The Girl Who Stepped Into The Past

by Sophie Barnes

  Camden stared at Mrs. Fontaine with an unyielding gaze that made Jane feel uncomfortable even though she was not the one subjected to it. Mrs. Fontaine, however, managed to maintain a firm demeanor. She even raised her chin a little, which Jane considered remarkably brave considering her position.

  “Betsy was a valuable member of this household, Mrs. Fontaine.” The earl spoke with cool authority, sending a shiver down Jane’s spine. “She was a person with her own independent thoughts and personality, a woman who enjoyed trying to solve the riddles in the Sunday paper my sister always gave her once she and I were finished with it, who spent her meager savings on buying gifts for others, and whose sense of humor and bright smile brought joy to those around her.” He leaned slightly forward and Jane felt her heart beat faster. “To suggest I could ever replace her, like a broken dish or some other trifling object, would be a serious mistake, Madam.”

  “I—I—Of Course, my lord.” Mrs. Fontaine’s gaze darted toward Jane who could offer no help whatsoever, before returning to her employer. “I did not mean to cause offense. It is just—”

  “We need the help more than ever at the moment, and Miss Edwards is conveniently here and ready to assist. People are expected to arrive at any moment to pay their respects, and then of course there are my house guests to consider. Harrington and Rockwell are not accustomed to fending for themselves. Their rooms will need to be tidied, the chamber pots cleaned, and...”

  Jane had no idea what else the earl said. All she could think of was the chore of having to clean out a chamber pot. Never in her life had she imagined herself accomplishing such a task. And she would have to do it without wrinkling her nose or voicing any complaints, since doing so might make her nineteenth century co-workers raise additional questions she was not prepared to answer.

  She was still thinking about this and how best to avoid the task now looming before her when the butler returned to announce the arrival of some villagers who’d come to pay their respects. Expelling a deep breath, Camden stood and told his butler to show the visitors into the parlor.

  “If you will excuse me.” He strode toward the door without glancing in Jane’s direction. “Duty awaits.”

  “As does yours,” Mrs. Fontaine told Jane as soon as the two were alone. “Come with me. I’ll give you an apron and a tour so you know where to find everything you’ll be needing.” Her voice was a little softer than before, though it still held the strictness of a school principal Jane recalled from her youth. “Now that you are a maid, you shall be addressed accordingly, so I will need to know your Christian name.”

  “It’s Jane.” Hurrying after the woman, she reminded herself that she was an adult, recently declared innocent, and that Mrs. Fontaine had no reason whatsoever to be anything but cordial with her.

  Until it became startlingly clear that Jane was in way over her head. Because she had no idea what most of the items in the housemaid box Mrs. Fontaine gave her were supposed to be used for, nor did she understand what tea leaves had to do with sweeping a carpet. But she supposed she would figure it out as she went along. As it was, she had no plans for an extended stay here, so if all went well, lightening would soon strike again, and she would return to her own time period without too much trouble.

  With this piece of optimism in mind, Jane listened carefully while Mrs. Fontaine continued issuing instructions. “You will rise by six in the morning and commence work no later than half past six. The dining room is your responsibility now. It will have to be swept and dusted before the table is set for breakfast. If it is a particularly cold day, a fire will have to be made and—”

  “A fire?” Being accustomed to baseboard heating, Jane had never handled an open fireplace before, though she had helped her dad build a bonfire a few times when she was a child. How hard could it possibly be?

  Mrs. Fontaine darted a look in her direction while taking the servant stairs down to the kitchen. “Naturally. You’ll find all the things you need in the housemaid box I gave you. Except for the cloth to cover the carpet. We keep that on a shelf in the housemaid’s closet on the bedroom floor.”

  “The one where the dusters, brushes, pails, and other housework items are kept?” Jane asked. Mrs. Fontaine had shown it to her a few minutes earlier before heading into the stairwell.

  “Precisely.” The housekeeper opened a door and led the way through to a low hallway with rooms on either side. “The butler’s room and pantry are here on the right. My room is directly opposite, and further along we have the servants’ hall, the kitchen, scullery, pantry, and some additional storage rooms for polishing equipment, sewing, and general upkeep.”

  Keeping silent since she was genuinely at a loss for words, Jane followed the housekeeper through to the kitchen where a plump woman with rosy cheeks busily kneaded a large blob of dough. Flour dusted the counter at which she worked, while another woman nearby washed utensils in a basin from which steam rose in hefty swirls.

  “Mrs. Amundson is our cook and over there is Tilly, the scullery maid who occasionally assists Mrs. Amundson with the preparation of larger meals.”

  Mrs. Fontaine then introduced Jane, adding a brief mention of her duties. She was just finishing up with this when a young woman with fiery red hair tied back in a tight knot came hurrying into the kitchen.

  “Pardon me,” the woman said as she rushed past with quick steps and proceeded to locate a tray. “People are arriving in droves, so I’ve come to fetch more refreshments.” She started opening cupboards and pulling out biscuit tins.

  “It goes to show how beloved Lady Tatiana was,” Mrs. Fontaine remarked.

  From across the room, Tilly produced a sound that made Jane think she might be stifling a sob.

  “What happened is unforgiveable,” Mrs. Amundson muttered. “I hope they find whoever’s guilty so they can get the hanging they deserve.”

  The maid, whose movements had been so rushed moments earlier, had stilled. She glanced at Jane with a solemn expression. “Not only for her ladyship’s murder, but for Betsy’s as well,” she said.

  “Jane.” Mrs. Fontaine’s voice stirred the air. “There is work to be done. Please help Margaret attend to the guests.”

  “Here’s another tray,” Margaret said, handing one to Jane. “There are additional cups and saucers in that cabinet over there. Bring as many as you can. And Tilly?”

  “Yes?” Tilly replied.

  “Put more water to boil. I suspect we’ll be needing additional pots of tea.”

  In a whirlwind of commotion, Jane managed to follow Margaret’s directions without any trouble. A few minutes later, she was hurrying after her up the stairs while balancing teacups and one full teapot on the tray she carried. Pausing for a second in the doorway to the dining room, she thought back on all of the period dramas she’d seen on TV over the years.

  Right.

  I can do this.

  With a quick glance at Margaret, she straightened her posture and continued toward the table. The chairs had all been pushed back against the walls so the visitors could circulate more easily and collect the refreshments they wanted.

  Setting down the tray, Jane placed the teacups neatly next to the ones already on the table and picked up the teapot so she could be ready to pour as needed.

  “Put the tray away,” Margaret whispered close to Jane’s ear while moving past her.

  Of course.

  Jane put down the teapot and picked up the tray, removing it to a nearby sideboard. Seeing an older woman collect a teacup, she hurried back over to the dining room table. “May I pour?” she asked as she reached for the teapot.

  The woman arched a brow. “You may.” She held the teacup toward Jane. “I take it you are newly employed?”

  Jane’s hand shook in response to the candid observance but managed not to spill. “Yes.” She had no idea what form of address to apply and chose therefore to avoid using any.

  “If I may, I would advise you to be more reserved. Eagerness is never a good t
hing, my dear. It conveys inexperience and ambition – an unfortunate combination.” She added a slight sniff before moving away, the black bombazine of her gown swishing as she went.

  Jane stared after her. “Who was that?” she asked Margaret who was busily folding more napkins and laying them out in a decorative pattern.

  Margaret straightened and shot a quick glance at the door before resuming her task. “The Countess of Camden.”

  Jane blinked. “The earl’s mother?”

  “And Lady Tatiana’s as well.” Margaret gave Jane a hard glare. “Now stop woolgathering would you, and pick up that teapot so you can be ready to serve when needed.”

  Jane did as she was told without arguing, but in the back of her mind, she continued to try and make sense of what Margaret had told her. There were no portraits of the dowager in either version of Summervale, so her presence had never occurred to Jane. Yet here she was, in the flesh and without any hint of emotion upon her face. Whether or not she’d just lost her daughter was impossible to discern from her expression, which was something Jane considered to be rather troubling.

  Realizing the teapot was suddenly empty, Jane hurried back to the kitchen and refilled it. Returning upstairs, she entered the hallway from the servants’ stairs and immediately spotted the earl. He was standing by himself in the foyer and looking unbearably lost.

  Jane paused. She had a job to do – one she had to accomplish well if she was to avoid getting sacked and sent packing. So she turned toward the dining room where several people were anxiously awaiting her – or rather the tea’s – return. She poured for each of them before filling an extra cup and walking swiftly out of the room and toward the foyer before anyone could think to stop her.

  “Would you like some tea?” Jane asked the earl. She’d approached him without him seeming to notice.

  He flinched as if startled, then focused his eyes on her face. “Hmm?”

  “I brought you some refreshment.”

  Lowering his gaze to her hands, he stared at the cup as if wondering what to do with it before finally reaching out and taking it from her hands. The gesture made his fingers brush over hers, if only for a second, but it was enough to send a dart of heat shooting through every limb.

  She sucked in a breath and reminded herself to be reasonable. This man was a virtual stranger, two hundred years her senior and an aristocrat no less. What did it matter if she appreciated the effort he made to know who his servants were as people or that he obviously cared about them a great deal? They were still completely wrong for each other. That much was clear.

  And yet, she could not help but feel the strangest connection to him. She was drawn, not merely in the way a woman might be drawn to an attractive man, but in a much simpler and yet more complicated way – as if she’d been searching for him all her life, and fate had chosen to interfere so she could bridge the gap in time in order to find him.

  Really, Jane?

  You truly are a hopeless romantic!

  She started to turn away, to resume the work she was meant to be doing, when he halted her progress with a dry, “Thank you.” He took a sip of his tea and set the cup back on the saucer. “No one else thought to offer me anything. Except you.”

  His gaze was hard and unnerving, but she refused to look away, reminding herself instead of what this man had lost and of how difficult it must be for him to deal with all of these people when all he probably wanted to do was chase after the killer.

  “Where are your friends?” She chose to settle on a safe topic, regardless of how forward it was.

  “They were here. For a while.” He drew a deep breath, expelled it, and sipped his tea once more. “Death is a dull business. I believe they decided to take themselves off for a ride to lighten the mood.”

  “But—”

  “I hope you are not about to suggest it was incorrect of them to do so, Miss Edwards.” Camden’s eyebrows had lowered a notch, affording him with a studious appearance.

  His decision to continue addressing her formally threw her slightly off guard. She didn’t understand his reasoning.

  “No. Of course not,” she lied. “It is hardly my place to comment on their behavior and certainly not my place to suggest I would have done so had I been permitted.”

  He winced. “The events of the past day or so have made me forget how blunt you can be.” Handing the teacup back to her, he stuck his hands in his pockets and tilted his head, just enough to assure her she was being studied with immense interest. “Speak to Mrs. Fontaine in that way and she will likely take the switch to those delicate hands of yours.”

  Jane’s eyes widened and she instinctively took a step back. “Really?” He had to be joking. Except there was not the slightest hint of humor about him.

  “Best get on with your chores now, Miss Edwards. The day is still young and there is much to be done.”

  She nodded while feeling as though she’d just been dropped from the top of a clock tower. He did not want her company, which meant that whatever peculiar thing she felt for him, he obviously didn’t reciprocate the sentiment. As far as he was concerned, she was a maid and he her employer. It was best for her to remember that so she could forget about how compelling she found him and put her energy toward finding a way out of the nineteenth century instead.

  Chapter 5

  James watched Miss Edwards walk away with mixed emotions. While part of him wanted to find an excuse to make her stay, he reminded himself of how inappropriate that would be, considering her new position as a member of his staff. To take advantage of his authority and impose upon her in any way would not be right. It wasn’t the sort of man he was. And yet, he could not deny that there was something between them – a peculiar bond of sorts. Which was why he chose to be so formal with her, avoiding all possible familiarity.

  He shook his head. His sister was dead, murdered the previous evening. Finding the person responsible had to be his first priority. Not chasing after a pretty woman, no matter how attractive he found her. And yet, everything about Miss Edwards made him want to seek her out and get to know her better. His mind could think of little else, which was laughable. He was laughable! An earl smitten by a simple maid. Except nothing about Miss Edwards was simple. Nor was she the maid she so desperately wanted to make herself out to be.

  He knew this instinctively. Could tell from the way she spoke and the manner in which she carried herself. She was educated, well-read and clever. And he, damn it, wanted to discover everything there was to discover about her. He’d always considered logic and mathematical reasoning to be of the greatest importance, so it was only natural that instinct would compel him to try and figure her out. And he knew himself well enough to say with confidence that Miss Edwards was a conundrum that would nag at him until he managed to do precisely that.

  “Would you care for some company?” Rockwell asked him later that afternoon when all the visitors had gone. Harrington, who stood at Rockwell’s shoulder, regarded James with concern.

  Having sensed a need to recover from the busy morning, James had taken himself off to the library with the intention of reading the newspaper. He set it aside on the table next to him now and gestured for both of his friends to join him.

  “How was your ride?” he asked while Harrington dropped into an opposite armchair and Rockwell proceeded to pour them each a measure of brandy.

  “Refreshing.” Harrington frowned as if regretting his choice of word. He cleared his throat before clarifying. “I needed to get away for a bit.”

  James tilted his head and studied the man he’d known since his first day at Eton College. “There’s no need for pretense, Harrington.” It was as if all sound was sucked from the room, and although Rockwell had vanished from James’s line of sight, he could sense him staring at him with eyes as hard as Harrington’s. “I know you did not love her.”

  Harrington’s lips flattened against each other. His hands gripped the armrests. “That is a bloody callous thing to say under t
he circumstances.”

  Of course it was, but that was often the case with the truth. “Am I wrong?” James heartily wished he might be – that his sister had actually managed to win the affection of the man who’d intended to make her his wife.

  A glass was placed before James. “We’ve known Tatiana since she was a child. To suggest we did not care for her or—”

  “I was doing no such thing,” James said. His anger with the situation as a whole was starting to rise to the surface once more. Intent on trying to calm himself so he wouldn’t lash out, he snatched up his glass and took a large swallow. “Caring for someone is one thing, however. Love is quite another, and you and I both know that Harrington’s intentions toward Tatiana, as noble as they may have been, had nothing to do with the latter.”

  “I would have given her a comfortable life, Camden.” Harrington spoke with the same sharp precision as always. “She would have been happy. I would have ensured that.”

  “Undoubtedly,” James muttered, “but it doesn’t change the fact that yours would have been a marriage of convenience, not a love match.”

  “As if there is something wrong with that!” The outrage Harrington felt was tangible.

  “Such arrangements are common enough among our set, Camden,” Rockwell reminded him. “In fact, love matches do tend to be the anomalies.”

  James inhaled deeply through his nose and leaned back. “Yes. Of course they are. I merely…” He pushed all air from his lungs on a tortured sigh. “I wish it weren’t so.”

  There was a pause, and then, “You told me you approved of the match.” Although Harrington spoke with calm deliberation, he could not hide the accusatory tone.

  “And so I did.” At the time. But how much had changed since then? Altered by the slash of a blade. There were too many conflicting thoughts in his mind right now for him to say the right thing. Or more importantly, for him to avoid saying the wrong thing. So he said the only thing that might prevent any further conflict. “Forgive me, Harrington. I am overwrought by grief at the moment and finding fault where there is none to be found.”