by Gina Lamm
Jamie flopped backward onto the bed and stared at the beamed ceiling. This was incredible. This was impossible. This was not how she’d planned to spend her day. What the heck did she do to deserve it? How was she going to fix such a godforsaken mess?
First things first. Before Mike decided he really should kick her out, she should see how the hell that mirror had gotten her here in the first place. Then she’d find a rag and a bucket to try to fix the poor, abused rug. She got off the bed and went over to the giant bureau in the corner. Starting with the left door, she tapped and touched each part of the glass, searching for the hidden trigger that would suck her back into her own time.
“It does not work that way, you know. Good heavens, I must have Muriel clean this frightful mess on the carpet.”
Jamie whirled around at the sound of the voice behind her. It was Mrs. Knightsbridge with a tray full of stuff. She set the tray on a side table and briskly pulled a velvet rope that hung by the bed.
“Sorry about the rug,” Jamie said awkwardly. The tips of her ears burned with embarrassment.
“Do not fret about that, dear. All will soon be set to rights. Here. You must be famished.”
The housekeeper gestured to an ornately carved wooden chair beside the table. The smell of the pastries on the tray suddenly hit Jamie’s nostrils, and she realized Mrs. Knightsbridge was right. Her stomach felt completely normal again, the rumbling sounds of hunger confirming it. The table was situated close to the fire, and Jamie was grateful for the warmth as she sank onto the cushioned chair’s seat.
Mrs. Knightsbridge poured Jamie a steaming cup of…tea?
“How do you take it?”
“Cold and sweet, preferably.” Jamie eyed the cup. She was a Southern girl. She’d never had tea above fifty degrees before.
Mrs. Knightsbridge laughed. “The warmth will do you good.” She spooned some sugar into the cup and gave it a brisk stir. “There. Drink up, and we shall have a little coze.”
“What’s a coze?” Jamie warily picked up the teacup and gave it a sniff.
“A conversation.” Mrs. Knightsbridge settled into the chair across the table and smiled kindly. Jamie was really beginning to like this lady, vile-smelling medicine notwithstanding. She’d done that to help anyway, Jamie thought.
“What did you mean when you came in and said it doesn’t work that way?” Jamie took a sip of the tea. The warmth was extremely disconcerting, but the taste was pretty good.
“The portal. It was spelled one way.”
Jamie’s jaw hit the floor and she stared at the smiling woman. “What the hell?”
Mrs. Knightsbridge’s pleasant expression slipped. “Language, miss. Ladies do not use that sort of coarse talk.”
“Ladies? What are you talking about? I’m not a lady. I’m a regular woman. Female. You know what I mean. All liberated and stuff.”
The housekeeper sighed and smoothed her skirts before reaching onto the tray. “Scone?”
Jamie took the golden-brown crumbly goodness from the outstretched hand and munched, all the while looking across the table distrustfully.
“My sister, Wilhelmina, is an expert in the Old Ways.” Mrs. Knightsbridge whispered the last words, as if afraid someone would hear. “She agreed to help me search for the perfect match for his lordship.”
“Mike?” Jamie nearly sprayed scone crumbs across the table, but she clapped a hand to her mouth just in time. Mrs. Knightsbridge looked at Jamie like her first grade teacher used to. Like she’d screamed out the F-word in church.
Jamie used the fabric napkin from the tray to wipe her face before speaking again. “Mike? Why does he need help finding a match? He’s completely delicious; he should be able to get any woman he wants.”
Mrs. Knightsbridge shook her head sadly. “Lord Dunnington is a fine man, a good man. That whole business with his dead mistress was not at all what the gossips made it out to be…”
“Wait a minute. Dead mistress? Dead as in, ‘call the cops there’s a body on the floor’ dead mistress?” Jamie’s voice came out in a strangled whisper as she stared at the closed door. “Did he kill her?”
“Not at all,” the housekeeper assured her. “’Tis only that Louisa died in such an odd manner. In any case, he has finally broken it off with that tart who snagged him next, Collette. I was quite relieved when he released her from his protection.”
“Well, good for him. Gotta jump back on the bike, after all.” Jamie wasn’t sure if the sarcasm in her voice had been detected. The housekeeper continued as if she hadn’t even spoken.
“That is not the worst of it. He is courting a young lady now. It would not disappoint me so were I not certain that she will disappoint him and break his heart. Miss Felicity Lyons is all wrong for his lordship, a spineless, simpering miss.” The housekeeper’s pinched lips and tight eyes confirmed her opinion of the unfortunate Miss Lyons. “She only desires the wealth and position that comes with the earldom.”
“So, where do I fit into all this? Wrong place, wrong time kind of thing?” Jamie gestured with the remnants of her scone.
The housekeeper shook her head at Jamie, and her smile brightened. “Not at all. You are the one that is perfect for him. Wilhelmina said so. You are going to be his bride, and the Countess of Dunnington.”
Four
Jamie had always prided herself on her levelheadedness. When Bobby Gillespie drew on her Wonder Woman comics in the first grade, she didn’t lose her cool; she simply stuffed his Spider-Man books in the girls’ toilet. When her first guild wiped out sixteen times in a row on one of the easiest bosses in the game, she said a polite good-bye and then quit the guild. But when that nice old lady told her she was going to be a countess, Jamie couldn’t help but laugh straight in her face.
“Countess? You’ve got to be kidding.” She shook her head.
“Oh no, it is quite certain.” Mrs. Knightsbridge’s face was the picture of sincere conviction. “I saw your face myself in her scrying bowl. It is meant to be, or you would not have been able to pass through the portal.”
Jamie dropped the rest of her scone and splayed her hands on the table. “Let me get this straight. So, your sister the witch—”
“Sssssshh.” Mrs. Knightsbridge stood quickly as the door opened. “Ah, there you are, Muriel. See to this mess on the carpet and then remove the tea tray. I shall take Miss Marten to see her new chambers. Now remember, we must be circumspect. No one is to know that she is staying here, do you understand?”
The girl nodded, giving Jamie a curious look. She bobbed a quick curtsy and disappeared.
Mrs. Knightsbridge turned to Jamie. “Please, mind your speech. Do not use that word aloud in any circumstances. People fear the Old Ways, and we mustn’t harm Wilhelmina.” She walked to the door of the bedroom.
“Yeah, because Wilhelmina’s been so awesome to me, dumping me in a foreign country a couple hundred years in the past,” Jamie muttered. Mrs. Knightsbridge must not have heard because she simply beckoned for Jamie to follow her.
Jamie knotted the robe at her waist and regretfully left the warm tea and comforting fire to follow the meddling housekeeper. She needed some answers, and it looked like Mrs. Knightsbridge was her only lead.
The hallway was much gloomier than the bedroom had been, lit by sconces set into the walls. Massive painted portraits dominated the corridor, severe looking men in historical dress scowling down at Jamie. God, no wonder Mike had been so grumpy. If I had these guys staring at me every day of my life, I’d be pissy too.
“Why can’t anybody know that I’m here? That seems kind of odd. And anyway, I’m not staying,” Jamie said as she hurried along behind her. She stuck close, worried that those portraits might start following her with their eyes. She’d seen way too many creepy movies to trust the dark, heavy paintings.
“Because it is simply not done. You are an unwed woman, and his lordship is also unmarried. It would be a scandal the likes of which London has not seen in quite a time. A man in
his lordship’s position must be above reproach. Circumspection on your part is of the highest import. Ah, here we are.”
They turned the corner into another corridor. “I told Clara to prepare the yellow room for you.” Mrs. Knightsbridge stepped aside and motioned Jamie into a lemony dream.
Jamie had never been what you’d call a girly-girl. She liked to dress up every now and then, and she put on makeup about once a month or so for shits and giggles. But when she saw the softly lit bedroom done in sunshine, buttercream, and canary lace, she almost melted into a puddle of princess-flavored bubblegum.
“Oh my God, this is so beautiful.” Jamie turned in a slow circle, trying to take in everything. The furniture in Mike’s room had been dark, ornate, and forbidding. This furniture was lighter, simpler, and much more feminine. There were chairs upholstered in white with little yellow throw pillows, and lacy white curtains hung at the large window. A cheerful blaze burned in the fireplace, and the smaller room was much warmer than the big drafty room the earl slept in. She wanted to throw herself onto the cozy bed, snuggle into the pillows, and not get up for a week.
“The late countess tatted all the lace in this room.” Mrs. Knightsbridge’s voice held a hint of sadness. She smoothed a corner of the bed covers. “She dearly loved lace.”
“I’m sorry, was that Mike’s mother?”
Mrs. Knightsbridge crooked a brow at the nickname for Mr. High-and-Mighty but let it slide. “No, she was his aunt. His uncle was the earl before him. When he died without a son, Lord Dunnington was next in line to inherit.”
“Oh,” Jamie said, biting her lip in thought.
“I worked for the late earl and his wife for many years before their passing.” Mrs. Knightsbridge sounded a little choked up but buried it in straightening the already perfect bedspread.
“I’m sorry,” Jamie said lamely.
“The past is best left to the past.” Mrs. Knightsbridge sniffed and matter-of-factly plumped the pillows. “Now, I trust you have convinced his lordship to allow you to stay for the nonce?”
“Sort of, but I’m not staying. You have to get Wilhelmina to send me—”
“Excellent. It will be much more convenient to have you under my tutelage here. Now, let me see what I have to work with. Stand up straight.”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t need tutelage; I need to go home. I really—”
“Come, child, quick! Do not lag about. Stand up, chin up now, do not slouch. Hmm. Your posture leaves much to be desired. It will have to do for the moment, but we shall improve it with time.”
She’d put a hand under Jamie’s chin, forcing her up ramrod-straight. Jamie spoke through gritted teeth, since the housekeeper wasn’t moving her hand away from Jamie’s lower jaw.
“Listen, Mrs. Knightsbridge. There’s been a mistake. I’m not the woman you need.”
Mrs. Knightsbridge removed her hand, but Jamie wasn’t allowed to slouch because the woman then spread her fingers across the small of Jamie’s back, ignoring her question and muttering to herself—something about modistes? She measured the breadth of Jamie’s shoulders with another span of her hands. When she turned Jamie around and started to use the same splayed-finger method to measure her chest, Jamie grabbed the woman’s hands and forced her to look into her eyes.
“If you would just tell me where Wilhelmina is, then I’ll explain everything to her and get her to send me home. I’m sorry this didn’t work out the way you two planned, but I’m not the one you were looking for. So, I’ll ask again. Where is Wilhelmina?”
“She is in hiding.” The housekeeper looked up at Jamie, the innocence in her expression almost too much to swallow.
Jamie dropped her plump hands, afraid that she might squeeze too hard to get a straight answer from the woman. “Hiding where? Like in the broom closet or in darkest Africa?”
“I cannot say.”
Jamie glared at her, the already thin pieces of her patience disappearing completely. “Look. You’ve dragged me from my home into a time and place that I know absolutely nothing about. I have no clothes, no food, and I’m pretty sure that my host would like nothing better than to never see my face again.” She ticked the points off on her fingers, her volume increasing with each one. “I need to see Wilhelmina. Now.”
Mrs. Knightsbridge’s face crumpled like used tissue paper. “I am so sorry, Miss Jamie, but I do not know where she is. It is safer for us all that way. As soon as she contacts me, I will request that she send you home. Is that acceptable?”
Jamie deflated. If her own sister doesn’t know where the witch is, then what chance do I have in this foreign time and place? “I guess I don’t have any choice.”
Mrs. Knightsbridge clapped her hands together delightedly. “Excellent. Now, walk. We may as well make the most of your time here.”
Jamie trudged from one end of the room to the other, her bare toes curling when she stepped off of the cream-colored rug onto the floor. What had happened to her flip-flops, anyway? The least comfort she could ask for was her shoes, right? And they were gone too. What a miserable day this was turning out to be.
Mrs. Knightsbridge clucked her tongue disapprovingly. Her eyes filled with despair when Jamie turned to walk back the way she’d come.
“What?”
“We’ve a lot of work to do.”
***
An hour later, Jamie was exhausted, starving, and itchy from the fine layer of dust still coating her body under the robe. Mrs. Knightsbridge had given her walking lessons straight out of a historical movie, book-on-the-head-for-balance and everything. Since Jamie’s main form of exercise for most of the last year had been her hands on the computer keyboard, it was damned trying.
Jamie had tried to talk her out of it, but the round little woman was pitiless. She eventually gave up. As the only connection Jamie had to this Wilhelmina of the Old Ways witchy woman, she figured she should do her best to make Mrs. Knightsbridge happy. It sure wasn’t easy, though.
“A lady never stomps like a horse. She floats gracefully.”
“Floating…gracefully…” Jamie hissed through gritted teeth. The book was slipping again. She lifted her chin to keep it balanced, staring upward as hard as she could without moving her head.
“She is serene and pleasant and always composed.”
“Composed…” Jamie parroted without moving her jaw. She rounded the chair in the corner for the sixteenth time and serenely, pleasantly, and gracefully glided back to the door. She was about as sick as she could be of this. She was not cut out for this ladylike shit.
“A lady is beauty and kindness and—oh gracious, Miss Jamie, this will never do!”
Jamie let the book of sonnets fall from her head as she collapsed in a heap on the carpet. “What, what now?”
“Your fingers! That horrid chipping paint simply will not do. It is not at all in fashion. Now, we will…”
Jamie pulled her legs close to her body, sitting Indian style on the plush carpet. “Mrs. Knightsbridge, listen. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’d give my tier-twelve gear to feel clean right now. Can we pick up the lessons tomorrow?”
Mrs. Knightsbridge clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Of course, dear. I shall send the footmen with a bath.”
“Huh? I can’t just use the…” Oh crap. When did they invent indoor plumbing? Jamie’s blood froze inside her veins.
“They will only be a moment. Then I shall bring a tray for you.” Mrs. Knightsbridge patted her fondly on the head and sailed out of the room like the mother ship.
Jamie was so screwed.
She moved to sit on the chair by the window and watched in horror as the uniformed footmen brought in a copper tub. They set it in front of the fire and filled it with water brought up in buckets. Homely, plain, actual buckets. When the tub was about three quarters full, they left her alone.
A quiet knock on the door interrupted her bleak stare at the stingy, tiny tub.
“Miss?” A pale, thin face poked throug
h the crack in the door. “I’m Muriel. I’m to see to your bath.”
“No, they already brought what I guess they think is a bath.” Jamie sighed heavily. “Thanks anyway.”
“No, miss.” The girl giggled as she came through the door and shut it behind her. She held a length of cloth folded up, a towel Jamie presumed, and a basket with bottles and things. “I am to help you bathe.”
Jamie stared at the girl. What was wrong with these people? Grown-ass women weren’t expected to wash themselves? They needed someone to do it for them? What kind of jacked-up farce had she stepped into, anyway?
“I’ve been pretty much responsible for my own personal hygiene since I was six, but thanks anyway.”
Muriel crossed her arms and made a knowing face. “How do you rinse your hair, then? You can hold the bucket over your head by yourself? How do you reach it?”
“Oh.” Jamie stared at the two buckets sitting on the hearth. They did still have water in them. “Good point.”
“Come now, miss. Before the water cools.”
As Jamie stood, she realized that she couldn’t delay certain needs forever. As embarrassing and as terrifying as it was, she had to face the music.
“Um, Muriel? What do I do if I need to, um, go?”
“Go?” The maid looked up from arranging the bottles on the table beside the tub.
“You know.” Jamie mimed the potty dance. “Go.”
“Oh. Behind the screen there, miss.” She pointed to the far corner.
“Okay.”
Jamie took a deep breath, marshaled her courage, and went to face her fate.
“Ho. Ly. Shit.”
It was a pot. A literal pot. Not a toilet but an actual, honest-to-God pot. What was she supposed to do? Squat over it? Sit on it? It’d be damn uncomfortable. And what was she supposed to wipe with? Ugh. Just…ugh.
She decided she’d hold it forever. No way in hell could she go in something like that.
