
There’s wallpaper, for one thing. Not subtly designed wallpaper, either, but a bright gold with a busy pattern. There are also pictures. And more pictures. And more pictures. Rather like a teen’s room where they see each blank wall as a canvas that must be filled entirely. Large paintings in ornate frames circle the walls like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder in mismatched uniforms. Smaller portraits and paintings fill the spaces between and below. There’s a piano, the top crowded with porcelain depicting Chinese pastoral scenes of the sort painted by artists who’ve never visited China. Burgundy velvet with gold paint seems the unifying feature of every piece of upholstery. My favorite, though, has to be the cabinet, every door on it painted with a scene from Greek mythology. It’s a room of excess, and it is utterly, spectacularly Victorian.
I’ve barely done a visual sweep, though, before I call to William that I’m fetching something from upstairs, and when he comes in a few minutes later, he finds me clutching my cell phone.
He glances at it, brows rising in silent question as he pours tea. “Is that one of those calculating devices you brought before?”
“Nope. It’ll do that, though.” I flip to the calculator app and show him. He’s so busy staring at it that I have to nudge my cup in place before he pours tea onto the table.
“The other device had buttons,” he says. “How do you enter the numbers on that one?”
I tap the screen, and the keypad appears.
He shakes his head and lowers himself to his seat. “That is . . . I find myself wanting to say magical while realizing that will make me look like a cave dweller gaping at fire. You said the device isn’t a calculator, though.”
“It’s a telephone.”
Silence.
“That’s—” I begin.
“Oh, I remember what a telephone is. I have made a tidy fortune recalling all the modern inventions we discussed and then judiciously choosing where to invest my money. That does not, however, look anything like your pictures of telephones. You keep that in your house?”
“In my pocket, mostly.” I glance down at my dress. “Which I do not have, and I’d complain about Victorian tailors, but then I’d have to admit that things are no better in the twenty-first century. Dress designers simply don’t comprehend the need for women to have pockets.”
“That is a telephone that you carry in your pocket? Everywhere?”
“Pretty much. It’s not just a phone, though. I can take pictures with it, read books on it, conduct my banking with it, send letters in the blink of an eye, even watch television. Did I explain about television?”
He gives me a hard look, and I can’t hold back a laugh.
“Sorry,” I say.
“You enjoy this far too much, rhyming off all the wonders of your world, contained in an object smaller than a cigar box.”
I pick up my plate. “True, it is fun, but I actually brought it in hopes it’ll help settle any doubts that I’m real.”
“Ah, of course, because the best way to convince me that I’m not imagining you is to show me a device that cannot possibly exist outside the realm of fantasy.”
“Er . . . Okay, you have a point. However, since you’ve just admitted that you’ve successfully invested based on my talk of the future, that alone should prove I’m not a product of your imagination.” I pause. “Which also means that when you accused me of that the other day, you already knew perfectly well—”
“So, this magical device of yours.” He extends a hand. “Let me see it and appropriately marvel at the wonders of your future world.”
I pass the phone over.
As he taps the screen, he focuses so hard on keeping a neutral expression that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Photos,” he says. “I presume that means photographs?” He touches the button, indicating it for me, only to have it pop open. “These are all . . . ?” He taps one, and the screen fills with a picture of Enigma, posing wide eyed. He holds the phone out for Pandora, perched on the back of his seat. “We’ve found your missing baby, Pan. She’s right here. Trapped in this tiny box.”
The cat leans to sniff the phone and then glowers at me.
“Do you want me to take your picture?” I ask William.
“Not particularly.”
“Too bad.” I snatch the phone back and lift it. “Say cheese.”
“Say what? No, do not take—”
I press the button and laugh. “Too late.”
“Witch,” he whispers, his eyes widening. “Do you know what you’ve done? Stolen my soul with a click of a button, trapping it forever . . . forever in . . .”
“Can’t even get the rest out, can you? You did manage to say it with a straight face, though. Well, almost.”
I press the button again, watching the screen as his voice sounds, saying. “Witch . . .”
William’s brows jump.
I pass over the cell phone and show him how to hit Play. He watches the video clip I shot. Then he watches it again before turning to me with, “Witch.”
I laugh and reach to take the phone back.
“Oh no,” he says, whisking it away. “Now, I get to take your photograph.”
I protest, but he insists, and I show him how to do it.
“Shall I pose with my scone?” I reach for the plate, only to find
it empty. “Apparently, I’ve eaten the whole thing. Surprise, surprise. I am overly fond of scones as you can tell.” I wave a self-deprecating hand at my figure.
He frowns and then nods. “Ah, yes. You do seem to have accumulated a remarkable quantity of crumbs on your bodice. Enough for nearly a full scone.”
I smile at him. “Thank you.”
His brows knit in fresh confusion. Then another nod. “I suppose it’s ungentlemanly of me to notice the crumbs. It may also suggest I’m paying more attention to your décolletage than is seemly. Take another scone and pose for the photographer, please.”
I do as he asks, and he snaps a couple. He checks them and takes more, testing angles. He snaps a few of Pandora, too, who gives me a fresh glower, as if this nonsense is clearly my fault.
William settles into his chair and flicks through the screen. “All of these are photographs? There must be hundreds.”
“When it’s that easy, we do take hundreds. Most are photos. The ones with a box symbol in the corner are videos.”
I nibble my scone and sip tea as he flips through photos. Then I hear Michael’s voice and stop cold.
“—first day of school, Professor Dale,” Michael is saying.
“Put down the camera,” my voice replies.
“Oh, no. The occasion must be documented. May I say you look very fine today, Professor Dale. If my profs looked like you, I’d have been too distracted to ever get the grades for grad school.”
I scramble up to take the phone back. William doesn’t notice, his gaze fixed on the screen, expression unreadable.
On the video, my voice says, “I’ll be late. We need to go.”
“You’re the prof. You’re allowed to be late. We have a few minutes to spare, and I believe I am in need of a quick lesson in—”
I snatch the phone away, murmuring something unintelligible.
“That was . . .” William says.
“My husband.”
He stiffens so fast that Pandora gives a start.
“He’s passed,” I say, adding that more quickly than I intend. I settle into my chair. “We met in graduate school. He died eight years ago. A cancerous tumor in his brain.”
I look ruefully at the phone. “We can invent a tiny box that will shoot a million photographs, but there are some things we still can’t do. Still can’t fix.”
“I’m sorry.” A pause, stretching well past awkward. “I should have asked if you’d been—or were—married. Also, whether you have children.”
I shake my head. “We wanted them, but we thought there was plenty of time. And then there wasn’t.”
Another long pause. “Your husband wasn’t in that moving picture, but I saw a young dark-skinned man in several photographs with you. The voice seemed British but . . . something else, too.”
“He was from Egypt. He studied in England before coming to Canada.” The first time we met was in an economics class. He said my name, and his accent reminded me of you. That’s why I noticed him.
I don’t say that, of course. I just sit in that terrible, awkward silence.
“I’m glad you found someone,” he says.
I tense, wondering whether there’s an undercurrent of sarcasm there, a twist that alludes to the fact he did not, obviously, find anyone. He misinterprets that as doubting his sincerity and comes back with a firmer, “I am glad, Bronwyn.”
He reaches for his tea and sips it. “As poor a light as this will cast on me, I must admit that as a callow youth wallowing in what he perceived to be lover’s betrayal, there were times I took grim satisfaction in imagining you alone and lonely. I said I was not hurt by your leaving. I suspect I’ve never told a greater lie. When you left . . .” He sets his cup down. “When you left, I thought your trip had been cut short as you warned it might if your mother changed her mind about your visit. So I waited, certain you’d return the next year.”
Guilt lashes through me. “I—”
He lifts his fingers. “I understand now. I’m not laying blame—you were caught in an impossible circumstance. I was hurt. I presumed you’d found a boy of your own time, and even that, while painful, would have been understandable. We were children caught in our own impossible circumstances. There wasn’t a future for us. That did not, I fear, keep me from selfishly and cruelly hoping, at times, that you never found anyone to replace me. But now that you’re here, I am genuinely glad you found love and genuinely sorry that you lost him.”
I nod, my head lowered so he doesn’t see the tears glistening. Then I say, softly, “And you?”
A pause. Then a laugh, a little harsh. “I was about to say I have not been so lucky, but then I realized that was entirely the wrong way to phrase it. The ladies of Fair Britannia have been lucky not to find themselves my bride. And I have been lucky not to find myself in a situation that would almost certainly make my life less satisfying than it is.”
“So you never came close to marriage?”
“I did once though not of my own choosing. When I was twenty-three, it became clear that my mother was in a fatal decline. Her last wish was to see her children wed. So she found me a wife. She chose a very pleasant and pious girl, demure and quiet, devoted to works of charity. We would have . . .” He lets out a breath. “To say we would have been happy together would grossly overstate either of our expectations. I would have been comfortable with her, and I hoped that with motherhood, my bride would find the joy and satisfaction she would not with me.”
“I’m sure she—”
“That isn’t humility on my part, Bronwyn. I don’t know the meaning of the word as you may recall. We would not have made one another happy. Our goal would have been a working partnership, which we might have achieved had not . . .”
He rubs his mouth. After a moment, he says, “My mother took an unexpected downturn. She lived to see her two children affianced but not wed. My own engagement failed. I decided my life was best suited to bachelorhood. A fitting partner would not have been unwelcome but . . .”
He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “As a horseman, while I have preferences in my mount, I enjoy riding enough to be flexible in my choices. There are, however, those who are not nearly as fond of the sport and, therefore, are much more particular to the point where they would rather forgo riding altogether than select an unsuitable steed. That would be my view on matrimony.” He pauses and frowns. “Comparing women to horses is not the most flattering analogy, is it?”
“No, though, when you’re talking about mounts and riding, it could take on a whole other connotation.”
He seems to mentally replay what he just said, and his cheeks flame. “Oh my. That is not what I—” He sees my eyes glittering with amusement, and a laugh escapes him. “Not what I intended at all, though perhaps, outside of matrimony, my sensibilities regarding horses and women are not quite so diff . . .”
He trails off, those spots of color returning as he realizes what he’s saying.
“You are more flexible when selecting women for companionship than you are for marriage,” I say, really just to see him squirm. He does, and I burst out laughing.
He clears his throat. “I believe we ought to let that analogy die a quick and quiet death.”
“Oh, but it’s so much fun. And you squirm adorably. So terribly Victorian of you.” I reach to refill our tea. “I’ll release you from the conversation with a question about Cordelia. How is your sister?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look up to see his expression and stop, tea spout poised over his cup.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say quickly.
“It’s all right. Cordelia and I had a falling out many years ago. I told her to leave, and she did, and I have not seen her since. I regret that, but . . .” He clears his throat. “Perhaps we could change the subject yet again?”
“Of course. I am sorry. I know you two were close and . . . That is not changing the subject at all. I . . . So . . . How is Mrs. Shaw?”
He laughs at that, a sudden on
e that startles me.
“Yes,” he says. “That is where we are left. My family reduced to my elderly housekeeper.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I understand how this might look, Bronwyn, but I assure you I am not a lonely and bitter old man, haunting the moors. You knew me perhaps better than anyone, and that alone proves that I was never one to seek the company of others. Society may call me a recluse, but I’m hardly a hermit in his cave. I participate fully in village life, and there is gentry out here, families I have maintained contact and friendship with. That may sound as if I doth protest too much, but I suspect you are one of the very few people who know me well enough to accept that I could be happy in this life.”
I nod. “I do. I understand that, too. Before Michael—my husband—passed, he wanted me to marry again, have children. But once he was gone . . .” My hands flutter into my lap. “There are times when I think I should date, but part of me fears if I go looking, I’m bound for disappointment. I can’t get that lucky a third time.”
He pauses. “There was someone else? Someone you lost?”
I realize what I’ve said, and I want to withdraw, change the subject. But I steel myself and look up at him.
“Someone I left, and even if I didn’t intend that, even if there was no future for us, it is still a lost love. It was wonderful and magical with a boy who was everything I dreamed of, and I honestly never thought I’d find that again.”
William says nothing. His breathing has quickened, though, and he’s watching me carefully, as if I might be talking about another boy.
“Michael wasn’t you,” I say. “I was glad of that—I wouldn’t have wanted someone who reminded me too much of you. But he was his own kind of special, and when you’ve had that twice, it seems unwise to tempt fate by looking again. I have my work. I have my friends. I have my father and his family. I know that, to some people, it sounds as if I’m putting a good face on a bad situation, but I’m not. So, I just meant that I understand your choices.”
He looks down at his hands, as if wishing for a teacup in them, something he could fidget with, focus his attention on.
A Stitch in Time Page 10
