by Bess McBride
I came back around the screen to see Mrs. Agnew enter the room again.
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind, I guess,” I said with a heavy sigh.
“What’s this?” Mrs. Agnew said. She carried a woven skirt and bodice jacket in a lovely shade of slate blue. The color reminded me of Colin’s eyes.
“The mistress wants to bathe,” Sarah said, rising from the fire.
“Well, what I really wanted was a bathroom,” I said sheepishly. “I’m fine for now. I just really want to know where a working bathroom is. I’m completely disoriented right now.”
“I dinna ken such,” Mrs. Agnew said with drawn brows. “Ye see the bathing tub afore ye. Yet ye dinna wish a bath?”
Gosh, the women were confusing me even more, if that was possible.
I shook my head. “No, not right now. I’ll be fine. Is that for me?”
Mrs. Agnew eyed the clothing in her hand. “Aye, a dress suitable for a cold, rainy day. Her ladyship had many bonnie dresses. It is a fine thing to see them worn again. Ye have the look of her.”
“I do?” I caught my reflection in the mirror. My long brown hair was tangled from the bedding. Short and slender, I had always dreamed of growing taller, but that had not come about. I looked just like my mother. As with Sarah, my pale cheeks were bright red, and I knew that could be due to the warming of the fire or anxiety—or a combination of both.
“Aye! She was a tiny thing but full of life. I miss her greatly,” Mrs. Agnew said with a break in her voice. She cleared her throat and turned to the maid. “Sarah, go downstairs and help Grace and Mrs. Renwick in the kitchen. She’s fair tearing her hair out, poor woman. I will tend to the mistress.”
Sarah left the room silently, and Mrs. Agnew pulled the tartan from my shoulders.
“I can dress, Mrs. Agnew.”
“I dinna doubt that ye can, mistress, but it will take ye longer to do so by yerself. Breakfast is almost over, and unless ye wish to take a tray in yer room, we must hurry.”
“Okay,” I said in resignation. My face flamed as I peeled off my nightgown, and Mrs. Agnew hesitated, eying my panties for a moment, before she started throwing garments over my head. On went a soft linen chemise, the hoop petticoat and the dress. The stays, which she layered somewhere in the middle of the assortment of clothing, were pulled rigid, far more tightly than I had the prior evening.
“Ouch!” I exclaimed.
“I havena pulled yer stays tight, mistress. I can see from yer waist that ye are nae accustomed to them. Meaning no disrespect, but yer dress didna hang right last night without the pannier petticoat. Ye look much better today.”
She buttoned the front of the bodice, and I looked down at my huge hips created by the pannier under the skirt. How was I supposed to move in the thing? Left on the bed where she’d laid the rest of the clothing was something resembling bloomers and white knit stockings. She picked up the bloomers.
“Since ye wear some sort of underclothing from the colonies, we can do away wi these, but yer limbs will chill if ye dinna don the stockings.”
So, on went the stockings, looking a lot like something my grandmother had worn, attached to garter straps on the corset.
Mrs. Agnew tsked as I slipped into my athletic shoes. “Her ladyship did have smaller feet than ye. It is a shame, but no matter. Yer shoes look very sturdy.”
I grinned at her approval.
“Do ye wish me to attend to yer hair?”
“Oh, ummm, no. I got it.” I retrieved my ponytail holder from the dressing table, dragged the comb through my hair and wrapped the band around my hair, thinking to leave it hanging.
“Do ye wear this horse’s mane in the colonies, then?” Mrs. Agnew asked. She reached into a tiny drawer and retrieved some ominous-looking pins before winding my ponytail around my head and securing it.
“Yes?” I said. I tried to remember if I’d seen any Scottish women or girls wearing ponytails since I’d been in the country, and I was pretty sure I had. Another sigh from me.
I followed Mrs. Agnew downstairs and into the dining room. Surprisingly, for it felt like we’d been dressing for hours, Captain Jones was still sitting at the table. He did appear to be done and was enjoying a cup of coffee. Colin was nowhere to be seen.
George met us at the door and pulled out a chair for me across the wide table from Captain Jones. Mrs. Agnew flew out of the room as Captain Jones jumped up at my entrance and bowed at the waist. I wondered where the housekeeper was off to in such a hurry, and I felt bad that she’d taken so much time helping me dress.
In the light of day, though the heavy green velvet curtains had been pulled back to reveal a gloomy, rainy morning, Captain Jones was even more handsome than I had thought. His blond hair, sky-blue eyes and pale aquiline face gave him the quintessentially English appearance. Instead of a sweater-vest and corduroy trousers, he wore his bright red-and-black uniform with shiny brass buttons and gold-threaded epaulettes.
“Good morning, Mistress Pratt,” he exclaimed. “May I pour you some coffee?”
“Good morning, Captain Jones,” I said, feeling foolish. Now I had to play at reenacting with a new guy. “Yes, thank you,” I said in response to his question.
The table was festooned with an assortment of covered platters, which George lifted to reveal hot and cold foods. I helped myself to some porridge, toast and jam.
Rising to pour the coffee, Captain Jones spoke.
“I trust you slept well. I beg your pardon for disturbing your night with our late arrival. Had I known Lord Anderson had guests, I might have knocked a bit more softly. As it was, I think he ignored our earlier knocks, and so we were required to rouse the household.”
I realized in a moment why Mrs. Agnew had flown from the room. Colin burst in, dressed not in his tartan but in the black jacket he had worn last night, a dark-blue waistcoat, a fresh neckcloth and brown trousers. His hair flew around his face in that charming way it had.
“Cousin Beth,” he said with a quick look in Captain Jones’ direction. “I thought ye wished to break yer fast in yer room.”
“Oh!” I murmured, nonplussed. I thought he had been suggesting I eat in my room, not demanding. And now, I was his cousin.
“I decided to come downstairs,” I said.
“Aye, I can see that,” Colin said, pulling out the chair at the head of the table. He poured himself a cup of coffee, obviously intent on staying.
“Did you eat?” I asked him.
“Aye, earlier,” he said.
“This is a rare treat,” Captain Jones said. “Lord Anderson does not often dine with me when I am required to stay here. I can only assume he wishes to provide his ‘cousin’ a modicum of respectability by chaperoning her.” The captain winked at me, and I couldn’t help but grin. Colin moved restlessly, and a glance at him out of the corner of my eye revealed a darkened expression.
“That is a correct assumption, Captain Jones. Mistress Pratt is here under my protection, and it isna proper for her to dine alone wi a man nae of her family.”
“Even here in the Highlands?” Captain Jones asked with an amused smile. “Surely the restrictions of Edinburgh’s drawing rooms are left behind in these wild and beautiful mountains.”
“Even in the Highlands,” Colin responded with firm lips.
“Yes, of course,” Captain Jones said, conceding the point.
Me? I wondered how long we were all going to continue this farce. Colin did appear angry. I didn’t think he was faking it, but I really didn’t know why.
“I was just apologizing to your cousin for disturbing her sleep,” Captain Jones went on.
“Were ye now?” Colin asked, settling back in his chair and sipping his coffee. “Then perhaps ye would care to rally yer men and leave so that she isna further disturbed.”
Captain Jones laughed.
“Lord Anderson, you know that we are trapped within the boundaries of your estate by the flooding. As long as it continues to rain, we cannot leave
. We cannot cross the bridge or ford the river, nor do I intend to march my men over the mountains behind your estate.”
“A pity,” Colin said. “Highlanders cross the mountains easily.”
“Yes, they do,” Captain Jones said. “But I am from London, and most of my men hail from the gentle landscape of England.”
He turned to me.
“And you are from the colonies, Mistress Pratt? Pray tell, where?”
“Montana,” I said quickly. Colin dropped his cup heavily in its saucer, almost more as a distraction than clumsiness.
“Montana?” Captain Jones said. “I have studied the colonies, and I am not familiar with this region. The name sounds Spanish. Where is this Montana?”
“It is a wee village south of Boston,” Colin offered before I could answer. “Ye willna have heard of it.”
“Boston!” Captain Jones exclaimed. I was just about to exclaim myself.
“Aye, Massachusetts,” Colin said. He eyed me pointedly, and I closed my mouth. Okay, Montana could be in Massachusetts, sure. Here in mid-eighteenth-century land, anything was possible.
“I would like to learn more of this village of Montana,” Captain Jones said with a smile. “Perhaps we can speak further on the subject. At present though, I must check on the men. Though Lord Anderson disputes this, I do try to keep them in check, though they are bored and restless in this poor weather.”
He rose and bowed. I almost stood, for some reason, but stayed still, giving him a smile and a small wave. Colin ignored him. As soon as the door closed behind him, I started.
“Well, what was that all about? Hey, listen, that little ‘talk’ we had last night. I almost fell for that, can you believe it? Nope, time travel doesn’t exist, it doesn’t happen, and I am smack dab in the middle of the twenty-first century. So, buckaroo, what’s the deal here anyway? And who is that guy?”
Colin stared at me for a moment before dropping his elbows on the table as he leaned forward.
“Are ye jesting wi me, lass? Yon Englishman is Captain Jones, right and true. The English think naethin of availing themselves of my hospitality should they travel through the area, which they do far too often.” He continued. “Time travel? Och, I surely do believe that time travel is possible and that ye have traveled through time. If no, then it is ye who are making a pretence, though yer English be peculiar enough to be from the New World.”
“My English!” I exclaimed. “Your English is appalling!”
“Well, I’m nae English now, am I, madam?” Colin emphasized his point by jabbing his chest with his thumb.
“No, you’re not!” I instantly regretted my words. “I’m sorry,” I said, shamefaced. “I love the Scottish accent. It’s really quite charming.”
Though Colin’s beard largely covered the lower half of his face, I could see redness creep onto his forehead, and I knew he blushed.
“That is quite a thick beard you have there. Makes it hard to read your expression.”
“Do ye wish to ‘read’ my expression?” he asked, settling back into his chair.
“Sometimes,” I said with a nod. I could feel my own face flaming. “Like right now. I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
“I am thinking that ye and I are in a predicament. One of us speaks the truth and one of us tells lies.”
“I’m not lying,” I said. “I know when I was born. Oh, and Montana?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “South of Boston? Really?”
Colin’s teeth flashed charmingly, and his shoulders lifted in a shrug.
“Montana is about as far from Boston as you can get,” I said. “You may not have studied American geography—why would you?—but it’s in the West. North and West. Below Alberta?” I thought he might at least recognize a Canadian province.
“I dinna ken Alberta,” he said. “Wait here a moment.” He jumped up and left the room.
I finished my lovely toast and waited. Colin returned with something that resembled a newspaper, which he set in front of me. The thick paper looked new, and I noted the name. The Caledonian Mercury from Edinburgh, Midlothian, Scotland. I squinted to read the year. The typeset was different than anything I’d ever seen.
“July 21, 1746,” I read aloud. “Well, of course you’d have a mid-eighteenth-century newspaper in your house, Colin. I can’t imagine you’d have a current one. That would ruin the facade, wouldn’t it?”
“Look at it closely,” he said. He put his finger on the top sheet and ran it along, holding his hand up to reveal ink.
Ink? From a newspaper that was over two hundred and fifty years old? Cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and my stomach lurched.
I picked up the paper, finding it shiny, thick and sturdy, with no evidence of yellowing, cracking or other signs of aging.
“Is this proof enough?” Colin asked. He hovered over me, and between the sense of the surreal and the presence of his long-fingered hand near mine, I wondered if I was about to faint.
I fought the sensation.
“No, this could just be a replica.”
Colin threw himself in his chair with a frustrated expression. At least, I think it was frustration.
“Woman! What will it take to convince ye?”
I shrugged and attempted a grin.
“I have no idea. Since you’re so deeply immersed in the eighteenth century, I would expect you have everything on hand that I might expect to find. Except a bathroom.” I simply couldn’t let go of this all-too-important feature.
“And what is a bathroom? A room for bathing?” He shook his head. “Why would one need a special room for bathing?”
“Well, it’s for more than bathing, Colin, as you well know. In fact, it’s probably used more for its toilet facilities than for the bathtub or shower.”
“Toilet? Do ye mean toilette? Isna there a dressing table in yer room? I thought surely there was.”
I groaned in frustration.
“No, not toilette. Toilet, bathroom, where one goes to do one’s business.”
Colin blushed again. “Does yer room lack the necessary? I shall speak to Mrs. Agnew at once.”
I jumped up restlessly. “No! I have the necessary. I just want a bathroom,” I said plaintively. “I just want to know you have one.”
Colin stood, watching me pace.
“But, madam, I dinna have such a room. Ye may see for yerself. Search the castle. I’ll take ye on a tour myself.”
I shook my head with a mixture of impatience and anxiety. “Oh, forget it! Look, what can I do to rejoin my tour? You played the ole ‘I don’t know what a phone is’ last night, but I’m serious now. I need to find my tour, find my luggage and find my sanity.”
“And I thought ye had found yer sanity last evening,” Colin said quietly. “I feel sorry for ye, Mistress Pratt, and I dinna ken how to help ye. Not until ye accept what has come to pass.”
“I don’t want to,” I said, moving to the window. “I really, really don’t want to.” I stared out into the rain. “Because if I do, I won’t know how to find my way home.”
Colin moved to my side, his presence at once comforting and disturbing.
“Aye,” he said softly. “That is surely a problem.”
Chapter Five
Having no clue what to do next, I took Colin up on his offer to tour the castle. We started downstairs in the kitchen, which was a beehive of activity as Mrs. Renwick attempted to cook while shooing bored and hungry soldiers out from under her feet. The young kitchen maid scurried around, trying to avoid the men.
“Awa wi ye!” Mrs. Renwick said, batting at a solider as he reached for an oatcake.
Captain Jones clattered down the steps into the kitchen behind us.
“Captain Jones!” Colin remonstrated. “Take yer men in hand. They are fair torturing Mrs. Renwick and her granddaughter.”
“Yes, of course, Lord Anderson! I went to my room to pick up some papers before coming down here to the men. I am just on the point of chasing them from the kitchen.
We most certainly do not wish to interfere with the good lady’s cooking, now do we, men?”
Captain Jones opened his arms wide and managed about ten soldiers through a door at the far end of the kitchen, much like a mother goose might spread her wings and urge her flock forward. I heard the group shuffling down some stairs, indicating there was yet another level.
I couldn’t help but smile. The soldier-actors seemed harmless, most of them quite young. Colin’s dark expression was either well put on, or he didn’t agree with my silent thoughts.
“This is Mrs. Renwick, who oversees the kitchen. And Grace, her granddaughter.”
Grace, who looked about fourteen, curtsied. I thought she looked quite young to be working full time, but maybe she only helped her grandmother out on occasion. It was summer, and she might be out of school.
Cheeks rosy from embarrassment, the tiny blonde moved to a large pot over a fire and stirred something inside with a wooden spoon.
“I canna feed all these men for more than a few days without some extra help, yer lairdship,” Mrs. Renwick said with a bob in our direction.
“They will be gone as soon as I can manage, Mrs. Renwick. If not today, perhaps tomorrow. I havena checked the river since these infernal rains began, but I imagine it is swollen. When the weather lets up, Captain Jones and his men will leave. At any rate, we canna get help from the village if they canna cross the river.”
“Aye, that be true,” she said. She turned back to her cooking.
While they spoke, I scanned the massive vaulted kitchen for outlets, wiring, anything remotely modern, but I saw nothing on the stone walls to suggest modern electricity had been installed.
Light came through open windows high on the walls. Grace’s pot hung from a heavy chain over an open wood fire. Mrs. Renwick pulled chains from the ceiling to rotate something roasting over the fire. Sturdy-looking cast-iron cooking utensils hung from hooks on the walls, even something that looked like a bellows. The granite tiles in the floor were appropriately cut in rather uneven rectangles, as if they had been hand hewn, because why would someone have nicely tiled floors in an old castle? Everything looked like the setting for a medieval period film.
