She also revealed her ultimate dream to Cat. “I want an education. The kind of education denied to me in my own period.”
“You never went to school?”
“I was tutored in every bit of instruction deemed appropriate for a woman of my rank, but a school such as boys attended? No. I can read and write, of course, and have more proficiency in numbers than many of my sex since Deveric instructed me in mathematics once he knew of my interest. I am fluent in French. I can play the pianoforte, though not as well as my sister, Grace. I can sew, and paint tolerable portraits of flowers. I can dance any of the dances. Quadrille. Waltz. I can manage a large household. But I was not allowed to study topics reserved for men. Or at least topics not acceptable for a woman, in my mother’s opinion. Science, for example.”
“You want to be a scientist?”
“Perhaps. My father’s library contained several books on astronomy, on the work of Herschel and his sister Caroline, a woman fortunate enough not to have her intellectual interests stifled by class—or her mother.” Amara ran her fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf nearest her, pondering. “The vastness beyond us fascinates me. The stars are our constant companions. But what are stars? Why are they there? For what purpose did God make them? What other mysteries do the heavens hold?”
“We have astronomy books you’re welcome to read. Though maybe you want to start with modern history? I don’t know how much Eliza told you, but as you might imagine, a lot has happened in two hundred years.”
“Indeed.” Amara followed Cat to the History section. “Eliza said men have visited the moon. The moon!”
“It’s true. And within the next fifty years, I bet we’ll journey to Mars.”
Amara’s breath caught. Travel to another planet? She couldn’t imagine. “But you are right; for today, it’s best if I read history—or for me, the future.”
“Here.” Cat pulled a volume off the shelf. “This is a basic history, western-Civ style, from 1750 through today.”
Amara took the volume and settled in on the green sofa before losing herself in the world that came after her. Napoleon. The Battle of Waterloo. Queen Victoria. The American Civil War. The assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Thomas Edison. World War I. Hitler. World War II. The Cold War. Margaret Thatcher. 9/11.
She tuned everything out, the words reading like a fantastical novel. Knowing it was true launched a myriad of emotions. England itself had changed incredibly over the last two centuries. Eliza’d warned her that while the class system in England still existed, it was much altered, the power and influence of the nobility greatly reduced. At least the royal family remained. England without a monarch was unfathomable.
Was Clarehaven still there?
Hours passed, but she barely noticed. When she finished the book, she closed her eyes, her head spinning. She was grateful to know more of the major events since 1813, though many saddened her. Such violence in the world. She’d hoped that would have changed. Would humans ever stop killing each other? Reading of repeated atrocities, of battle after battle, war after war, she wanted to weep. So much carnage, so much loss of life.
At least women had secured mention. Not many, but names leapt out—Florence Nightingale, Susan B. Anthony, Marie Curie, Eleanor Roosevelt. Ada Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron. Byron had had a daughter? Who’d become a mathematician, and was now known as one of the earliest computer scientists?
Had things changed so quickly in her society? Should she have stayed?
No. She wished to attend university, a privilege denied to women in her country until the middle of her century, according to this book.
The University of Virginia was right here in Charlottesville, and women were permitted to attend. Amara nibbled at a fingernail. How could she acquire entry?
The door to the bookstore swung open. “I’m here,” called a voice.
Mr. Goodson’s voice.
Chapter 8
Matt’s long legs ate up the distance between the door and the register. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to take Amara home. He regretted saying yes. He had stuff to do, class to prep for, coding to proof. But he’d promised.
Cat waved from behind the register desk, her face easing into a warm smile.
“Hey, Cat. Where is she?”
Cat motioned toward the couch. The woman sitting on it turned toward him, and he did a double take. It was Amara, but she looked almost nothing like the woman he’d met last night. She wore no bonnet, for one thing. For another, her hair was short. Much shorter than yesterday, when it’d been secured in that bun.
“What’d you do to your hair?” he burst out.
Amara stood up, her back ramrod straight. “Cat cut it for me. Not that that is any of your concern.”
Starch infused her defensive tone, and he bristled. She was right, though. It wasn’t his business.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from her face. The shorter locks framed it in a most becoming way, the edges drawing attention to her strong yet feminine jawline, the whispers of hair near her eyes pulling him like a magnet into their rich velvety hazel-greenness. Damn it. What was with this woman’s eyes? Was she some sort of witch, luring him in with those orbs?
His gaze went lower. Her other orbs were now well hidden in some overly baggy UVA sweatshirt. She was wearing jeans, too, though they didn’t fit well.
“You ready? I’ve got stuff to do.”
Amara nodded stiffly as she crossed to him, a book clutched in her hand.
When she just stood there, looking at him expectantly, he snapped, “You don’t need any of your other things?”
Amara’s lips pinched together. “I haven’t anything else.”
“You traveled from England with only the clothes on your back?”
Amara turned to Cat, wordless.
“The, uh, airline lost her luggage,” Cat said, her eyes steady on Matt in spite of the hesitation in her words.
He blew air out of his cheeks, his hands fisting on his hips. That explained the overly large clothing. So why did he still suspect there was something weird going on here. “They haven’t located it yet?”
Cat shrugged before retrieving her purse. “Sometimes they never do. Here’s my credit card,” she said, offering him her VISA. “Could you take Amara out and help her get some new clothes?”
“You want me to go clothes shopping?”
Amara giggled out loud. At his glare, she said, “Men don’t change. You reacted much as my brother would have.”
He sighed, running his hand across his hair. “Fine. I suppose I can take her to the mall. Briefly. But keep your card; it’s just easier to use mine.”
“Thanks, Matt. We’ll pay you back.”
“The cards are money?”
At Amara’s question, his eyes swung to her. Her brows knit together in the most adorable fashion. “You don’t know what a credit card is?” He nearly snarled the words. Was she trying to pull his leg? This woman couldn’t be for real.
“Remember, rural England,” Cat whispered.
“Sure, right. C’mon.” He gestured toward Amara.
“I’ll call you this evening to check in,” Cat said. “I’m sorry for this, but with Wash feeling so rotten, I think it’s best for a day or two.”
Before she trailed after Mr. Goodson, Amara turned to examine Cat’s face. The woman was holding back a smile. Did she truly think thrusting Amara in with this man would spark a permanent connection?
She was wrong. Amara would stay with Mr. Goodson, but his gruff attitude made it clear there was no love lost between them.
She stepped out the front door, then halted. She hadn’t yet ventured outside, though she’d watched through the window. But now she could take it all in—the noises, the smells, the sights.
Different colored lights flashed OPEN in a shop window across the street. Cars raced by at speeds that had Amara’s heart racing. The air smelled different—not of coal, as in London, but of fresh air and something less plea
sant, dirty. A car drove by, black smoke billowing out of its tail end. Was that the unusual odor—whatever the cars released? Better than horse manure, at least.
Everything looked relatively clean. There were no soot stains darkening the buildings. Few houses had chimneys, for that matter. The streets held no detritus, though dried leaves rustled about.
Mr. Goodson had reached the bottom of the stairs and was stalking down the gray footpath. When he noticed she wasn’t behind him, he turned, impatiently demanding, “Coming?”
She hurried after him, though half of her didn’t want to stop looking about. He walked around the side of a large, strange-looking vehicle—it had tires like Cat’s car but was much bigger. Opening the right door, he ushered her in, holding her hand briefly as she stepped on a side rail to reach the interior. Not so unlike boarding a carriage.
The direct skin-on-skin contact disconcerted her; in 1813, nearly everyone had worn gloves. This was more intimate, flesh pressed against flesh. Was it her imagination, or did his hand hold hers longer than necessary? Frissons of excitement skittered up her arms. She glanced down at his hand as he pulled it away. It was strong, heavily masculine, with veins cording up its back and dark hairs accentuating its muscles. A beautiful hand.
Since when had she given consideration to a hand? Since it touched mine and left me breathless. Shaking her head, she settled into the surprisingly comfortable seat as he crossed around the front and entered from the other side.
A wheel stuck out directly over his lap. What was that? And all the knobs and buttons?
He inserted a metal key into a slot, then turned it. The vehicle roared to life with a loudness that startled Amara. She shrieked.
His head whipped toward her. “What’s the problem?”
She took a calming breath. Nothing like proving herself out of time and place by overreacting to things normal for everyone else. “My apologies. I wasn’t expecting the noise.”
He actually gave her a grin. “Never been in a pickup before?” He patted the front of the vehicle as if caressing a horse, and Amara nearly snorted. She could easily imagine Deveric doing similarly.
“Don’t forget your seatbelt,” he said, as he pulled a flat rope over his shoulder and clicked it into a metal square at his side. Amara did the same, hoping he didn’t notice her fumbling. The seatbelt pressed into her chest, accentuating her breasts under the sweatshirt. Embarrassment stole over her when he glanced down, then jerked his head forward, apparently noticing the same.
He pushed a button, and rhythmic beats pulsed out from the vehicle. Amara clapped her hands over her ears at the surprising sounds. He chuckled as he turned a knob and the volume lessened. “I take it the music’s too loud for you, too? Do you have super-sensitive ears or something?”
She stared into the blue depths of his eyes. Music? In a vehicle? If one could call it music; it sounded mostly like jumbled noise to her. “It is different from what I am used to,” she said.
He nodded. “Not everybody likes guitar rock. What’s your style? Pop? Please say it isn’t country. I may be a man with a pickup truck, but I won’t go there.”
She shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
He moved a lever on the side of the wheel, and the vehicle—a truck, he’d called it—edged backward out of the driveway, just as Cat’s car had. It was wondrous. Much easier than maneuvering a horse and carriage.
Then the truck jerked forward, and they flew down the road at a rate faster than she’d ever traveled. Her hand gripped the side of the door, the other one clutching her trouser leg, nails biting into her thigh. This is normal. I’m not going to die. This is normal.
“Seriously, you okay?”
Her eyes shot to his. He glanced at her briefly before returning his focus to the road—thank goodness; he needed to look where he was going because she didn’t want to perish in this thing!
“I am fine,” she lied, as he pulled onto a different road. Houses flew by so quickly she caught only glimpses, but they were of brick, pleasing in form, surrounded by trees. It wasn’t so bad. Then he crested down a hill to a crossroads, and her stomach lurched. This was like nothing she’d ever seen—rows upon rows of cars, lights of reds and greens hanging above, and long buildings with lit signs. Shops?
He turned to the right and sped up again. It took everything she had to keep from casting up her accounts. London had been crowded with carriages and carts and horses and people wherever one turned, especially on the busier roads, but this, this was completely foreign, all these metal boxes moving at fast rates of speed, signs flying by. She closed her eyes.
“I texted my sister,” Mr. Goodson said. “She’s meeting us at the mall. She lives in Staunton, so she’ll be here in half an hour.”
Amara only nodded, her eyes still firmly shut. A sister? She had to meet another new person? You can do this, Amara Mattersley. Perhaps his female relative would prove more congenial than he.
The truck suddenly slowed before coming to a halt. Amara opened one eye. The cars around them had also stopped, as cars from a side direction crossed in front of them. He drummed his fingers on the wheel impatiently. “So, what do you do?”
His tone was casual as if her answer mattered not; he was merely making small talk. That was an action with which she was intimately familiar, having passed numerous evenings discussing nothing of import with people of her acquaintance.
She flashed him a glance, her eyes colliding with his of icy blue. A shiver raced through her, and she moved her gaze down, unnerved by her reaction, only to have his lips seize her attention. When one side of his mouth lifted in amusement, she stared at her lap. What was wrong with her?
And what had he said? What did she do? Did he mean occupation? This was not a question asked of a lady in her time. Ladies married. Or didn’t. They did not have occupations. Blast, what could she say? That as a member of a ducal family, the only things expected of her were to keep a pleasing appearance, practice beautiful manners, and talk of inconsequential matters?
“I’m going to enroll at the University. To study astronomy,” she announced. She held her back straight and her head high as if such actions lent credence to her words.
His eyebrow lifted, but his eyes stayed on the road as the stream of vehicles began moving again. “Cool. Professor Niemann is great. I’ve worked with him on some computational mathematics. I could introduce you.” He frowned momentarily. “It’s too late to apply for fall admission, though I suppose you could try for next spring. Or did you apply before you came?”
Amara’s shoulders sank. Next spring? So far off? Though that gave her more time to accustom herself to this new life. And what qualifications did one need for admittance? Likely schooling such as her brothers received at Eton, schooling not open to females. She was in over her head. Defiantly, she tilted her chin up, adopting the Mattersley stance.
No, she wasn’t. She was intelligent. She’d read translated works of Copernicus, Galileo, Halley, Herschel. She simply hadn’t had the access to education her male counterparts had, or that Mr. Goodson had, especially since her mother had frowned upon the idea of females pursuing science. That didn’t make her stupid, it made her uneducated, and that’s exactly what she’d come to acquire: an education.
She was determined to get it. And she needed to take advantage of every potential opportunity.
“No. Might you help me?”
Matt swallowed. “Help you what?”
“I am not sure how one applies.”
“Yeah, I can help with that.” What? Where had that come from? Why did he keep offering her his time? Then again, filling out the application wouldn’t take too long, right?
When she flashed him a grateful smile, one revealing a dimple he hadn’t noticed before, Matt’s heart jumped, and he nearly groaned out loud. This was why knights stupidly agreed to take on dragons, wasn’t it? They’d probably fallen under the spell of a woman like this one.
He’d never cared for the damsel-in-distress ty
pe. He found their neediness annoying and unsettling. He preferred more take-charge, independent types, ones who wouldn’t demand too much, who were happy to take what they wanted—usually in bed—then move on. Yet something in this woman called to him. Something about her made him relish the idea of being the hero, the savior, the person who could rescue her from whatever ailed her.
He pulled into Fashion Square Mall’s parking lot, shaking off those ridiculous thoughts. She was no more a fair maiden needing rescuing than he was a knight in shining armor. She was just a relative of a colleague who’d needed a favor. A very short-term favor. “Here we are. Let’s do this. I’ve got stuff to do.”
She stiffened.
Damn. That probably wasn’t the most socially acceptable thing, to act as if he didn’t want to be with her. But he didn’t. Especially not shopping at a mall. This was about his least favorite activity imaginable. And yet here he was. With her.
Hopping out of the truck, he hurried around to her door, some part of him pleased with the excuse to hold her hand as he helped her from the vehicle. Once out, she clutched an arm around her stomach, her face a bit pale, but her stride determined as they entered the mall.
“I guess we walk until something catches your eye?”
Amara dipped her head in assent but didn’t look at him, stopping suddenly in front of American Eagle. “Let’s try here. I see women of my similar age.”
Good. This might go more quickly than expected. Maybe he hadn’t needed to invite his sister. He checked his phone. “Okay. Taylor’s fifteen minutes out.”
Amara strolled the aisles without acknowledging his statement, touching various items. “These are clothes that are fully fashioned? Does one not need to visit the seamstress?”
Seamstress? Hadn’t that gone out of style at least a hundred years ago?
The Magic of Love Series Page 64
