Deep Echoes- final edit ARC TEAM

by Melody Ash

  “I’ll leave you alone, then, to rest. My Lady’s Maid will attend to your needs during the length of your stay. Whatever you may require, rest assured she will see to it. In the meantime, dinner will be served at seven. I do hope you will join me.”

  She nodded. “I will, thank you.”

  “Very well then. Until this evening.”

  He stepped into the hallway and closed the door, leaving Caitlin alone in the State Room.

  With a deep breath, she slowly made her way to the bed and sat against a mattress softer than she expected.

  “I don’t get it.” She shifted, pulled the rock from the backpack, and stared down at the symbols. “You were supposed to take me home, not further into the past. A circle, the sunlight.

  All the rules were followed. How in the world did I land into 1831, in the Peak District of England no less?” she whispered.

  Laying the stone next to her, she stared down at the rock, disgust soaking her bones. Time travel according to Mitilda dictated only one way to travel. But there was no sense in running a hand across the rock now. Circles and sunlight were scarce in a State Room hidden behind the heavy curtains.

  She rubbed her eyes, massaged both temples. The headache and an upset stomach were passing, and she’d be able to think again. Caitlin shook her head. With no ideas and no one nearby who might be familiar with the stone, this puzzle was one she’d have to solve alone.

  Caitlin tucked the rock back in the bag, and slid it under the bed, adjusted the bed skirt until the package was concealed. Another heavy sigh. “What, I’m five years old again hiding things under the bed from my mommy?” With a roll of her eyes, she pulled her bandaged foot onto the mattress. There was no way to know if the bag was safe behind the bed skirt, or if a maid or even William himself might poke around out of curiosity. The thought felt like a hard punch in the gut. Losing the rock would certainly leave her locked in the past.

  If, she thought, she wasn’t already.

  “But there’s got to be a way back home. There must be.” Caitlin carefully unwrapped the bandages Mitilda had so diligently tended to that morning: thirty years in the future, and more than a hundred years in the past. She rubbed her forehead—just thinking about the time string thrummed at her head, the space behind her eyes throbbed with the effort.

  Caitlin laid back on the bed and closed her eyes, fought to clear her mind. Slowly, the headache abated, just in time for a gentle knock on the door.

  A woman dressed in a simple black dress and white apron opened the heavy barrier and walked in with short, silent steps, clothes draped over an arm, eyes focused ahead, lips pursed tight. She quietly made her way to one chair, draped the dresses across the back of the chair, then hurried back out of the room.

  Caitlin raised up and considered for a minute, then stood and walked to the clothes, ran a hand over the cotton.

  The door opened against and she turned around to see the maid once more. Based on the gray in the maid’s hairline, the wrinkles around her eyes, the loosening skin on her neck, the maid was easily in her late forties, maybe even in her fifties. She wore an immaculate uniform, her face void of emotion. She was carefully trained, prudently disciplined to carry out her duties.

  Caitlin knew the woman made approximately two thousand a year in her role, decent pay for servants. It would not be a status the woman would risk losing.

  “Master William ordered that I bring you an appropriate attire and anything more you may require.” She glanced over Caitlin’s clothes and quickly turned her eyes away. “I can help you dress properly.”

  Caitlin picked up the top garment, held it out in front of her. The pink formal gown was highlighted by white lace trim down the front, and white puffy lace sleeves, gold and pearl jewelry fixed to the material. It looked restrictive and uncomfortable. And so unlike her. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ll be able to manage on my own.”

  “Of course not. No one can.” The woman stopped and glanced over Caitlin’s clothes once more, this time less discreet. “I’m afraid I am not familiar with this type of dress.

  “No, I’m sure you’re not.” Caitlin returned the dress to the chair and pulled in a heavy breath.

  The shorts and t-shirt would cause ripples of reactions in 1831, and regardless of how comfortable she was, it was time focus on fitting in. A matter of survival. “People don’t need help getting dressed where I come from,” she said quietly, more to herself than to the maid who continued to listen on.

  “I don’t suppose so. There’s nothing there. How can you go out like that and allow a man to see so much of your body?”

  Caitlin smiled. The lady’s maid, though quiet and reserved just minutes before, was not afraid to speak her mind. Uncharacteristic for a servant, and maybe slightly less disciplined that Caitlin first thought. But, if the woman was willing to talk, it could be useful. “Where I come from, it’s perfectly normal.”

  “I can’t imagine where that might be.” The maid turned her back as Caitlin unzipped the jeans. “I brought undergarments as well. They are all freshly laundered and might be more appropriate than what you might wear under that… that…”

  Caitlin smiled. No sense in naming the clothes anything, not when they wouldn’t be invented for another century and a half. Just William and the lady’s maid seeing the shorts and t-shirt could have a lasting impact.

  Instead, she thanked the confused woman. Everything about her clothes, the backpack, the way she talked, was inappropriate and odd in this time and she had to wonder if being at Chatling was causing damage. A butterfly effect overplayed in movies—was there a fragment of truth in it?

  “Everything you brought is appreciated.”

  Caitlin looked around for something to conceal her now naked body. Shyness had never been an issue for her, and yet, now, standing in front of a strange woman left her feeling exposed. She shifted her weight, turned back to the Lady’s Maid. With nothing nearby, Caitlin reached out a hand. “If you can hand the undergarments, I can take care of that myself.”

  The woman handed her a white cotton pair of shorts with an opening between the legs.

  Caitlin examined them with a raised brow. Something between oversized granny panties and crotchless delicacies. Each were torturous by themselves. Now she had to wear them as a

  combo? Nice. Great. Some kind of 19th century man’s idea of underwear designed to make every woman cringe. Jaw set, she stepped into them. After pulling them to her waist, she tightened the drawstring, the end of the peculiar garment gathered around each knee like Bermuda shorts with elastic in the legs. Unbelievably uncomfortable, she buttoned the front row of tiny white buttons and wondered how any woman managed to spend a lifetime in such horrific underwear.

  “Do they fit, milady?”

  Caitlin raised her eyes. How could she tell? They were baggy in places, tight in others, odd and a little drafty. “I guess so. What’s next?”

  “Your stockings and chemise.” Caitlin followed the Lady’s Maid instruction nodded. “Pull the stay on, and I will tie it in the back.”

  She held what the maid called a stay in her hands. For Caitlin, she recognized it as a corset.

  The herringbone feel was stiff between her fingers. The boning, she remembered, more likely than not, was whalebone. “It feels awful. It has to be terribly uncomfortable.”

  “Have you never worn a stay?”

  “No, I haven’t, and never intended to try.” Caitlin bit the inside of her cheek. Be more careful. She had to be more careful on what and how much she said. Though a maid wasn’t likely to say anything to anyone important. Their job description demanded silence.

  The Lady’s Maid didn’t seem to abide by those rules, at least not with her. “Are you from the East? Forgive me, but you look as though you are from the East.”

  “I’m from very far away.” Saying any more could be dangerous, and she still needed to find her footing to try and explain anything to anyone.

  Drawing a deep breath to suck
her flat stomach into a concave shell, Caitlin struggled into the corset. For now, she’d have to live with the garment, but only for now. “Do I have it on right?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman circled around Caitlin, and a few seconds later Caitlin felt the strong tug around her middle as the ribbons were pulled tight.

  “It’s every bit as uncomfortable as I’ve heard,” Caitlin said. “I think that’s more than enough.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  The woman helped Caitlin into the petticoat, then the formal dress, and finally a pair of white gloves.

  Caitlin rested a hand on her stomach. “So many layers.”

  “It is proper dress.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. What’s your name?”

  “My name, milady?

  “Yes. Your name?” Caitlin saw a flash of worry and unease dart across the woman’s face, and remembered at the time she was in, the maid was expected to be nearly invisible, her name unimportant. “It’s fine, I was just wondering.

  “Mary, milady.”

  Caitlin nodded and smiled, hoped to reassure the woman who’d probably lived in the dark corridors of Chatling House for most of her life. The only power Mary would ever hold in her life existed over the lower ranking servants who scurried somewhere deeper within the house, hidden from view. A lonely existence, Caitlin imagined, riddled by high expectations from the master and impossibly low potential of ever finding something more. Though they did have it slightly better than Mitilda and her family—the servants could leave, find employment in another

  house, and were paid something, however meager—their lifestyle remained grossly separated from those who lived upstairs. “That’s a pretty name. It’s nice to meet you, Mary.”

  The woman’s face lit with a broad smile. “Thank you, milady. Shall I be of any further assistance?”

  With a hand resting on her stomach, Caitlin shook her head. “Can you please… do you have material I can wrap around my ankle?”

  “Oh milady. A thousand apologies. I will assist you immediately.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I can wrap it myself if you can just bring me something to take care of it.”

  Mary shook her head. “Oh no, milady. His Grace wouldn’t have you to do such a thing, and the stay won’t allow you to move so easily, in any case.”

  Caitlin smiled as she tried to bend over. Mary was right, bending over to wrap an ankle left the ribbings of the stay choking the air from her chest. “I guess not.”

  “Yes, milady. Please, sit comfortably. It won’t take long.”

  True to her word, Mary removed the bandages, then placed clean cotton strips tightly on the ankle. She stood. “I venture to say shoes will not fit properly over the wrappings.”

  Caitlin glanced at the woman’s handiwork, rather impressed with what she’d done. Clean, white strips of cotton wrapped the ankle in a lattice pattern reminiscent of the boxed bandages back home. A twenty-first century doctor couldn’t have done better. “No, I have to think you’re right about that, too.”

  Mary crossed the room to the wardrobe, pulled out the bottom drawer, retrieved a single black slipper, and returned to stoop in front of Caitlin. “I believe this might fit.” She slipped it over the good foot, nodded with satisfaction. “It fits as it should. I fear the other won’t slide over the bandages, but the dress will likely conceal it.”

  “I think you might be right.”

  “Very well. There is some time before His Grace requests your presence for dinner. If you should wish to rest, I shall call on you once His Grace is ready to serve.”

  “Thank you, Mary. I think I might do just that.”

  Without another word, Mary stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Caitlin ambled to the writing desk, ran a hand over the mahogany wood. The workmanship was exquisite. Strong and sturdy, it must have taken a skilled worker hours to complete the craftsmanship to such perfection. And if the handiwork alone wasn’t inspiring enough for the aristocratic eyes, gold inlays interlaced through the center of the desk and along the sides to provide a light contrast to the rich wood.

  She turned her head, stared a painting of a woman playing a lute among a group of cherubs before making her way to the fireplace. Caitlin’s fingers ran gently over the marble as she lifted her eyes to the Italian artwork, turned her head to study a painting, then lifted her eyes to the Italian mural stretched across the length and width of the ceiling.

  Caitlin stepped back and raised a brow. The painting must be original, and in 1831 it likely already dated more than three hundred years old. Framed by a rope-like plastered trim, the meticulously detailed scene depicted gray and black storm clouds inhabited by men whose muscular frames were only vaguely dressed beneath flowing red robes. Cherubs floated among gray-white billows, full of smiles and gestures.

  Caitlin pulled in a shallow breath; her rib cage tight beneath the corset. She swallowed the awe clasping at her throat, then dropped her gaze to move along the silk and tapestry covered

  walls, along enormous mirrors, and past delicate china. Every piece, every nook, was a living treasure.

  “Standing in a living, breathing museum.” With one last glance around the room, Caitlin shook her head. “Admiring one man’s wealth isn’t going to solve the mystery. I need to figure out how in the world I got here.”

  She trudged back to the bed and lowered onto the mattress, wondered if the same furniture stood in this room in the twenty-first century. Caitlin rubbed her forehead. Maybe a select few pieces did, those that survived the years. And it didn’t matter. There was no time to worry about that.

  Focus. She eased to the floor, struggled not only with the ankle but twisted to combat the restrictions of movement presented by the clothes. On her knees, she pulled and pushed at the gown, grunted with frustration. She shifted one shoulder, then the other. With another tired grunt, she reached under the bed and retrieved the backpack, pushed the dress out of the way once again so she could gather to her feet and sit on the bed.

  With the rock in hand, Caitlin studied the etchings. A larger circle was connected to three smaller ones by three thin lines. A central figure comprised of simple half-squares faced in opposite directions, met on the center lines. Though the shapes were simple, the lines were perfect. Weathered, yes, but even aged, not a single error lie in the carvings.

  Mitilda’s words echoed in her mind: You needs be in the sunlight, inside a circle.

  She narrowed her eyes, one finger running across the carving. She’d followed Mitilda’s instructions, and time travelled. Only instead of going home, she was pushed further back. That could only mean something was missing.

  She shook her head. “Not a clue what that might be.”

  A knock on the door sent Caitlin scrambling to hide the artifact in the backpack’s nylon folds, then pulled the blanket over the bag. Mary opened the door and walked into the room.

  “My Lord requests your presence in the dining room. If you are ready, please follow me.”

  Caitlin nodded and stood.

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