by Bess McBride
Rachel glanced at Mary, who waggled her eyebrows with a smile. Withholding such a significant piece of information from Roger felt uncharitable and mean spirited, and Rachel decided to disclose—within limits.
“Okay, it’s not a big thing, but apparently the fairy godmother brought me back for someone who is lonely and kind of lovesick.”
Rachel heard a utensil drop into a bowl nearby and looked over at St. John. His hand was empty, his spoon in his bowl of soup.
“Lovesick?” he repeated, his dark eyes drawn together. “I am afraid I was not made aware of that particular malady.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel murmured, looking around the table. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
“You didn’t,” Mary said. “It’s okay!” She eyed St. John narrowly, and he drew in a deep breath and forced a smile.
“I apologize, Rachel,” he said. “I can offer no excuse for my boorish behavior.”
Rachel’s cheeks burned, and she looked down at her plate.
“Please continue,” St. John said.
“Well, that’s about it. Hickstrom thought I could help this person, and I can’t. She has the wrong girl, and I’m heading home on the next Hickstrom train!” Rachel’s embarrassment made her flippant, and she looked up at Mary, whose face drooped. “Don’t get me wrong—I loved meeting Mary,” she said to Roger, “but I have a business that I have to get back to.”
“You own a business?” Roger asked, as if to change the subject. “And what business is that?”
“A bookstore, antique books, first editions, stuff like that. Hickstrom called me a book peddler, and Lady Georgianna decided that I was little better than a gypsy in a caravan!”
Rachel meant to return the smile to Mary’s face, and she succeeded. Roger and St. John smiled as well.
“Yes, I can imagine that description did not sit well with Lady Georgianna,” St. John said. “She is very conscious of the family’s position in society.”
“May I assume that Miss Hickstrom gave you no warning, no time to make preparations, before she whisked you away to the nineteenth century?” Roger asked.
“No, it went very fast. I had no idea what was happening.”
“In my case, I found Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales and fell asleep reading it, but this time Miss Hickstrom pushed Rachel to read from the book in her store,” Mary said.
“You were probably meant to find that book, Mary,” Rachel said.
“Yes, I was.”
Mary gave St. John a look of such intense love that Rachel blinked and looked away. She met Roger’s blue eyes. He glanced at the couple and back at her with an understanding smile.
“What are your plans, if I may ask, Miss Lee?”
“You really can call me Rachel, you know. I’m sure St. John wouldn’t mind.”
St. John tore his eyes away from his wife’s face.
“What is that?”
“You wouldn’t mind if Roger called me Rachel, would you?”
“Not at all. Roger is as close to me as a brother. We stand on no ceremony...as a rule.”
Roger’s face colored, and he gave Rachel a knowing smile. “Rachel,” he murmured.
“There! How easy is that! So you were asking about my plans.” Rachel paused and twisted her lips. “I don’t know. I’m at Hickstrom’s mercy. But I hope I can convince her that I’m not her girl so I can get back to my store. I have a great assistant, but I think she’s going to have to call the police about my disappearance at some point.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t do anything to cover myself when I managed to return to the nineteenth century,” Mary said. “I’m probably on a missing person list of some sort.”
“Return to the nineteenth century?” Rachel asked. “Did you go back home and then return?”
“I did. When I didn’t know what I wanted, when I couldn’t have what I wanted, that is.” Mary shot her husband an affectionate glance. “I asked Hickstrom to send me home, and she did. But no sooner did I vanish than I knew it was a mistake, that I wanted to be here. Imagine trying to find the book of fairy tales again! Fortunately, Hickstrom had sent me back a few days into the past, and I was able to find the book at the same garage sale.”
“So she will send someone back!” Rachel exclaimed.
“If she believes you really want to go back. Just be sure though. There are no guarantees that you can return.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel said suddenly. “You have been so nice to me, and all I do is whine about returning. But it’s the not having a choice that is frightening. If I had a choice, I could think about this differently. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. I have no intention of trying to make that poor man fall in love with me! I wouldn’t even know how to begin!”
“What poor man?” Roger asked, his voice surprisingly strident. He scanned the faces in the room. “To whom does she refer?”
St. John laughed, and Mary smiled. Rachel was startled to see the alarm on Roger’s normally congenial expression.
“Relax, Roger!” Rachel protested. “I’m not sure if I should take that as an insult or not! It’s not you! Hickstrom didn’t send me back here for you. I hear you’re a confirmed bachelor.”
Rachel regretted her last words. They seemed unnecessarily cruel.
“Yes, I am,” Roger said. “Marriage is not in my plans. I apologize at the vehemence of my response.”
“It is true, Roger. You are not the object of Miss Hickstrom’s latest ministrations,” St. John said, still chuckling. “Though I would not mind if she were to turn her attentions to you.”
“Please, your lordship! Do not jest about such things!” Roger’s face blanched, renewing St. John’s amusement.
“It’s Halwell,” Rachel finally confessed, appalled at the misery on Roger’s face. She wanted to run to a mirror to assure herself that she wasn’t the most hideous woman ever to walk the earth. To witness Roger’s horrified expression was to think so.
“The viscount?” Roger asked, glancing at St. John and Mary.
“Yes, the poor besotted, lovesick Viscount Halwell,” St. John said dryly.
“St. John,” Mary chided softly.
“Forgive me, my dear. The passage of time would benefit my outlook greatly.”
Roger glanced at Rachel and fell silent. Rachel put a hand to her burning cheeks.
St. John changed the conversation to more mundane matters involving the estate, and they finished eating without further discussion of lovelorn viscounts.
They returned to the drawing room for tea. Mary convinced St. John to read from a volume of Shakespeare’s comedies, and the evening ended with smiles all around. Roger departed, and Mary escorted Rachel back to her room. In Rachel’s absence, Sarah had laid out a lovely white cotton nightgown.
“I hope that’s comfortable,” Mary said. “The room feels warm enough to me, but I don’t know about you. Will you need a fire? I don’t really know how to light one yet, but I can get one of the maids to light it for you. I think they have bedpans they can heat up as well.”
“No, this feels fine,” Rachel said.
“Do you need help undressing? Do your stays lace in the back or the front? I can have one of the maids come back and help you with them, or I can do it myself. No problem.”
“No, it’s a simple dress, just the strings at the neckline. I’m not wearing stays though.”
“You’re not?” Mary eyed Rachel’s figure. “Well, good for you! If you can get away with not wearing them, that would be great!”
“Do you?” Rachel eyed Mary. “You don’t look like you are.”
Mary looked down at her dress. “Yes, I do. Otherwise, I’m just flopping all over the place in this dress. Without a bra, I just...” She paused, her cheeks bright with color. “I never thought I’d say this, honestly! But I need the support. Your figure is a little more slender than mine.”
“Are they comfortable?”
“They’re all right. I’ve gotten used to mine. Mak
es me sit up straight anyway!”
Rachel nodded.
“Okay, well, I’ll come back in the morning with some dresses, underthings, stays if you want to try them, slippers. You can keep wearing your athletic shoes if you want, but someone is going to notice eventually and ask you about the material.”
“That’s fine. I can wear other shoes.”
“Do you need anything else before I go?”
Rachel’s immediate thought was to say “a one-way ticket home,” but she knew how cruel that would sound.
“Is that...” She nodded toward a door that appeared no larger than a closet.
“Yes, have you used one yet?” Mary asked, scrunching her nose. “If there is one thing I hate about this time...”
“Yes, they have the same thing at Alton House, so I’m all set!”
“Okay, good night!” Mary said.
“Good night, Mary.”
Mary hesitated before turning for the door. “Everything is going to be all right, Rachel. I just know it.” She leaned in and gave Rachel a hug.
“I believe you,” Rachel said. “Night.”
Mary left, and Rachel undressed, used the commode, washed her face and hands and slipped into her nightdress. She crawled under the thick covers of the surprisingly soft bed and stared at the window, wondering what Halwell was doing. Was he sleeping? Awake? Angry with her? Hurt? Pining for Mary?
She couldn’t have known that Halwell pined indeed, but it wasn’t for Mary.
Chapter Eleven
After several hours of trying to sleep, Halwell rose from his bed, lit a candle, slipped on a dressing gown and went down to the library. The house was asleep, for which he was glad. He wanted no company, no servant to wait upon him. He sought solitude, and perhaps a glass of brandy.
He lit a few candles, poured himself a drink, selected a book and sat down to read. The pages held little interest for him though, as he wondered how Miss Lee fared. Was she happy? Did she think of him at all?
He shook his head at the foolish notion and attempted to concentrate on the pages once again, but the image of reddish-brown curls and warm gray eyes distracted him. It seemed that for so long he had dwelt upon those very traits, and yet they had belonged to Mary. Miss Lee’s hair was thicker than Mary’s, her eyes tilted a bit more at the corners. Her smile was broader than Mary’s, and her voice deeper. Yet the similarity between the two women was remarkable.
Halwell cast his book aside, finished his drink and rose restlessly. He had done with women! He had done with notions of love. He wanted nothing more than to be well away from the country, to busy himself with something other than pining for a woman.
Yet he did not wish to return to London. He could not face the round of social engagements that would soon follow word of his arrival. What then? The notion of sailing away on a pirate ship appealed to him at the moment. He abandoned the idea though, as he tended to fall ill at sea.
A tap on the door startled him, and he moved to the door and opened it. Expecting a footman, Halwell was startled to look down upon the blue hair of the strange little woman known as Miss Hickstrom.
“Miss Hickstrom! How did you enter the house? What has happened? Is Mary well?”
Miss Hickstrom, dressed in an extraordinarily elaborate purple gown from a bygone era, slipped past him into the room and put a finger to her lips. She signaled he should shut the door, and he complied.
“There now!” she exclaimed. “We may speak freely! I will have one of those, please.”
Halwell followed the lady’s eyes to his glass of brandy.
“Miss Hickstrom, what are you doing in my house at this time of night? Did a footman let you in without announcement? I do not understand.”
“Could I have a glass of brandy first?” she persisted.
“Yes, of course, madam, if that will encourage you to respond to my questions.” He quickly poured her a glass and handed it to her. She settled herself on the settee and indicated that he should sit.
“Miss Hickstrom, this is quite irregular. You cannot possibly imagine you are on a social call at this hour!” Halwell protested, surprising himself by obediently taking a seat.
“No, dear boy, this is not a social call per se.” She sipped her brandy while he stared at her.
“I repeat, has something happened to Mary? To Miss Lee?”
“Mary is married to St. John. You do realize that, do you not, George?”
Halwell jumped up, his face heated. He snatched up his glass and strode to the sideboard to pour himself another drink. With his back to the Miss Hickstrom, he forced himself to speak civilly.
“Yes, I do realize that, to my great loss. I realize that. Why are you here in the middle of the night, Miss Hickstrom? To taunt me? To what purpose?” He turned and faced her.
“George, I do not wish to taunt you. I am here to help you.”
A pain such as he had hoped not to experience again welled up in his chest, the same pain he had suffered when he realized that Mary had rejected him and chosen St. John.
“I do not need your help! Time will heal what ails me. Time and distance, perhaps.” He thought again of the pirate ship, but the image of being bent over a bucket always accompanied the thought.
“No, George, you must not run away,” Miss Hickstrom said, as if she could hear his thoughts. “You must stay here and fight for what you want.”
The pain burned again. He crossed back over to the chair and dropped into it.
“What I want I cannot have!” he muttered. “I cannot fight for what is no longer attainable.”
“You speak of Mary again,” Miss Hickstrom murmured.
“Whom else? I offered Mary my name, my home, my heart. Of whom else should I have spoken?”
Miss Hickstrom took another sip and eyed him over the top of her glass. “You have one last chance to find true love, George. This is your final chance. If you do not find the love that awaits you now, you will not marry. You will never marry. You will never have family other than that which you already have—your mother and your father.”
Halwell wanted to speak, but anger welled up in his throat, choking off his words. Finally, he managed to retort.
“How dare you speak to me in such a fashion? I do not know who you think you are, Miss Hickstrom, but you are no longer welcome at Alton House. I must ask you to leave.”
Miss Hickstrom did not immediately rise, but Halwell did. He marched to the door and pulled it open.
“At once! I trust you have a carriage awaiting you?”
“Do not worry about my transportation, dear boy. I can see that you are angry with me. I have spoken nothing but the truth, and it frightens you. For that, I am sorry. But I must be honest with you.”
“If you please!” Halwell said insistently, nodding at the open doorway.
Miss Hickstrom finished her drink and rose.
“Find the love that is before you, George, the love that awaits you.”
She inclined her head in a regal gesture and passed through the doorway. Halwell followed her out into the dark hallway to open the front door, but she had vanished. He hurried to the door, pulled it open and peered outside. No carriage awaited Miss Hickstrom, and the lady herself had disappeared.
Halwell stepped out onto the top step and scanned the darkness, listening for the sound of wheels, but he heard nothing. He did not consider himself a gentleman of little intelligence, but he could not fathom how the lady had disappeared through a closed door.
Much as Mary herself had disappeared that day, without benefit of carriage...leaving Miss Hickstrom to tell the tale.
Mary! Miss Hickstrom! The pair of them seemed somehow connected in an unnatural way, and he meant to sort it out.
Halwell did not retire to bed that night but returned to the library to await the coming of dawn. When the sun rose, he climbed the stairs to his room, washed and dressed and, declining breakfast, ordered his horse saddled. He rode out and reached the gates of Alvord Castle in less than
half an hour.
The gate was locked, and he dismounted and rang the bell. He had not to wait long before Mr. Roger Phelps came out to greet him.
“Good morning, your lordship! Are you coming to call? I do not know that Lord and Lady St. John have breakfasted yet.” He unlocked the gate as he spoke.
“Good morning, Phelps. I am aware of the early hour, but I must speak with her ladyship as soon as possible.”
“Her ladyship?” Phelps asked.
“Indeed. Thank you. Good day!” Halwell remounted his horse, and the estate manager could do nothing but stand back as Halwell rode through the gate. Nor should he. Halwell’s business with Lady St. John was no business of the estate manager.
Halwell trotted down the lane, fortifying his growing anger with Miss Hickstrom. Mary knew something about her, of that he was certain. He must discover the lady’s secret and why her words had sounded more like a curse than the admonition of a meddlesome woman. Why would Miss Hickstrom interest herself in his happiness, his future?
Halwell reached the front door and dismounted. Given the earliness of the hour, no one stood by to take his horse, and he let the animal roam onto the lawn. He knocked on the door and waited.
A footman, still in the act of dressing, opened the door and stepped back in surprise.
“I realize the hour is early, but I must speak with Lady St. John. It is most urgent. Please have someone attend to my horse, or he will ruin your lawn.” Halwell prided himself that he still had the grace to concern himself with a neighbor’s lawn. He looked over his shoulder to see Phelps running up to grab the horse’s reins.
Halwell waved in appreciation and turned back to the surprised footman.
“May I enter?” he asked.
“Yes, your lordship. I will take you to the drawing room and advise her ladyship that you are here.”
“Thank you,” he said. He followed the footman into the drawing room and nodded as the footman closed the door. Unable to settle, he wandered the room, studying the portraits for some time until the door flew open.
Mary entered, tidying her hair, as if she had hurried to dress.
“Halwell! What is it? Is Lady Georgianna all right?
