Nothing to Lose: The Pocket Watch Chronicles

by Ceci Giltenan

  But then she remembered being found on the beach by a man. An insanely handsome man. What had he said his name was? He was tall with light golden-brown hair, green eyes, tanned skin that suggested he worked in the sun and a physique the likes of which she had only seen on models in magazines or on the covers of romance novels. And even those had probably been touched up.

  Romance novels. It was as if he had stepped straight out of one.

  Thoughts of the ancient alley down which she’d walked to get to the hotel yesterday afternoon popped into her head. She’d thought it was a perfect location for a time portal and had already started the story. Now she found herself in the past, still in romantic Venice. She wasn’t sure what year it was, but that was a minor, easily solved, detail.

  She grinned. This was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The dreamily good-looking man who had carried her from the beach, was about to become the hero in her next novel. If she could get to know him, she could create one of the most well-developed characters ever written and place him in the most realistic setting possible. Thank you, Gertrude.

  Then she felt a moment of panic. The pocket watch had been in the water, what if it didn’t work anymore? She opened it to check for signs of water damage. It seemed to be in perfect condition and she rolled her eyes at herself. It’s a magic pocket watch, goof ball. If it can pull a soul through time, it surely can stand a bit of sea water.

  Taking in her surroundings, she noticed a small pile of clothing had been placed on a chair. Her savior must have found something for her to wear other than his shirt. Perhaps they were his wife’s clothes. Sara frowned, not sure why that thought bothered her. She could pattern a hero after him whether he was married in real life or not.

  On top of the garments was a tortoise shell comb. I definitely need that. A washstand stood in one corner of the room on which sat a bowl and pitcher. Towels hung on the towel bar.

  Excellent, she would get cleaned up, dressed, and go exploring.

  She stood up and immediately sat back down. Weak and wobbly, her swim had clearly strained the limits of whoever’s body she was in. She stood again, this time prepared for the instability. She retrieved the comb and sat back on the edge of the bed. It took ages to untangle the wild mess that was her hair, due in part to the fact that her arms were as feeble as her legs had been. She just couldn’t hold them up to her head for very long without having to rest. But eventually she was able to comb out most of the sand, and while impossible to completely control without modern hair products, the dark curls hung down her back temporarily tamed.

  Next, she made her way to the washstand. She poured water into the bowl, removed the shirt, and washed the sand and saltwater from her skin. The body she was in was small and very slender, but she wasn’t without curves. Her skin was fair and pale as if it had never been exposed to the sun. Which stood to reason, considering the sheer volume of clothing she’d had to fight her way out of to keep from drowning.

  Finally, she examined the clothes that had been set out for her. She smiled. Any other woman from her own time might have been a bit confused by all the layers, but Sara had always been fascinated by historical clothing. There had been an old set of World Book Encyclopedias at home when she was growing up. One of the two “C” volumes had a section of yellow pages with colorful images of the clothing people had worn throughout history. Even before she could read, she knew which volume they were in because she could see the section of yellow pages just by looking at the closed book. Once she started writing historical novels, she had done even more research. After all, it was kind of a requirement that characters in romance novels had to undress, and to do that she had to know what they were wearing underneath everything.

  She donned the cotton shift first. It had obviously seen quite a bit of use because the cotton was worn and soft.

  The next garment, the chemise, resembled a nightgown. It hung loose to the floor but had close fitting, three-quarter length sleeves. As she pulled it over her head, she realized it smelled a bit stale. Not musty, just as if it hadn’t been laundered recently. Maybe they weren’t his wife’s clothes after all.

  Then came several petticoats and finally a rust colored cotton gown that laced in the front, conforming to her figure. That was probably a good thing because it might have been too big otherwise. There wasn’t a looking glass in the room, but she liked what she saw of the way she looked. She’d always wanted to try on period clothing, but she’d rather imagined herself in a cold climate. These were way too many clothes to wear in this heat. She was glad there hadn’t been a corset. She might have spontaneously combusted.

  The style of clothing helped her at least figure out what century she’d landed in. Men’s clothing styles changed more slowly than women’s over time. The clothes the man had been wearing could have been worn in the late seventeenth century all the way through to the early nineteenth century. But the outfit she wore was most likely mid-eighteenth century. She intended to figure it out precisely and there was no time like the present. He’d said he would be downstairs so she’d just go look for him.

  She left the room, found the stairs, and holding tightly to the handrail because of her wobbly legs, made her way down. At the bottom of the stairs was a hallway off of which were several doors. Most were ajar, but she wasn’t sure she should just go poking her head in them. “Hello,” she called softly.

  Nothing.

  She tried again, a little louder this time. “Hello.”

  He stepped out of the door at the end of the hall. “Hello. I see you found the clothes I put out for you. They fit you well.”

  Sara smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “Yes, thank you.” Oh, hell, just ask. “Do they belong to your wife?”

  He grinned. “Nay, my mother.”

  “Oh.” Sara supposed she would have the opportunity to meet and thank Mrs. Whatever-his-name-is at a later time. “Well, thank you. For everything. I owe you so much and I’m sorry, I know you told me, but I can’t quite remember your name.”

  “That’s not surprising. You weren’t even sure of your name when last we talked. But my name is Benedict MacIan.”

  She smiled. “I’m pretty sure my name is Sara.”

  “Aye, that’s what you said.”

  She may as well dive into the amnesiac role with both feet. “And you said we were on one of the Venetian islands—”

  “The Lido.”

  “Right. The Lido. But that’s about all I can remember. I don’t even know what day it is.” Maybe he’d include the year in his answer.

  “‘Tis Sunday, the ninth day of July. Come to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  July ninth, the day I left. How odd. But I still don’t know the year. Maybe she could figure it out without just asking. She followed him through the door at the end of the hall.

  “Benedict MacIan? That doesn’t sound very Ital—I mean Venetian.”

  He chuckled. “It isn’t. I’m a Scotsman. Here, have a seat.”

  A Scotsman living in Venice? That could make a very good story. She sat at the table as he put a kettle on an iron cook stove, opened the door to the firebox, stoked the fire to bring it to life, and added some coal. Cook stoves only came into use in the latter half of the eighteenth century. This reconfirmed what she had guessed so far about the year.

  As he continued to gather what was needed to make tea, she asked, “How long have you lived in Venice? Are you on the Grand Tour?” She knew there was a time when young European men, particularly British gentlemen, spent several years visiting some of the great cities of Europe as part of their education. Venice had been one of the popular destinations.

  “Definitely not. I’m not a member of the gentry. I’m just a common Scotsman. My parents were originally from the Isle of Mull, but I’ve lived here since I was ten years old.”

  “What brought you to Venice?”

  “It’s a bit of a winding story. My parents left Mull for Port Glasgow when I was just a wee
lad—I think I was about four. They were very poor, but my father was a skilled carpenter. He believed he could make a better life for his family working in the shipyards of Port Glasgow. After a few years, a Venetian merchant, Emilio Santi, took notice of his talent and offered him the opportunity to build ships here. I think initially Da planned to learn what he could, then return to Scotland to find his fortune there. But he fell in love with Venice. Eventually he and Emilio formed a partnership.” He laughed. “Santi and MacIan, the soundest vessels on the sea, and like most Venetian ships, works of art in their own right.”

  “You speak of him in the past tense.”

  “Aye, neither of my parents are living.”

  Ah, that would explain why his mother’s clothes smelled as if they had been stored for a while. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “They went back to Scotland for a visit when I was sixteen and got caught up in the rebellion. Da was killed at Culloden and my mother died shortly thereafter. They say she died of a broken heart.”

  “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” Her heart ached for him. She understood only too well what it was like to lose both parents.

  “’Twas a long time ago.”

  “Losing a parent, both parents, is a terrible thing. I—” she stopped herself from saying lost my parents and brother all at once too. If she had amnesia, she wouldn’t know that. “Uh…that is…I can’t imagine that. How long has it been?”

  “Over twelve years.”

  Twelve years. The battle of Culloden was in April 1746. So, Sara had travelled to the year 1758 and her host was twenty-eight years old. This was absolutely amazing. She wanted to know more. This novel was going to be her best yet. “So, you live here alone?”

  “Aye.”

  “And are you a shipbuilder?”

  “Aye. I inherited my father’s half of the business.”

  Sara could just imagine him building a ship, shirt off, tight breeches, rippling muscles glistening with sweat. Oh yeah. You are a spectacular hero. Alberto maybe…no Pietro…no Rafael. Rafael di Santi. Rafe. Son of a shipbuilder. She needed to see the place he worked. “Is the shipyard nearby? I’d love to see it.”

  “The shipyard isn’t here on the Lido. It’s in the Arsenale.”

  Of course, it is. She’d learned about the history of the Arsenale while sight-seeing yesterday. But that begged the question, “If your business is in the Arsenale, why do you live here? And in such a remote area?”

  “As much as my father loved Venice, my mother hated it. She despised the city—there were too many people. She hated the food and the language. She couldn’t stand the weather.”

  “It’s beautiful here.”

  “That was the problem. Of all things, she didn’t like the brilliant sunshine. She longed for cold, gray Scotland. She even hated the winters here because while it can get quite cold, there are still lots of sunny days. She said it made her head ache.”

  “Then she must have really hated this time of year.”

  “That she did. She simply loathed the summer heat. Stormy Scotland was home and that was where she wanted to be. So, my father built a home for us here on the Lido, well north of the village of Malamoco. It was easy enough for him to cross the lagoon to go to work. He’d hoped the seclusion and proximity to the sea would make her more comfortable.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “Only a little. She refused to have anything Venetian-made in her home. She used pewter and crockery rather than the beautiful glassware for which Venice is famous. She wouldn’t wear silk or brocade or any of the beautiful fabric made here, preferring wool and linen.”

  “Wool? Well, no wonder she didn’t like the heat.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Da bought her some beautiful things, even though she generally shunned them. But during the heat of the summer, she did give in and wear some cotton garments like those.” He indicated the clothes Sara wore. “But she left them all behind when she and Da went to Scotland. I truly believe her unwillingness to adapt to the smallest thing only made her more homesick.”

  Sara’s romantic heart ached a little for his father. She imagined a man in love with his wife. Wanting only the best for her. Buying her beautiful clothes made of luxurious fabrics which due not only to their expense, but also to sumptuary laws, she couldn’t have owned in Scotland. She also imagined his disappointment when she rejected his gifts.

  “That’s sad. To love someone and want the best for them and yet to be unable to make them happy. It must have been distressing to him.”

  At that, Benedict stopped what he was doing, giving her a quizzical look. “I’ve never quite thought of it that way, but I’m sure it was.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “It must have been upsetting to you, too. It can’t have been easy to grow up with a mother who was never happy.”

  Benedict’s brows drew together and he looked as if he were about to say something, but changed his mind. “It was a long time ago. Besides, my history is of little consequence at the moment, whereas yours is paramount. We need to figure out who you are. I thought about it while you were sleeping. The only explanation is that you fell from one of the boats. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out. I’ll ask around.” He poured tea into two cups and placed one in front of her. “Do you take milk and sugar?”

  “No, thank you.” She said absently. At the mention of finding out who she was, dread had filled her. She remembered the feelings she had experienced moments after she arrived in this body. The feeling that she needed to stay away from the ships at all costs. This could only be one of the other girl’s memories pushing through.

  “Is something wrong?” He asked.

  “No. Well…uh…that is to say…yes I think there is. I can’t remember who I am or how I ended up in the water, but I feel like I was trying to escape something. Something dangerous. Do you have to find out where I came from?”

  Benedict frowned. “Someone could be worried sick, looking for you. Maybe even believing you are dead. I think it’s irresponsible not to find out.”

  Panic rose in her. “No, please don’t. I can’t explain why, but I know it would be a mistake.”

  “Sara, you can’t remember anything. How can you be sure of that?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. But I’m afraid. I’m not sure how I ended up in the water, but…I fear…I fear…” What was this fear? It wasn’t just for her but for him as well. “I fear it may actually be dangerous—for both of us.”

  “That isn’t likely.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m certain of it.”

  “But what am I to do with you?”

  “Perhaps you could let me stay here for a little while? Maybe my memories will come back in a few days and I’ll know what to do.”

  ~ * ~

  Benedict stared at her, not sure what to think. She had appeared completely unconcerned about her profound memory loss, but at simply the suggestion that he try to find out who she was, she was nearly panic-stricken.

  “Please, Benedict. I won’t be in the way. I promise. Please let me stay with you just for a while.”

  She seemed so frightened. How could he deny her? “Fine. You can stay for a few days. I’m working on plans for a new ship and I can do that here as easily as I can in the bustle and noise of the shipyard.”

  She visibly relaxed. “Thank you. I appreciate it immensely.”

  But her sudden disquiet had set him on edge, too. “Still, if you haven’t remembered anything by the end of the week, I’ll have to reconsider.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  Chapter 5

  Sara spent the rest of the afternoon and evening chatting with Benedict. She asked questions about his life and his work. At one point, when she feared she was bordering on rudeness, she apologized. “I fear I am being overly inquisitive, but I keep thinking you might say something that jogs my own memory.” She suspected it was a lame excuse, but he accepted it and she learned quite a lot about him and a bit about hers
elf.

  He had been speaking English to her, because the first words she spoke when he found her were in English. However, the language he spoke daily was Venetian. Additionally, he spoke Scottish Gaelic—the only language his mother would use.

  Sara learned that whomever she was, she, too, spoke Venetian but it felt very much like a second language. Still, she figured she should become more accustomed to using it if she wanted to truly experience Venetian culture, so she asked that they communicate as much as possible in Venetian.

  If he thought it an odd request, he didn’t say so.

  When it had been time for bed that night, to her surprise, Benedict showed her to another room.

  “This was my parents’ room. It hasn’t been used in a few years. I aired it out this afternoon and put fresh linens on the bed. You can sleep here for the next few days. There are more of my mother’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe. She was very close to your size, perhaps only a bit heavier. Feel free to use whatever you like.”

  “Thank you, Benedict. Thank you for everything.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, but not right away. I’ll go to the shipyard at first light as I usually do to get the things I’ll need and to let Emilio know I won’t be in for the rest of the week. It’s likely I’ll be back even before you awake, but just in case I’m not, I wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you. I would have worried.”

  He smiled. “Then I’ll say good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Sara had crawled into bed but as tired as her body was, her mind was reeling with the possibilities that lay ahead of her. First things first, she needed to know what her deadline to return home was. Sara had to say the word within sixty day. If today was July ninth, sixty days from now was September seventh. Still, she wasn’t exactly sure how it worked. Was it sixty days to the hour or did she just have to leave sometime on the sixtieth day. She left the twenty-first century just before midnight on July ninth but arrived here in the wee hours of the morning on July ninth. She figured, just to be safe, she should plan to say the word before midnight on September sixth.