by Bess McBride
“I’ll bet,” Clara said.
“Here’s a gown, some fresh underthings and slippers. Do you want some help with the stays? I can wait a bit. Then I’ve got to feed the baby and get dressed myself.”
Clara could see that Mary looked a bit rushed, and she declined her offer. “No, I can manage them.”
“Oh, good! I’ll come back and fix your hair in a bit, okay?”
“Sure,” Clara said.
Mary laid the clothing on the bed and hurried from the room.
Clara eyed the clothing and started the tedious process of dressing. Chemise with petticoat, stockings, stays. She struggled mightily to lace the stays from behind but refused to admit defeat. Her arms felt wrenched from their sockets, but she finally managed to tie off the ribbons, albeit a little looser than when Mary had tightened them that morning. She picked up the gown, a lovely gossamer ivory confection over peach satin with matching satin ribbons.
Clara slid into the slippers and moved over to stand in front of the mirror. The collar line was much lower than she was used to, and she tugged at the front of the dress to hide her cleavage.
Catching up her still-damp hair, she twisted it into a knot at the back of her head. Clara curtsied to her reflection, hardly recognizing herself as the twenty-first-century housecleaner who wore brown corduroys and polo shirts.
She wondered how Janie was doing, how she was managing Clara’s disappearance. Had she called the police? Clara hoped not but wouldn’t have blamed Janie if she had. She would have done the same thing if Janie had vanished without a trace.
“Oh, Hickstrom!” she said aloud. “Why couldn’t you pick Janie? She would have loved this!”
It was true. Janie was the more adventurous of the two, the one who read historical romance novels, who might have decided to marry a stranger and stay in the nineteenth century.
Mary knocked and entered, looking dazzling in a blue satin gown with a lace overskirt. She carried several pairs of long white gloves and lengths of silk material in her arms, which she set on the bed.
“That dress suits you perfectly,” she said, pushing Clara down onto a bench in front of the dressing table. She combed Clara’s hair, allowing some curls to fall to her shoulders before twisting it up into a chignon.
“There,” Mary said. “You look beautiful!”
“Thank you,” Clara replied. “I was just thinking that my friend and business partner, Janie, would have been better suited to this deal than me. She’s the one interested in historical romances.”
“She’ll be worried about you, won’t she?”
Clara nodded. “Yes, I’m sure she’ll have called the police by now. I vanished from a job we were on.”
“It’s bad enough Hickstrom tosses us back in time, but she doesn’t give us any time to prepare.”
Clara had an idea. “Maybe if she sends me back, I can ask Janie if she wants to travel through time! I’d hate to lose her, but I really think she’d enjoy this, and I don’t think she would mind getting married. She’s had a string of bad relationships. She’s into alpha males, and I know that Roger would be considered a beta male, but I think she could learn to love him. She’s definitely better than Miss Penelope Whitehead!”
“So you didn’t like Penelope,” Mary stated.
“No, she’s definitely a mess. Hopefully, she won’t turn her attention to Roger.”
“He has no choice. She has no choice. Hickstrom will put them together. That’s what she does.”
“I still can’t quite believe that.”
“So you still doubt her powers? After Penelope showed up out of the blue? And Lord Carswell? And the way Hickstrom appears and vanishes? Or the fact that you’re here in the nineteenth century?”
“I’m not doubting she’s magical in some way, but forcing people to marry each other? Unless she propels them down the aisle, I can’t imagine how she could do it.”
“She will, Clara,” Mary said, patting Clara’s shoulders. “I promise you, she will. Are you ready?”
Clara wasn’t really ready to go to a Regency ball, but she said nothing as Mary retrieved the gloves and material from the bed. She followed Mary’s lead and slipped a pair of gloves up over her elbows, and took the ivory silk throw that Mary handed her.
Mary then linked her arm in Clara’s and led her from the room. As they reached the top of the stairs, Clara saw the men talking among themselves in the foyer below, and she hesitated.
“I know,” Mary said. “That looks complicated. But handsome! All of them. I’ve only seen Roger gussied up like that once before. I swear that waistcoat matches his eyes.”
“He cleans up well,” Clara said with a weak smile.
All three men wore black cutaway coats, breeches and stiff white cravats, the only difference being the color of their waistcoats. St. John wore silver, Lord Carswell a white satin brocade, and Roger sported a pale-blue flowered waistcoat. But though they dressed similarly, the clothing flattered some more than others.
St. John, tall with broad shoulders, looked magnificent. Lord Carswell, also tall but more slender, carried himself elegantly. Roger ran a hand around the edge of his cravat as if he felt awkward, but what the breeches and cutaway coat did for his form was truly remarkable. Clara was surprised to note how well muscled his legs appeared in the snug breeches. He had much wider shoulders than she had realized, and his torso tapered to a slender waist. From the back, his coat curved in the right places.
She cleared her throat and resisted fanning her hot face.
“Are you ready?” Mary asked.
“Yes,” Clara said.
They descended the stairs and joined the men, who bowed. Clara followed Mary’s lead and curtsied, though she found it hard to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Charming,” Lord Carswell said, taking her hand and bending over it. He released her and stepped back.
“Indeed,” St. John said. “You both look very beautiful.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mary said.
The words were simple, even dutiful, but Clara heard the catch in Mary’s voice. She looked over at Mary, who had eyes only for her husband. St. John included Clara in his compliment, but he too stared only at his wife.
Clara sighed inwardly. What a romantic couple! A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.
Never really out of her sight despite her best efforts to ignore him, Clara saw Roger set a tall silk top hat on top of his well-groomed blond hair. The combination of flowered blue waistcoat and top hat gave him a jaunty look that was at odds with his constricted expression. He seemed absolutely miserable, and Clara turned a shoulder to his glum face, to the insinuation that marrying her was the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to him. Quite clearly Hickstrom had worse ideas in mind for him.
“May I escort you to the carriage, Miss Bell?” Lord Carswell asked, holding out his hand.
Clara laid a hand over his and followed the St. Johns out to the carriage. They squeezed into the carriage, St. John and Mary on one side, and Clara sandwiched between Lord Carswell and Roger on the other. Clara stared at Mary, who gave her a sympathetic glance.
St. John, Mary and Lord Carswell chatted on the way to Fairchild House, while Clara and Roger remained silent. Clara was inordinately aware of the warmth of both men on either side of her, though she suspected Roger’s body heat did not extend to his heart. By the time they reached the Fairchild’s, her tumultuous emotions had exhausted her.
She and Lord Carswell followed St. John and Mary up a wide set of stairs into Fairchild House, with Roger following behind. Or lagging. Clara fumed at his childish behavior and contemplated turning around to give him a piece of her mind. She was the one who had been dragged back in time because he didn’t want to get married. He could pout about having to attend one ball, but she was the one out of place...and time. She was the one who was in danger of discovery, frankly. All Roger had to do was accept congratulations for becoming a baron and get over it already!
That conversation never happened though, and Clara allowed Lord Carswell to guide her through the receiving line. He was already acquainted with the Fairchilds and appeared to be quite comfortable in his environment.
The group moved into the ballroom, and Clara forgot her irritation with Roger to marvel at the beauty of the room. Four chandeliers shown down on a throng of people and highlighted the walls papered in shades of gold and white.
The dancing had already begun, and couples maneuvered around each other in complicated moves. Clara thought once again that Janie would have loved the experience...and appreciated it much more than Clara.
“May I have the honor of the next dance, Miss Bell?” Lord Carswell asked.
Over his shoulder, Clara noted Roger standing near, eyebrows drawn together in some form of scowl. She ignored him.
“I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance, Lord Carswell.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said. “Not at all?”
“No, not one little bit,” she said, almost with a sense of satisfaction. That was right. She didn’t belong! Not at all.
Lord Carswell looked toward the dance floor.
“I would offer myself as an instructor, but the steps are truly too intricate to learn in a single lesson. Did you never attend dances or balls in Virginia? I know they dance there. I attended a few festivities.”
“No, I never did. My parents weren’t wealthy.” Which was true, Clara thought. “We didn’t attend balls or dances.”
Clara was still aware of Roger lurking nearby, and she wished he would wander off somewhere.
“A shame,” Lord Carswell murmured. “Had I more time to visit at Alvord Castle, I would be most happy to educate you.”
“That’s nice of you,” she said, “but you know I’m returning to the United—to America soon, and I won’t need to learn the...” She looked at the dancers.
“Quadrille,” he said.
St. John and Mary had turned to greet some people.
“Do let me introduce you to the newest member of the aristocracy,” St. John said, almost tongue in cheek. “Lord Roger Rowe, Fifth Baron Rowe. You may recognize him as my estate agent, Roger Phelps.”
Crows of congratulations resounded, and Roger bowed and accepted a clap on the shoulder.
“And here is Lord James Carswell. You may remember Lord Carswell as a friend of my parents. He stayed occasionally at Alvord Castle when I was a child.”
“A pleasure,” Lord Carswell said, bowing.
“Our guest, Miss Clara Bell, who is visiting Mary from America,” St. John added.
Clara curtsied to the older couple.
“Lady St. John! There you are!” a familiar voice called out. A vision in lilac satin and lace arrived in a scent of lavender, positioning herself in the midst of the small group and curtseying several times. It seemed that Penelope Whitehead had arrived. Lady Whitehead bustled into the mix self-importantly.
Chapter Thirteen
“Lord St. John, Lord Rowe,” Lady Whitehead said in her jarring voice. “Lord and Lady St. John. What a fine turnout!”
She turned an eye on Lord Carswell and introduced herself. From St. John’s raised eyebrow, Clara gathered that was unusual. She had noticed that people seemed to wait for introductions rather than pushing themselves forward.
“Lady Pamela Whitehead, and this is my daughter, Penelope. And you are?”
“Lord James Carswell,” he said, bowing over her extended gloved hand. He bowed in Penelope’s direction, but that young woman ignored him, moving to stand beside Roger. She slipped a gloved hand through his arm, and he visibly stiffened.
“Delighted to meet you,” Lady Whitehead said.
“And how is our newest baron managing?” Penelope said.
Roger’s face colored, but to his credit, he didn’t take off running. Neither did he respond.
“You know, of course, that Lord Rowe was recently made a baron,” Lady Whitehead said to Lord Carswell.
“Yes, I am aware,” he said dryly.
“My Penelope appears quite taken with him,” she said, cupping her mouth as if to whisper, but speaking as loudly as possible.
Clara drew in a deep, irritated breath. She saw Penelope rise up on tiptoe to say something to Roger, and he shook his head in response. Clara pricked her ears.
“I do not know how to dance,” he murmured.
At least she and Roger shared that in common, Clara thought with some satisfaction.
“That is too bad,” Penelope said. “Perhaps we could find some refreshment? I am quite parched!”
“Of course,” Roger said, though he looked as if he were in physical pain. “Would anyone care to accompany us? Lady St. John? Miss Bell?”
“I think I’ll stay here with St. John,” Mary said. “Clara?”
“Allow me to escort Miss Bell,” Lord Carswell said, springing forward.
Clara didn’t want to embarrass the older man, who had been kind to her, so she placed her hand on his arm.
Roger’s normally cool blue eyes heated up, and the look of anger flashing through them told her in no uncertain terms that he was irritated. She couldn’t tell if he felt trapped by Penelope—and in turn, by Hickstrom—or whether he was angry that Lord Carswell had volunteered to accompany her. Perhaps a bit of both. Clara had seen that Roger didn’t seem to like Lord Carswell.
Clara and Lord Carswell followed Roger and Penelope around the length of the ballroom through a wide doorway that led into a banquet room. Food and drink were laid out on sideboards, where people loaded plates and seated themselves at various tables dispersed throughout the room.
Clara declined any food, preferring to wait for Mary to explain what some of the delicacies were. She accepted a glass of punch though and moved with the group to sit down at one of the tables. She spotted Lady Whitehead coming into the banquet hall—perhaps she’d followed them. She hovered near the buffet table, ostensibly talking to other people but keeping one eye on her daughter.
“Do tell me, Lord Rowe, where is your estate?” Penelope asked. “Surely you will not remain at Alvord Castle a moment longer than necessary!”
Clara watched Roger’s eyes narrow and darken. She didn’t know much about him, but even she knew that he was a private person and did not like to talk about himself. Additionally, it seemed as if Penelope was insulting the estate that he had grown up on and no doubt loved.
“I did not inherit an estate with the title,” he said. Then he verified Clara’s thoughts. “I intend to remain at Alvord Castle as estate agent. The title changes nothing.”
“Bravo,” Lord Carswell said. “Wise words.”
Roger cast him a quick glance, seemingly not taking the compliment well.
“But you did inherit income with the title, did you not?” Penelope persisted.
“Miss Whitehead, please...” Lord Carswell remonstrated. “Such personal matters. Not normally discussed in mixed company.”
“Thank you, Lord Carswell,” Roger said with pressed lips. “Miss Whitehead queried me, and it is my decision to answer or not.”
Lord Carswell seemed not at all taken aback. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to Clara. “Is the punch to your liking, Miss Bell?” he asked in a low voice, as if the question was intimate.
Clara nodded, her attention on Roger’s response to Penelope, but she couldn’t hear him.
“Let us discuss Virginia then. Do you come from one of the larger cities or the country?”
Clara racked her brain. Cities in Virginia. The capital of Virginia. Richmond!
“Richmond. I come from Richmond.”
“But that is where I visited!” he said. “How fascinating! I was studying tobacco farming and marketing. I do not think our wet, cloudy climate is conducive to growing tobacco, but I enjoyed my visit to the fair city. The James River is quite magnificent, do you not think?”
“Yes, the James River, very nice,” Clara mumbled. She had no idea what she was talking about. “Tell me abo
ut your estate.”
“Ah! Wayburn Hall.” For the next few minutes, Lord Carswell described his estate.
Clara tried to pay attention, but she couldn’t help eavesdropping on Penelope and Roger.
Roger’s pained expression had relaxed as Penelope stroked his sleeved arm, and Clara wondered if he was falling under the young woman’s spell...or Hickstrom’s spell. She had to admit that Penelope was gorgeous and a pleasure to look at...if one was a man.
She leaned forward to try to hear their conversation.
“Do you plan to lease your own house then?” Penelope was asking, still petting Roger’s arm.
“Not at present,” he said. “It was my intent to remain at the gatekeeper’s lodge at Alvord Castle.”
“But surely you wish to marry, Lord Rowe, do you not?”
Penelope arched an eyebrow, and to Clara’s dismay, Roger seemed to respond.
“I had not thought of such a life, but it seems likely that the future may present different possibilities.”
Was Roger succumbing to Penelope’s charms or to his idea that Hickstrom preordained everything? Either way, Clara wasn’t enjoying the moment.
She rose hastily. “I think I’ll return to Mary, if you don’t mind.” She directed her comment to Lord Carswell but didn’t wait for him as she moved away. She returned to the ballroom and found Mary and St. John conversing with Rachel and her husband, Halwell. Clara scooted up to them and tucked in tight between Mary and Rachel.
“There you are,” Mary said. She looked over Clara’s shoulder. “Here comes Lord Carswell. Did you ditch him?”
“Not intentionally,” Clara responded, turning to see Lord Carswell. She noted with frustration that Roger and Penelope did not follow him. “I’d had enough of watching Penelope paw Roger.”
“Paw Roger?” Mary repeated. “Wow! I’m surprised Roger would allow such a thing in public. He’s always been sort of conservative.”
“Apparently not anymore,” Clara grumbled. Lord Carswell reached their side, and Clara turned to him.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t wait for you,” she said politely. Unwilling to tell him the real reason she had run off, she could offer no other comment.
