The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  Seamus would never forgive himself if anyone had been seriously hurt, or God forbid, killed. He was fairly sure that the accident was his fault and he shot a glance at the woman leaning against his front fence. Good, she was still there.

  Only a few injured people remained, most of whom were standing. Seamus helped an older man to rise and take his adult son’s arm. He watched them walk down the street to await the next omnibus to complete their trip home.

  For a moment, he felt a twinge of shame at appearing outdoors hatless and in just shirtsleeves with no jacket. In other circumstances, someone would have mentioned it. Surely his housekeeper, Mrs. Washington, would do so when he returned. At least he had managed to put on some shoes before leaving the house.

  But his state of undress was nothing compared to the woman who was sitting with her head in her hands. She was wearing some kind of tight men’s trousers, like workmen’s pants, made from dark blue denim. They hugged her lower body scandalously, and he forced his eyes away, only to find himself unable to look away. Her jacket appeared to be some kind of purple cotton, with a long serrated metal line down the front and a hood at the back. Other than the hood, which hung down behind her, she was without any sort of head covering. On her feet were the strangest, narrowest shoes he had ever seen. They were made of purple canvas and what looked like white rubber. He had never seen rubber so white before. And how did her feet fit into such shoes?

  She raised her head to look at him and he reached up to tip his hat, but upon finding he had none, flashed a grin at her. After ensuring that everyone around him was on their feet, he crossed the street to her. She rose without taking his offered hand.

  “We should get you inside,” he said. He didn’t know where exactly she was from, but it wasn’t here. First of all, she needed some decent clothing. Then, he wanted to ask her questions. Perhaps he would ask the questions first.

  “Where am I?” she asked, squinting up at him. Her eyes were a light shade of brown, almost amber. They looked too light in contrast with her skin and deep brown hair.

  “St. Charles Street. My house is just there,” he pointed behind her. “Come inside and rest for a spell.”

  She looked past him and he could tell she was deciding. Then she swayed on her feet and he grabbed her arm to steady her.

  She pushed her hair behind her ear. “Just for a few minutes. Until I feel a little better.”

  He lifted her leather handbag from the ground and handed it to her. At least the bag looked ordinary enough.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “But in the commotion I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Seamus Connor.”

  “Felicia Sanchez.” She offered her hand to him sideways, but he took it anyway and bowed over it properly. She gave him a confused look and neglected to curtsey. He had no hat to tip, so perhaps they were even. Sanchez was a Spanish name. Perhaps she was from Spain, or maybe Mexico, judging by her looks.

  He held open the front gate for her and took her arm to lead her up the front brick pathway. She seemed steadier on her feet now, though she was looking at his house as if she had never seen one like it.

  “I like your house,” she said. “You’ve done a nice job keeping it up. Not everyone does.”

  “Thank you. I’ve only had it a few years.”

  Seamus was proud of his home. It was a newer house and was built in the same manner as many other homes in the Garden District. He had changed the color from plain white to cream and had painted the shutters dark green. The front door was the same shade of green and boasted a shiny brass knocker and a matching filigreed mail slot. Two covered galleries ran along the front of both stories, framed by thick white columns and wrought iron railings that matched the fencing that enclosed the yard. The upper gallery was a pleasant place to sit on hot summer days. In the evening, he opened up the long windows at the front and back of the house, allowing the cool evening breeze to chase out the heat. When he worked in his upstairs laboratory, he loved listening to the rustling of the neighbors’ oak trees as the breeze blew through their leaves.

  “My housekeeper planted the star magnolias and oakleaf hydrangea over there,” he said.

  “They’re lovely. Are you from Ireland? You sound Irish,” Miss Sanchez said.

  “That I am.”

  He hoped she wouldn’t ask him questions about his home and why he had left. He hated to lie, on principle. But he did it often enough that it came naturally. Most people were content if he told them he was from Dublin and left it at that. After the famine, so many immigrants had flooded into New Orleans that he was easily dismissed without people wondering why he had left his homeland. A more pressing question was why he lived in the Garden District rather than with the other immigrants in the Irish Channel neighborhood along the uptown riverfront. Miss Sanchez, thankfully, did not press the issue.

  She allowed him to hold the door for her and lead her through the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen had a table off to one side and he offered her a seat. She seemed amused as he pulled out her chair. Did she not expect an Irishman to have manners? Many didn’t like his kind and thought his people were little more than barbarous white savages. Many Irish had trouble finding jobs, and he knew he was more than fortunate to have a professorship at Tulane where there had only ever been one other Irishman on staff. He tried not to think of the other man.

  He put a kettle of water on and from the corner of his eye, saw Miss Sanchez rub her temples.

  “Are you feeling all right, then?” he asked.

  “I still feel dizzy and sick to my stomach.”

  Was that one of the symptoms? He wanted to ask her where exactly she was from, but how did one broach such a subject?

  “I’m making some tea,” he said. “Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich. I think I have some things around here.”

  “No thanks. I couldn’t eat right now.”

  He rummaged through the cabinets for the teapot and cups. Now, where did Mrs. Washington keep them? He was about to ring for her, but he wanted to be alone with Miss Sanchez a little while longer. She looked around the room like she had never seen an ordinary kitchen before and seemed fascinated with the pump next to the sink. The thought crossed his mind that she might not be the full shilling, and that she had somehow wandered onto the omnibus from some mental asylum. But no, he was fairly sure he knew otherwise.

  “So,” he said, scooping tea leaves into the strainer and setting it in the teapot. “Are you Castillian? A Spaniard?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She looked as if he had said something improper. He needed to clarify. “Your surname is Sanchez. Are you a Spaniard?”

  “You can drop the historical recreationist act, buddy.”

  “Recreationist?”

  “Aren’t they having a Civil War reenactment or something this week? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Civil War?” The words chilled him. “What do you mean?”

  She sat back and crossed her arms. “Yeah, there’s a Civil War coming. Didn’t you know? In 1861. You might want to head back to Ireland.”

  He turned back to the teacups and set them on a tray. His heart thumped hard in his chest, and not just at the prospect of a possible war. He took the kettle from the stove and poured hot water into the teapot.

  “So, where are you from, then?” he asked.

  “I’m from LA and I’m going to medical school at Tulane.”

  He had never heard of a city or street called Ellay. Her accent was American, certainly, but was not what he was accustomed to hearing in New Orleans, even with its blend of races and languages. And how could a woman, and a Spaniard, or whatever she was, go to school at Tulane? All his students were white and male.

  “That’s a coincidence,” he said. “I teach at Tulane.”

  “In the History dep
artment?”

  “No. Physics and Mechanics. Why would you think I was a History professor?”

  The woman shook her head and smiled to herself. She looked better when she smiled. It was much better than the pained and nauseated expression from before or the angry way she had looked at him when he asked if she was a Spaniard.

  Oh, but this was exciting. This was more than exciting, this was a miracle. He found himself smiling at her as he offered her a cup of tea.

  “I am so glad you are here,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She blew on the tea. He saw that she held the cup in both hands, as if to warm herself, not in the proper ladylike manner which Southern women were taught. But then, judging by the woman’s clothing and remarks, she lived in barbarous times.

  “I thought I heard voices down here,” said Mrs. Washington from the kitchen doorway.

  Seamus leaped up to make introductions. “Miss Sanchez, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Washington. Mrs. Washington, Miss Sanchez.” The women nodded to each other and Mrs. Washington eyed the teapot with a displeased expression.

  “What, am I not allowed to make tea in my own home?” Seamus asked.

  “Not when you run off with it and lose the teapot half the time.” But her eyes were warm as she said it.

  “I need something to drink when I work and think. And whiskey is no good for either, I assure you.”

  Mrs. Washington shook her head and set to tidying the kitchen, which Seamus had not thought of as messy. But as she bustled about, he realized that the morning dishes had yet to be done and the place wasn’t exactly ready for a guest.

  “I’m afraid this is my fault,” said Seamus, turning back to Miss Sanchez. “See, I was working on the peroxide engine, but I couldn’t open the engine core without destroying it. They have it set up that way, you see. Not fair play, if you ask me. But no one did. So anyhow, I was using a sonic mapping machine. That’s my own, you understand. And I was bouncing zed waves off the inside and recording it. I have a device that records the images on thin sheets of aluminium. And I think there was an accident.”

  Miss Sanchez rubbed her eyes. He knew that she didn’t understand a word he was saying. He would put it simply.

  “I think you came through from another time. Or another place. Or both.”

  Chapter 3

  Felicia only half listened as Seamus Connor rambled on about some machine up in his laboratory and an accident and how he thought it was all his fault. He said she had come through to his time in 1857. He talked too fast, with too many hand gestures, and though he seemed friendly enough, he must be either mentally ill or entirely too caught up in the whole historical reenactment thing. Probably the latter. She had done a psych rotation, and this man didn’t seem mentally ill.

  She noticed that the more excited he got, the stronger his Irish accent became. And when he really got going, she had the feeling that he was talking more to himself than to her.

  “Tell me where you’re from,” he said.

  “I already told you. I’m from LA.”

  “And where is that, exactly?”

  Fine. She could play along until she felt better. Then she’d take the bus back to the hospital to get Doug’s lab coat, go home, and then call her sister to put her in contact with the Brazilian doctor.

  “Los Angeles, California,” she said. “Do you know where California is?”

  “I’m not mentally impaired,” he said, looking at her as if she might be.

  Right. It was 1857. And California had become a state around the time of the gold rush, in 1849. She remembered that from history class.

  “And what year is it for you?” His unblinking stare was unnerving. She told him what year it was.

  “Ha!” he shouted. He leapt up and paced back and forth. “Early twenty-first century! Incredible! Do you know how incredible this is?”

  She shook her head, but had to smile at his exuberance. He seemed so happy.

  “Of course you don’t know. You think we’re—what did you call it? Recreationists?”

  He muttered to himself, occasionally spinning and pacing to the other end of the kitchen. Felicia sipped her tea. It seemed to be helping to settle her stomach.

  Seamus Connor was tall and lean and his movements had a herky-jerky quality that made him look a little out of place in his own body. She had heard the term Black Irish before, and wondered if he fell into that category. His hair was black and curly and stuck up crazily. His eyes, which had an impish gleam, especially when he became excited, were blue. She guessed him to be in his mid-twenties, about her age. But when he smiled, he looked younger.

  Mrs. Washington, a middle-aged African-American woman, wiped her hands on a dish towel. Felicia didn’t understand it. If she were going to play at historical recreation, she sure as heck wouldn’t choose to be a black maid in the pre-Civil War South. Maybe this was one of those bed and breakfasts where people paid to stay and Mrs. Washington was the owner. That would explain it.

  “Oh! I left something on!” cried Seamus. He leapt to his feet and tore out of the kitchen.

  “Must have left something going in his laboratory,” said Mrs. Washington. “He does that. A miracle the house hasn’t burned to the ground.” She got a pained look, as if she regretted saying such a thing.

  “Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?” Mrs. Washington asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  Felicia found that her stomach had settled, mostly, and that she no longer felt dizzy. She finished her tea and set it down next to Seamus’s half-finished cup.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” said Mrs. Washington, catching her first look at Felicia’s jeans under the table. “Stand up, dear.”

  Felicia did so. “I need to be going anyway. Thank you for the tea.”

  “You can’t go out like that. How did you get here wearing that?”

  “There was a bus accident. With an omnibus. And I was on the bus.” It sounded garbled when she put it that way, but those were the facts.

  “And no one stopped you?” Mrs. Washington’s voice had softened, as if she were speaking to a little girl.

  “I ride the bus daily.”

  “Of course you do. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll see if I have a slice of cake somewhere.” She turned to the pantry and then spun around. “Did the Professor see you in those? See you proper, I mean?”

  “He’s the one who invited me in.”

  “And then he went on and on about his machines. If it was any man other than the Professor …” She shook her head. “Well, at least he gave you something to drink. I’ll give him that.”

  There was a knock at the back kitchen door. Mrs. Washington opened it and let a boy inside. He was around ten years old and was wearing a striped railroad-style cap and a worn wool jacket over a dirty white shirt and suspenders. His gray pants looked a size too small. His hair was a mousy brown and his cheeks looked a few shades too dark, as if he needed a bath. He hugged a paper-wrapped package to his chest.

  “Morning, Mrs. Washington.”

  “Come on in, Henry. Miss Sanchez, this is Henry. Henry, Miss Sanchez.”

  “How do you do, Miss Sanchez?”

  The boy had a Southern accent and he touched the brim of his hat.

  “Very well, thank you.” Felicia couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been formally introduced to her, and now it had happened twice.

  “You can set it down on the table,” said Mrs. Washington to the boy.

  “No, ma’am. The Professor wanted it personally delivered.”

  Mrs. Washington heaved a sigh and went to fetch Seamus. Felicia looked up to find the boy watching her. He blushed and looked at the floor.

  “Do you live near here?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. I live over near
Jackson Square.”

  “Where do you go to school?” Felicia asked.

  Henry shrugged and stared at a woodcut scene of a cow and milkmaid on the wall.

  “My old friend Henry!” bellowed Seamus as he burst into the kitchen. “What do you have for me today, lad?”

  “Books you ordered.”

  “Excellent. Excellent.”

  Seamus set to tearing off the paper and looked through the books. Felicia saw that they were old-fashioned but were in excellent condition.

  “I suppose you want your pay, eh?” Seamus beamed at Henry.

  “If you don’t mind too much.”

  Felicia noticed that Henry had relaxed and had not called Seamus “sir.” Seamus dug through one pocket, then another, and handed him a few coins. Henry tucked them into a trouser pocket.

  “Anything else you need me to do, Professor?” Henry asked. “Mrs. Washington?” He looked hopefully from one to the other.

  “Sorry, Henry. Nothing today,” said Mrs. Washington.

  Henry looked at Felicia. “Ma’am?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Hold on a moment,” said Seamus. “I have an errand for you. I need you to go get Miss Sanchez a few dresses and have them delivered here.”

  The boy’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to go to the lady’s dress shop?”

  “Unless you think they have dresses at my haberdashery.” Seamus grinned.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Do you think you can guess her size?”

  Henry looked Felicia up and down with the cool detachment of scientific appraisal.

  “Yeah. I can make a good guess,” Henry said.