Yesterday and Forever

by Victoria Alexander

  "Are you quite all right?" His voice was quiet and concerned.

  "Fine." She pulled her hands free from his and drew a long drink of the liquor. The burn cascaded down her throat, steadied her nerves. She couldn't—no wouldn’t—let him see her fear. Maggie squared her shoulders and returned Adam's concerned gaze with one more than a little defiant. "Now what, Coleridge? What's next?"

  "Well, I don't really know." Frowning, he poured himself a glass. "I suppose the first thing would be to determine precisely how—"

  "Adam, I have everything arranged." A pretty young blonde blew into the room like a whirlwind. "I have spent a scandalous amount of money, but our guest should be properly attired by tomorrow. And then I—“ She caught sight of Maggie and stopped short. "Oh, you're awake. How wonderful. I have been so looking forward to meeting you."

  The newcomer descended on her, catching Maggie's hands in her own. "I know we are going to be good friends."

  "And you are?" Maggie said.

  "Miss Masterson." Adam sighed. "Allow me to introduce this hoyden. As much as I am sometimes reluctant to admit the connection, this is my sister, Lady Lydia Coleridge."

  "Of course," Maggie said. How could she have missed it? The distinct resemblance between the two was obvious. A paler, smaller version of her brother, Lydia had hair that tended toward silver where her brother's resembled burnished gold. In the feminine member of the family, the rich, dark, velvety brown of Adam's eyes changed to a lighter shade, more amber than brown. Lydia stood just short of her brother's chin, still a good four inches taller than Maggie. The differences were minor, the similarities striking.

  Lydia arched an eyebrow at her brother, dropping Maggie’s hands. "I gather Adam hasn't mentioned me?"

  "I have scarce had time, Lydia. Miss Masterson woke only a few hours ago. I have been attempting to explain the situation to her."

  "Oh, you mean about the time travel?" Lydia said blithely.

  Good God, she's as crazy as her brother.

  Maggie chose her words carefully. "You think I’ve traveled through time, too, right? You agree with him." She nodded toward Adam. "That the year, this year, is 1818?"

  "Of course, my dear. There is absolutely no doubt about that. I can't imagine what a shock this must be for you. Oh, dear." Concern and perception shone in her eyes. "You aren't doing at all well, are you?"

  "I'm fine, really."

  Ignoring Maggie's protests, Lydia led her to a sofa and urged her to sit. "This must be terribly confusing and upsetting. I know in your place I would surely—“

  "She doesn't believe me," Adam said.

  "Not believe you?" Lydia turned eyes wide with amazement to Maggie. "Whyever not?"

  “Are you kidding?" Maggie leapt to her feet. "Where are you people coming from anyway? No, wait, don't answer. I know. 1818. Look, I don't know anything about 1818, but I do know about 1995. And I know there's no such thing as time travel. What I

  don't know is what kind of a scam I've fallen into and what you people want from me."

  Maggie glared at Adam and Lydia. Lydia appeared amazed at the outburst and possibly a little impressed. Adam looked resigned. He'd seen Maggie in this state before.

  “Adam, you're going to have to do something," Lydia said.

  "Bloody hell, Lydia. I don't know what to do. I wish I did." He sipped his brandy thoughtfully. "If we knew how she got here . . ."

  "Adam, that doesn't signify at the moment." Impatience colored Lydia's words. "It seems to me the first thing you must do is convince her as to the truth of what has happened."

  "Yeah," Maggie said. "Prove it."

  "Prove it?" he said.

  "Of course, Adam. You must convince her." Buoyant with obvious excitement, Lydia turned to Maggie. "You need proof and you shall have it."

  “Really?" Adam's voice weighed heavy with sarcasm. "And how do you propose I provide such proof?"

  "It's very simple, Adam. I saw those likenesses she had. Our world is quite different from hers. Differences that are very easy to see." Triumphantly Lydia laid her trump card. "All we have to do is show her the town."

  "No!" Adam said.

  "Yes!" Maggie cried.

  "It's the perfect answer," Lydia explained patiently. "She will be able to see the truth for herself. And since it's nearly five o'clock, we shall simply take a ride in the park."

  "Good lord, Lydia, we can't take her to the park. Even though she is properly dressed now, and looks quite charming—" He cast an admiring glance in Maggie's direction.

  "Thanks."

  "—once she opens her mouth, there will be no possibility of avoiding attention. Have you been listening to her?"

  "Hey! What's the matter with the way I talk?" Indignantly, Maggie crossed her arms over her chest and glared. This English snob had a hell of a lot of nerve.

  "I'm sure there is nothing whatsoever wrong with how you speak when you are in familiar surroundings. I apologize if I've insulted you."

  She narrowed her eyes and nodded grudgingly. "Okay."

  "But," he said, "to my ears, your language is atrocious. I can generally understand your meaning, but it takes a great deal of effort. And, Miss Masterson, forgive me for saying it, you have a nasty temper and a somewhat vulgar vocabulary."

  Sharp silence fell like a slap.

  Lydia turned shocked eyes first toward her brother, then toward Maggie.

  Adam's challenging gaze remained riveted on his guest. Maggie fought to keep herself under control. She refused to give this pompous, overbearing, dictatorial, stuffed-shirt bite in the shorts the satisfaction of watching her blow up. Mentally counting to ten, she took a deep breath and smiled.

  "I think, Coleridge, if I put every bit of effort and self-control that I possess into it, I can get through a simple ride in a park without disgracing you." She fluttered her eyelashes in what she could only imagine was genuine southern-belle fashion. Disgusting, blatant, but effective.

  "Well, of course," Adam stammered, obviously expecting a more outraged response. "I didn't mean to imply—I just thought—Good lord." He groaned.

  Lydia threw Maggie a conspiratorial smile.

  "Adam, we shall tell everyone that she is a distant relation from America. I daresay no one will expect terribly much from her and any problems can be easily explained away."

  "You don't think much of Americans, do you?" Maggie said dryly.

  Lydia's smile turned apologetic. "It's just that it's so terribly far away and very, well, rustic and uncivilized. Then, of course, there was the war. Although a lot of people really didn't seem to have much interest in that, being far more concerned with the French at the time."

  "Oh yeah. Right." What war? Which war? Revolutionary? Eighteen twelve?

  "I don't like this. I don't like this at all." Adam's brows pulled together in a disturbed frown. "But you may very well be right if our guest is to be convinced we are not villainous kidnappers."

  Maggie winced. After all, for villainous kidnappers, they were turning out to be charming and gracious.

  "And if we are going to attempt this rash, not to mention dangerous escapade, we had best begin. The sooner we leave, the sooner it will be done with. I shall call for a carriage." He strode from the room, issuing orders to waiting servants.

  The two women watched him depart.

  "Is he always like this?" Maggie asked, curiosity laced with sarcasm.

  "Oh my, yes." Lydia sighed. "What he really needs is a wife to take him in hand. But he won't marry before he sees me settled. And I have no intention of marrying just to satisfy his sense of responsibility."

  She rose and offered her hand to Maggie. "Now then, since we are going to be together for a while at least, may I call you Margaret? Miss Masterson is so very formal, and since we are to be relations, no matter how distant—"

  "Oh, please, call me Maggie." Genuine liking for this pretty blonde flooded her. If she wasn't careful, she'd start believing all this 1818 bull.

  "Maggie it is,
and you must call me Lydia. Now then, we have to find you a hat and, let's see, perhaps a shawl. Adam will be waiting and he can be so impatient.

  “You'll love driving in the park." Lydia stepped briskly out of the room, Maggie trailing in her wake. "It's usually quite delightful and there's always such a good chance to meet someone interesting or hear the latest on-dit."

  And a chance to escape.

  ***

  Minutes later, Maggie sat in a small open coach next to Lydia. Adam faced them from the opposite seat. Grim-faced and silent, he glared in turn at Maggie, Lydia, and the passing scenery.

  Lydia kept up a steady stream of chatter, but Maggie paid no attention, concentrating instead on the streets rolling by. Caught up in a crowded procession of coaches and carriages, Maggie hoped fruitlessly for even a glimpse of a car, a bus, a cab. Everyone appeared in costume, right down to the plentiful beggars in the streets.

  Where were the cops when you really needed them? In her experience they always seemed to be right there to catch you zipping a little too fast along a country road, but when you wanted them, try to find one.

  The carriage passed through the park gate. Maggie noted nothing familiar, nothing modern, nothing that said 1995. Her gaze moved restlessly, trying not to miss a single clue that could provide answers. The queasy, sinking feeling in her stomach returned.

  Maggie's eyes told her what her mind simply could not accept. Even in a historical park there would be tourists, people not in costume. Where were they? Where were the Americans in their tacky shorts with their guidebooks and their loudmouthed teenagers? Where were the Japanese with their high-tech cameras? Where were the perpetual college students backpacking their way through Europe?

  Once, briefly, Maggie met Adam's searching gaze. He seemed to study her every move, her slightest reaction. She refused to let him see the fear building, the panic growing with every turn of the carriage wheel.

  She had to get away. But how? Commandeering a carriage was out of the question. The only horse power she knew how to control remained firmly under the hood of a car. And she hadn't ridden a horse since childhood. That eliminated the possibility of "borrowing" a beast to make her escape. Besides—

  "Good God, they're riding sidesaddle.” Maggie stared at the women on horseback.

  "Of course, my dear." Lydia surveyed her curiously. "Don't women ride sidesaddle in your day?"

  “No. Women in my day wouldn't put up with it. We are equal to men up to and including riding a horse." Maggie glared at Adam, who simply raised an eyebrow as if to question the sanity of such a society.

  While the park was packed with people in carriages and on horseback, Maggie noticed many others strolling though the grounds. That was it. She couldn't ride or handle a carriage but she could damn well walk.

  “Wait. Hold it. Stop." She interrupted Lydia’s comments on some fashion faux pas in another carriage. "Sorry, but I'm really not used to riding in carriages, and it's making me . . . oh . . . kind of . . . well, sick to my stomach. I'm going to be ill if I don't get out of this thing. You know, lose my lunch. Could we walk a bit? Please?"

  Adam studied her for a moment as if debating her sincerity, and Maggie did her best to look as green as possible. But Lydia jumped right in.

  "How inconsiderate we’ve been not to have thought of that. Walking will do us all a world of good. Adam?"

  “Fine." He called to the driver. Jumping out of the carriage, he extended his hand to Lydia, helping her descend. He turned to Maggie and she offered her hand for his assistance. Ignoring her, he placed his steady hands on either side of her waist and gently lifted her to the ground. For a fraction of a second she stared up at him, her gaze locked with his. Acutely aware of the heat emanating between them, the nearness of his hard, strong body, she caught her breath. Was it panic that still fluttered in her stomach or something else?

  "Th-thanks," she whispered.

  "My pleasure," he said softly, holding her a shade longer than necessary.

  "Shall we?" Lydia interrupted, oblivious to the charged moment.

  The trio strolled down the shady walkway. Lydia greeted acquaintances; Maggie and Adam were silent, at least one of them more than a little confused.

  When pressed to introduce her, the brother and sister explained she was a distant connection from America. Lydia did most of the talking; Adam remained noticeably quiet. Maggie kept her mouth shut, trying to reconcile her reactions to Adam with her need to escape. Didn't hostages often come to like, even love, their captors?

  “Ridgewood. Ridgewood. I say, old man, we haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been hiding?"

  Adam turned toward the call. Two men on horseback greeted him with the enthusiasm of old friends. Glancing quickly at Maggie, he appeared satisfied at her behavior and, with a genuine smile, approached the newcomers.

  "My dear Lady Lydia," a shrill voice trumpeted. “How are you?" An immense, older woman with two girls in tow bore down on them like a tornado on a trailer court.

  "Good Lord." Lydia turned away from the overbearing matron and groaned at Maggie. "It's Lady Wentworth. She's a dreadful bore and a horrible gossip, but obviously inevitable."

  Lydia pivoted to face her fate, a falsely sincere smile plastered securely on her face. "Lady Wentworth," she gushed graciously. "How delightful. I don't believe you have met my cousin from America, Miss Margaret Masterson?"

  Maggie smiled slightly and nodded. Regardless of Lydia’s opinion of Lady Wentworth, within moments the three women captured her attention with animated conversation.

  Maggie checked out Adam. He still spoke with his friends, paying no attention to her or his sister. Immersed in her own conversation, apparently consisting of the latest gossip, Lydia could be counted on not to notice if Maggie stayed by her side. Or not.

  This was it. The chance she'd waited for.

  Casually, hoping not to attract attention, Maggie took a few slow steps. She glanced at Adam, then Lydia. No one noticed. A few steps more. Again, no one noticed. The inching continued, slowly, sedately. Still no notice. At a distance of a good ten feet, she gave up all pretense at discretion. She turned and strode against the flow of carriages, hoping to get out of the park. Conscious of the stares of the people she passed, she ignored them and stepped up her pace until she reached a measured jog. A pretty good trick in the long dress. Adrenaline, triggered by increasing apprehension and alarm, spurred her on.

  She burst out of the park gate, finding herself on a vaguely familiar street. Maggie slowed and scanned the area in a desperate search for a cop or, at this point, anyone who looked like they hadn't just stepped out of the nineteenth century.

  Nothing.

  Maggie hiked up her skirts and ran. Full-fledged terror pushed her feet faster and faster. She flew past astonished onlookers but barely noticed and didn't care. Abruptly she pulled up short. Directly in front of her was the Wellington Museum.

  Gasping to catch her breath, she stared at the familiar landmark with relief. She'd toured the former home of the great military leader a few days ago. London's version of a subway system, the Underground, was nearby. It was right about—she whirled around—here!

  Nothing.

  No Underground.

  No signs.

  No indication of anything missing, anything out of place.

  Everything looked untouched. As if nothing had ever been here. As if all she remembered didn't exist. As if it hadn't been built yet!

  Maggie denied the dawning realization. "It can't be. It just can't be."

  The truth crashed in on her, overloaded her senses. All she'd seen, heard, even smelled since she woke up assailed her and pointed to one inevitable conclusion. If Coleridge was telling the truth, if she had traveled through time, then everything made sense. It was the only answer that did make sense. The only thing that didn't make any sense at all, that didn't fit, that was completely out of place, was Maggie.

  The world spun beneath her. An overwhelming sense of exhaustion slam
med into her with as much force as her revelation. Her mind refused to accept what she knew to be true. Her body seemed to shut down. Blackness closed in. Knees buckling, she collapsed as if in slow motion.

  An iron grasp swept her up mere inches above the ground.

  "I hope you now have your proof," a voice muttered grimly.

  Maggie struggled to focus on the man carrying her. His face swam in and out of her vision. Coleridge, of course. The thought gave her a warm sense of safety and security. Weird to like a kidnapper this much. She sighed and nestled closer, her mind drifting off.

  Uncomfortably aware of her movements and cognizant of the impropriety of their positions, Adam nonetheless gripped her tightly. The feelings she aroused did little to temper his anger. He stalked through the streets, returning to the park, muttering all the way.

  "Bloody hell. The woman has absolutely no sense. Why on earth would I, of all people, or anyone for that matter, make up a story as ridiculous as time travel? Absurd! And now look at what's happened. I knew this was a mistake, all this ‘prove it’ nonsense."

  Adam nodded curtly to shocked observers, knowing full well this escapade would be fuel for every gossip in the ton by morning. At least no one knew the real truth. That was the lone saving grace in the entire fiasco.

  "I say, Ridgewood, is she all right?" an acquaintance called as Adam strode briskly by.

  "Quite." Adam responded in clipped tones designed to discourage further conversation. "She still has not fully recovered from her long voyage from America."

  "Jet lag," Maggie murmured.

  Never breaking his determined stride toward the carriage, Adam pulled her closer and whispered sharply in her ear, "Keep that mouth of yours closed."

  He drew his head back and groaned in irritation. She had already drifted off.

  ***

  He watched Ridgewood stride across the park, a beautiful woman cradled in his arms. The earl seemed to hold her a shade too closely, a bit too intimately. His eyes narrowed and he considered the possibilities. This would bear watching. A grim smile creased his lips. Perhaps, finally, the opportunity he'd waited and watched for had arrived. He would bide his time to make sure. He could be patient. It scarcely mattered anymore; he'd already waited a very long time.