by Tamara Gill
“I see you have some shopping of your own to do,” she commented caustically, forgetting to stay in character. “That one should be discounted as used merchandise.”
Ryan swung around to stare at her incredulously. “What did you say?”
Kathryn slanted a knowing glance at him through her lashes. “You heard me. Run along and play. I can find my way home without your help.” Gesturing to the groom, she turned the mare and headed back the way they'd come. She had gone less than half a block before Ryan caught up with her.
“Of course I cannot let you ride back alone. Your parents' good opinion is very important to me.” His cajoling tone reminded her of a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“But mine isn't?” asked Kathryn, far from conciliated. Why on earth should she be upset about his philandering? she asked herself impatiently. It wasn't as though this man actually meant anything to her.
“Of course it is. You were completely out in what you suspected back there. How could a strumpet like that turn my head when you were within sight?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself,” murmured Kathryn as demurely as she could manage. Demureness had never been her strong suit.
Ryan shot her a frowning glance but said nothing, and they rode on in silence for some way.
Kathryn couldn't help wondering whether Catherine would have pulled Ryan away from the tramp downtown, or if she would even have cared. Probably not, she thought, recalling the diary. She was beginning to see why a sheltered girl like Catherine Prescott might not care for Mr. James. For herself, though, she found him . . . intriguing.
They passed from the business district onto Walnut Street, a quieter avenue that bore no resemblance to anything Kathryn could remember. Wisteria climbed over some of the houses and the sandy street was lined with trees. Inhaling deeply of the clean, sweet spring air, she realized that this, after all, was the kind of unwinding she needed to do. With Ryan James to keep things amusing, she thought she just might enjoy a stay in 1825—as long as it was a short one.
Lunch was being laid on the table when they returned. Mrs. Sykes-Prescott greeted them warmly, but when she pressed Ryan to stay to dinner, as she called the meal, he pleaded business in town and left, avoiding Kathryn's knowing glance. I hope she proves a disappointment, Mr. James, she thought as the door closed behind him. She wondered how much the Prescotts really knew about this oh-so-eligible suitor of Catherine's.
“Run on upstairs and change out of your habit, dear,” Mrs. Sykes-Prescott said briskly. “I told Nancy to lay out your ivory cotton gown, for I believe it will be getting warm today.”
Nancy—that must be the maid's name. Upstairs, Kathryn made a point of using it at every opportunity. “Thank you, Nancy,” she said as she left her room to join the Prescotts downstairs. “We'll let the loose corset be our little secret, all right?”
The woman nodded and put her finger to smiling lips, apparently at ease with Kathryn's new friendliness toward her. They had worked together on a compromise that allowed the corset to do its job without pinching, though Kathryn still would have given a lot for some elastic. At least the food was good, she thought, hurrying down the stairs. The aromas were causing her stomach to grumble already.
“Your father sent word that he would eat dinner at the plantation, and quite probably supper as well,” her mother informed her as she entered the dining room.
Kathryn was hardly disappointed. She needed to know more about this man whom she must now treat as a father, but she was willing to postpone a meeting since she was apparently on his black list right now. Sitting down to a veritable banquet, she gave her full attention to the meal.
Afterward, Kathryn spent the long afternoon ostensibly embroidering pillow covers with Mrs. S-P (as she began calling Catherine's mother to herself). Though she could sew rather well from her time spent on costume crews in college, Kathryn had never embroidered, so she faked it, trying to look convincingly busy. They hardly talked at all, and Kathryn suspected that Mrs. S-P preferred it that way. She and her daughter did not see eye to eye on more subjects than Mr. James's suitability as a husband, it seemed.
The light supper of deep-fried chicken and steamed peas, which was served at dusk, was every bit as good as breakfast and dinner had been. Kathryn had to force herself to eat sparingly, afraid Nancy wouldn't tolerate another inch to her waist.
Finally, reluctantly, she'd become convinced that all of this was absolutely real. No dream, or even any madness she'd ever heard of, could account for her experiences.
As she mounted the stairs at the close of the evening, the throbbing of her knee and backside from this morning's ride added to her conviction that she'd pay full price for any indiscretions she committed here. And that reminded her that she still hadn't seen Mr. Prescott since he'd heard about Catherine's wild ride. With any luck, she'd be gone before he could do anything about it, and Catherine could pay for her own crimes.
Alone in her room for the night, she sat down to consider her situation. She wondered if she could possibly be reliving a past life, as some of her theater friends had claimed to have done. But wouldn't she feel like Catherine in that case? Instead, she felt very much herself. She had none of the early Catherine's memories to draw on, that was for sure.
It was more as though her mind was somehow trapped in her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's body. Could some sort of switch have occurred? Had they somehow overlapped in time and . . . traded places?
Kathryn's eyes fell on the diary, still lying on the desk. Sitting down, she picked up the quill and, after a bit of effort, managed to ink it—but then paused. If she and Catherine had exchanged places, surely there must be a way for them to trade back. But how? And what on earth was going on in her own time?
***
CHAPTER FOUR
Catherine awoke early, feeling surprisingly refreshed, considering the hard mattress. Perhaps Annette had been right about it being good for her back. She got up and went to listen at the door, but heard no sounds without. There no longer seemed to be a plethora of servants in and about the house. Perhaps they were no longer necessary, considering the advances made in such everyday conveniences as bathing.
Bathing!
Cautiously, she opened the bathroom door, wondering whether she had dreamed its marvels, but no, all was as she remembered from last night. With a guilty sense of satisfaction, she ran hot water into the beautiful white bathtub, plugging the hole under the faucet with the gold stopper.
It was better, much better, not to require help in order to attend to one's personal hygiene. She used the automatic chamber pot again, wondering in sudden embarrassment how audible its noise might be in other portions of the house. Surely, though, people from this time must be quite used to it?
Easing herself into the steaming bath, Catherine sighed in pure delight. This was lovely! She leisurely soaped and rinsed herself, then washed her hair with soap. It was only as she was letting the water drain from the tub that she noticed the elegant green bottle labeled “shampoo” and realized its purpose. She would use it tomorrow, she promised herself, and also try standing under the stream of water from the faucet near the ceiling.
Tomorrow?
She caught herself up short. Surely she would not be here that long. During her blissful bath she had pushed the dilemma facing her to the back of her mind, but now it nearly overwhelmed her. What if she could not get back? Her parents must be nigh frantic by now!
But no—Kathryn was there in her place, she remembered. Was she finding 1825 as strange as Catherine was finding 2013? In the diary, she had written that Catherine should enjoy herself while the switch lasted. No doubt that was excellent advice.
Poking through Kathryn's drawers and what appeared to be a built-in wardrobe in the bathroom, she remembered what Annette had said last night about “regular clothes.” Fashions certainly had changed since her time! From her survey of the few things hanging in the closet, she was forced to t
he welcome conclusion that women must now be wearing breeches. The first order of business, however, must be undergarments.
Recalling what she'd had on under her dress last night, Catherine nearly blushed—thin silken drawers and a contraption about her upper body that apparently served a corset's support function. And that was all.
After a brief process of trial and error, Catherine managed to fasten the lacy brassiere. These new underthings were vastly more comfortable than what she had been used to, she had to admit, however indecent they appeared.
Returning to the closet, she tried on a pair of beige linen trousers and found them equally comfortable. There was a patterned beige-and-rust blouse that went well with the pants, as well as a matching jacket, so Catherine donned these, as well. In sudden excitement, she wondered if these new styles meant that ladies were no longer required to ride sidesaddle. That would be marvelous!
She was not sure what to do with her hair, always having had Nancy or Aunt Sykes's maid, Pyms, to dress it for her. Finally she simply brushed it out and pulled it back with a golden hair clip she found on the dressing table. Annette would let her know if she was not dressed appropriately for their shopping trip.
Emerging into the hallway, she heard voices below and a surge of alarm swept through her. How could she possibly conceal her true identity? For a moment she was tempted to stay in her room, but then realized that her only hope of breakfast was downstairs. Straightening her shoulders, she went down.
“Good morning, dear, I hope you slept well,” the woman who looked so like her mother greeted her as she entered the room. “Annette said you weren't feeling too well last night and went to bed early. Are you all right now?”
“Perfectly,” replied Catherine, very much aware of Logan Thorne's presence. He was watching her from his place at the table and it was all she could do to refrain from staring back. “A good night's sleep has set me up wonderfully.” She tried to mimic her mother's accent, cautioning herself to say as little as possible until she had it right.
“Good, good,” said her mother—it was so much easier to think of her that way—as she rose to push open the kitchen door. “Alice, would you fix a plate for Kathy, please?”
A moment later a big woman with frizzy red hair bustled out of the kitchen bearing a plate of fruit, fried potatoes and pastry, as well as a large glass of orange juice. “There you go, sweetie,” she said with a wink, thumping them down on the table.
Catherine obediently sat down in front of her breakfast, glad to have found out so easily which was her place at the table, and began to eat. Unfortunately for her concentration, she was seated directly across from Logan, who now seemed to be giving his full attention to his own plate. After a moment, however, she saw that he was regarding her curiously.
“Were you in a hurry this morning or are you trying for a natural look? If so, I have to say I like it.”
Did he mean her hair? she wondered. “I was hungry,” she replied briefly, afraid to reveal her ignorance by saying more.
“I always thought your face looked better without the war paint, myself.”
Before she could reply to this astonishing statement, her mother broke in. “Nonsense, Logan. You know a girl in Kathy's position wouldn't be taken seriously without makeup. I certainly wouldn't be caught dead without mine. Of course, at my age . . . I have to admit, though, Kathy, you look fine. Different, but fine.”
“Different?” asked Annette, walking in at that moment. Catherine swung around to smile at her in relief.
“Without her makeup, I meant,” said Mrs. Sykes-Monroe. “I was just envying her for still being young enough to get away without it.”
“Oh.” Annette sounded relieved, herself. Then in a different tone, she said, “You wouldn't believe what happened when I got home last night.” After a dramatic pause to be sure she had everyone's attention, she continued. “I was mugged! Right on post! I thought I'd left that kind of thing back in New Jersey. So much for Southern hospitality.”
Catherine looked bewildered, not knowing what the word “mugged” meant, though it was obviously something unpleasant. Her mother, however, let out a small shriek. “How could anyone mug an expectant mother?” she cried. “Were you hurt?”
“No, I just kept my mouth shut, gave him my purse and called the MPs as soon as I got inside. Luckily, I had my keys in my hand, so he didn't get those. And I doubt he noticed I was pregnant, not that that would have made much difference.”
“You canceled your credit cards, didn't you?”
“Right after calling the MPs. I was robbed once before, so I knew what to do. At least he didn't get much cash. I only had twenty or so in my wallet. But what a hassle getting everything replaced! Anyway, I have to go to the MP station this morning to file a report, and if I know Army bureaucracy, it could take hours. So I'm afraid our trip to the mall will have to wait, Cathy.”
Catherine nodded quickly, trying not to stare. Robbed! Annette had been robbed last night, and yet here she was talking calmly about it instead of having the vapors.
“I'll be going by the mall myself this morning,” said Logan from across the table, immediately diverting her attention from Annette. “I can drop you there if you'd like, Kathy.”
Was he inviting her to go driving with him—alone? She knew it was improper, but it seemed a perfect opportunity to learn more about him. “Why, thank you,” she said quickly, before she could change her mind. “How nice of you to offer.”
Annette stared at her, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, closed it, then said to Logan, “Well, uh, thanks, then. Cathy really doesn't know her way around Columbia yet.”
“I didn't think she'd want to drive even if she did.” Logan's tone was almost mocking, and to Catherine's surprise, Annette agreed. Did he know? she wondered confusedly.
“Could I maybe scrounge a Danish or something?” Annette asked, changing the subject. “I only had a cup of coffee before I left.”
“Of course.” Passing her a plate of sweet rolls, Mrs. Sykes-Monroe continued, “I've been thinking, Annette, since Dave is away for a while, why don't you just move in here until he gets back? I'm sure Kathy would love having you.”
“Oh, yes, I would!” That would be a perfect way to have Annette here to help her out as she went along, Catherine realized. Besides, she genuinely liked her.
Annette caught the look in Catherine's eye and hesitated for only a second. “If you're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?”
“Of course not! There are still two empty bedrooms, though you'll have to use the hall bath. I really don't like to think of you living alone, especially after what happened last night.”
“Well, okay, then,” Annette capitulated readily. “I really don't much like staying alone, either, especially at night. Our quarters are old and they creak. Though I guess they're not nearly as old as this house! I don't mind creaking when I'm not by myself, though.”
“This house has been fully renovated,” Mrs. Sykes-Monroe informed her archly. “It wouldn't dare creak!”
As soon as she finished eating, Annette turned to Catherine. “Would you mind lending me some lipstick? Mine was in my purse.” With her eyes, she communicated that she wanted a chance to speak to Catherine privately. Catherine agreed at once, though she wasn't quite sure what “lipstick” was, and led her upstairs.
As soon as they were in her room, Annette asked, “Are you still Catherine Prescott, or did I dream that?”
“No, I'm afraid it is true.”
“And how do you plan to keep that a secret from Logan? I couldn't believe it when you agreed to go to the mall with him!”
“I thought perhaps if . . . if we were to show him the diary . . . That reminds me, do you still have it? I am sorry I threw it at you last night.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I stuck it in my purse and . . . oh, no!” Annette's eyes widened in horror. “It was in my purse! Boy, now I really hope the MPs get it back for me. We never finished reading what Kathy wrote.”
“You . . . were robbed last night.” Catherine's horror returned abruptly.
“Yes, but don't get all upset. Crime is probably worse than it was in your time, but that sort of thing is still pretty rare, at least in smaller cities like Columbia. As long as you don't go out by yourself at night, you'll be fine. Anyway, I'll give the MPs this number, in case they find my purse, since my cell was in it, too—that is, if you really want me to stay.”
“Please do! I fear I shall need all of the help you can give me. For example, what is a cell? You said there was one in your purse?”
“Oh!” Annette laughed. “I meant my phone—cell phone. Look, here’s Kathy’s.” She picked up a small black rectangle from the night stand. “Wow, she must be lost without it, back in 1825.”
“Lost . . . ?” Catherine blinked. Why would anyone get lost without a little box like that? But she had more pressing questions just now. “About this morning—should I not have agreed to go out with Mr. Thorne alone?”
“The 'alone' part isn't the problem. I mean, there's nothing improper about it or anything like that. The question is, do you think you can pretend to be Kathy—our Kathy—during the ride there and back?”
“Would it not be much simpler to tell him the truth?” Catherine asked hopefully.
To her disappointment, Annette shook her head. “I don't think so. I mean, he'd think we were both nuts or, more likely, that we were playing some kind of joke on him. I got the impression that Logan and Kathy didn't get along all that well, even though they've known each other for ages. And with the diary gone, we have no proof.” She hesitated. “Maybe you should just wait and go shopping with me tomorrow.”
“No, no,” said Catherine quickly. “If you can advise me about what will be expected, I believe I shall do well enough.”
Annette still looked skeptical, but she shrugged. “Okay, if you insist. I doubt he'll actually hang around to shop with you, anyway, if he's like most men. But don't say I didn't warn you.” Catherine smiled gratefully. “Do you want me to help you put a little bit of makeup on, or would you rather do without?” asked Annette, apparently resigned.
