Downtime

by Tamara Allen

  Henry, on the other hand—why he wasn’t hitched was all too evident. Fair and blue-eyed, he was on the delicate side and possessed of that quality known in my time and probably his too as unadulterated priss. I’d have bet anything the guy never really smiled, not a genuine one, just the lemon-sucking version that was nothing more than barely restrained disdain. Loads of fun at parties, I guessed, he was not.

  Then there was Ezra. I couldn’t deny I liked his looks just as much as he’d appreciated mine. Clean-shaven, he wore his brown hair short at the nape, longer hair at the front curling over his forehead. He had regular and some might say ordinary features: straight nose, angular jaw, slim but firm-lipped mouth. It was a mouth quick to smile, which left the impression he hadn’t a care in the world, but I sensed otherwise. Of course, being gay in the nineteenth century had to come under the heading of pretty dark secret, but instinct told me it was more than that. He’d flirted, subtly maybe, but he had. He didn’t guard that particular inclination as closely as he guarded other things. What other things, I didn’t care that much about finding out.

  Then Kathleen directed a question across the table. “How are the arrangements for the wedding proceeding?”

  It was enough to plunge the kitchen into profound silence. I looked around curiously, to see all eyes on Ezra. He was the one getting married? Okay, maybe my profiling skills needed a little work.

  Ezra poked a spoon around in his soup, then cleared his throat. “The arrangements are—proceeding.”

  Or maybe it was time for that promotion the boss kept putting off. I’d never seen a guy look less pleased at the prospect of impending nuptials. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  At my blithe inquiry, a smile quirked his mouth, forced if ever I saw one. “Her name is Charlotte Blanchard. We expect to be wed in the spring.” Said with all the cheer of a man announcing his own death sentence.

  Derry came to the rescue. “And you, Mr. Nash? Will you be returning to a wife and little ones? Or are you a confirmed old bachelor like some of the fellows here at Farbridge?”

  Before I could answer, footsteps just outside trod fast but light. There was a kid living here—in a houseful of single men? The kitchen door burst open and said kid stopped inside the doorway, a cake box cradled in her arms. Her gaze darted to me and she froze like a frightened rabbit. Under the dirt on her face, her skin was pale and freckled and the fringe of hair showing under her white cap was the bright copper of a new penny. Her apron was even dirtier than her face and the blue dress under it looked a size too small. She couldn’t be more than twelve, and I wondered to whom she belonged.

  “Hannah,” Kathleen said with exasperation. “Have a care or you’ll crush it.”

  “Yes, miss.” The whisper barely carried across the room. Hannah crept toward us, eyes on me the entire time, and set her box beside the soup tureen. I gave her a grin and she scrambled to Kathleen’s side.

  “This is Mr. Nash,” Kathleen told the girl. “He’ll be staying tonight.”

  “Yes, miss.” There was another door leading to a room off the kitchen and the little girl vanished into it.

  “Isn’t she going to have some supper?” I couldn’t help asking. The kid looked so thin.

  Kathleen’s eyebrows lifted. “She’s had her supper.” Rising from her chair, she began to clear the table, and I got up to help her. That earned me an even more suspicious look. “There’s no need for that,” she said, scooping up a platter protectively. “You’ve paid for a night’s lodgings and that will do.”

  I started to tell her it was a long-ago chore my mother had expected me to do without question, and now and again I still did it automatically. But Ezra shook his head gently, motioning me to follow him out of the kitchen. I offered a good night to the others and a thank you to Kathleen, who acknowledged it with a curt nod. On the way out, Ezra opened the box Hannah had brought and took something out of it. He turned to me and asked, “Would you like one? They’re quite good. Mrs. Nisbet across the way makes them with currants and nuts and enough cinnamon to cure anything that ails you.”

  It looked like a bigger, gooier version of the cinnamon rolls Leonard had brought to the warehouse—had that been this afternoon? “No, thanks. Watching my weight.” And I didn’t think I could eat it with the unexpected lump in my throat.

  He seemed to want to say something. Instead he nodded and walked ahead of me into the hall. It was almost too dark to move without bumping into the walls. “No electric lights? Flashlight? Candle? I’ll take anything.”

  “I’d turn up the gas,” he said cheerfully, “but I think we’ve tested Kathleen’s good will enough for the day.”

  “Good will?”

  He caught the dubious note and laughed. “Oh you don’t know, Mr. Nash. It’s quite unusual that she agreed to have you. She doesn’t take new tenants without an interview and she never allows guests without considerable notice. Derry had to do a lot of wheedling.”

  “Isn’t this his house?”

  “His, yes, but after he lost his wife, he left the care of it to Kathleen and she let rooms to keep them both from starving. He hadn’t the will, for a while, to do much of anything.”

  “His wife died?” I bit my lip, hoping they couldn’t hear us in the kitchen. Lowering my voice, I asked, “When?”

  The hall brightened and I saw Ezra near a lamp on a narrow table parked against the wall. He considered the question. “It’s been about three years now.”

  “Is the little girl his?”

  “Little girl?” He looked puzzled. Then his mouth twitched into a grin. “Hannah Jolley is Kathleen’s maid-of-all-work, Mr. Nash.”

  We started up the stairs, Ezra devouring the roll as we went. The second floor seemed even darker and less inviting. I tried to ignore the forlorn feeling creeping through me and instead focused longingly on eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.

  Ezra went into a room, leaving the door open for me to follow. As soon as he’d lit a lamp, I noted the wood frame bed tucked in one corner, a brass-trimmed trunk at its foot. A pair of cushioned, high-back chairs were in front of a small, smoke-stained fireplace. Held in place by a pair of candlesticks, a lacy cloth hung dangerously low over the mantle. There were other feminine touches all through the room, including a brown shawl draped over the far pillow on the bed.

  “You sure it’s all right for me to stay here?”

  He turned up the lamp and fixed me with an even more curious stare. Okay, maybe I didn’t look like the sensitive type, but he didn’t have to seem so surprised that I’d noticed the evidence of a man still grieving. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to disturb—his things. You can’t put me up somewhere else?”

  “Derry would not have invited you to stay with him if he were uneasy with the idea. It’s all right. I do think it just comforts him to keep her things around.” Ezra removed the shawl and, folding it, laid it on one of the chairs by the fireplace.

  “There’s not an unoccupied room further up?”

  “The top floor is Mr. Cotton, Mr. Tenpenny, and Dr. Gilbride. There are no other rooms.”

  “What about that room downstairs, the one we passed coming up? I couldn’t just sleep on the sofa or something?”

  His eyes widened. “In Kathleen’s sitting room? You are a brave man, Mr. Nash.” He gave me a light push toward the bed. “It will be all right,” he repeated. “I think Derry is feeling a little guilty that we spirited you away from home, so to speak. This is his way of atoning.”

  “And what about you?” I eased off the borrowed jacket and tossed it to him.

  He caught it and draped it over his arm. “What about me?”

  “How are you planning to atone for disrupting my life?” Though I had to admit, to myself at least, that I’d disrupted my life just fine while safe in my own century. If Reese had called—and I was doubting now that he had—he’d probably given up on hearing back from me. I couldn’t fix things even if Ezra sent me back right away. That I was sleeping in this stra
nge bed instead of a strange hotel bed didn’t seem worth complaining about. But I’d felt sick as a dog and was still wobbly from the effects of my little trip. That, I could blame Ezra for, and did.

  The slew of excuses I expected didn’t come. Ezra plucked at a loose thread on the coat sleeve, avoiding my gaze. He finally conceded, “I hadn’t considered it, but I do think you’re right. I owe you something.” He looked up at me, dead serious. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much to offer.”

  A thought went through my head and I immediately stomped it down. That was about the last thing I needed. Just because I was missing home and Reese and things familiar was no reason to jump into a one-nighter, even if Ezra was amenable. Anyway, he was engaged, at least for the time being.

  I took off my gun and put it under the pillow, still not prepared to be separated from it. I’d stripped down to my pants before it occurred to me I’d be sharing a bed with a man I hadn’t been intimate with. Pajamas might be called for. “Do you have anything I can wear to sleep in? PJs? Sweats? I’ll take anything.”

  “I believe so.”

  “And one more thing,” I said as he started for the door. “Where’s the head?”

  He threw a bemused look back at me. “Whose head in particular are you inquiring after? You appear to be still in possession of your own.”

  I swallowed down a smile, refusing to like him or his sense of humor. “The head. You know. The john? Bathroom? Lavatory?” I was running out of synonyms. “Outhouse—”

  “Yes, I’ve caught on, thank you. The water closet is two doors down. I’ll get you a nightshirt.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “You have anything with pants?”

  There was a knock and Derry slipped into the room and closed the door. “Ezra, you’ve got company downstairs. Mrs. Hastings.”

  Ezra’s smile vanished. “She’s Henry’s client, not mine.”

  Client? Since when did museum employees have clients?

  “She wants to see you,” Derry said with gentle emphasis.

  Whoever Mrs. Hastings was, Ezra clearly intended to be stubborn about it. “She’s paying Henry.”

  “She’s upset, the poor dear.” Derry sat on a chair and proceeded to remove his boots. “Kath has her in the parlor with some tea. No doubt that will soothe her nerves and she’ll be on her way home soon enough.”

  “She’s upset?” Ezra frowned. “Very well. I’ll go, then. And I hope you’ll explain to Henry when he comes after me with a fire iron.”

  “I’ll have only good things to say at your wake,” Derry promised, and I saw the sparkle in his eyes.

  Ezra glared at both of us. “Mr. Nash needs a nightshirt,” he said and shut the door energetically.

  Derry chuckled. “The poor love. Henry won’t be half livid.”

  “Yeah? Over what?” It had to be more innocent than the conclusion I’d drawn.

  “A nightshirt you were needing?” Derry got up and went to rummage in the wardrobe.

  I wondered what he was suddenly hesitant to discuss. “They’re not involved in anything illegal, are they?”

  His protective instinct kicked in, just as I’d hoped. “Ezra won’t take a shilling, Mr. Nash. Not a shilling. He’s got the gift, but he’d never harm a soul with it.” Derry produced a neatly folded article of clothing and shook it out. “Here you are. Will this do?”

  A goddamned nightgown. But I couldn’t sleep in my briefs; I didn’t think Derry, even as friendly as he was, would be too wild about the idea. I thanked him for the nightgown and with a resigned sigh put it on. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser, I was for the first time glad to be more than a hundred years from home. The ribbing I’d have taken if anyone had seen me wearing a nightie would have been merciless.

  I dropped to the bed and felt as though I’d sunk into the center of the earth. I was going to have the backache from hell in the morning. Rolling onto my side, I looked over at Derry as he shrugged off his coat. “The gift? Of what? Being thoroughly obnoxious?”

  A smile twitched his lips and he shook his head solemnly. “He converses with those that have passed.”

  “You’re kidding.” In a way, it made sense. I could tell Ezra had something of the scam artist in him. Henry was a little harder to believe. “Not making enough at the museum to pay the rent?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Nash.” Derry stripped down, draping his suit over a chair. He was as solid as I’d imagined, his meaty arms and thick waist taking away nothing from his smooth musculature. He gathered back his hair with a big fist and tied it, then sheathed himself in a nightshirt. “It isn’t easy to believe, I know. But I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it’s no trick, I promise.” He climbed into bed and sank back on the pile of pillows with a sigh. “A sure blessing it is,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

  The last time I’d slept in a bed with a man I hadn’t had sex with, I’d been four years old. As if being hurtled backward through time to the near-Dark Ages wasn’t bad enough. “Henry chat up the ghosts too?”

  Derry laughed a tired laugh. “Good night, Mr. Nash.” He leaned over and shut off the lamp.

  It took me a while to fall asleep. The house must’ve had paper-thin walls, because I could hear almost everything going on, from footsteps creaking above to unintelligible chatter below. At one point, I heard what sounded like a violin, but I might’ve drifted off and dreamed it. I dreamed of other things too. London and Leonard. New York, a Mets game, and a bottle of beer. That was the good dream. One brief disturbing dream had me waking to feel under my pillow for my gun. It was still there. And I was unfortunately still here, years and years from where I was supposed to be.

  In the gray light of dawn through the bedroom curtains, I could see the lump of quilt that was Derry and hear his soft, steady snore. It was weirdly comforting. If I’d been alone, the room would’ve felt even more alien than it did. I looked over the edge of the quilt at the hand-carved mahogany and the flowery upholstery that would be cluttering antique shops in my time and I tried to convince myself this wasn’t really any different than staying at a bed and breakfast. It didn’t help. I might not know how I’d gotten here, but I knew where I was. The age of uncomfortable clothes and stifling manners. Slow travel and provincial entertainment. Infrequent bathing and untreated water. Cholera and tuberculosis.

  Bleak enough. But throw in the attitude toward sex—evil, unforgivable, damn-you-to-eternal-Hellfire sex, treated as if it were an invention of man on par with murder—and it was too damned depressing to think about. And that was just sex between men and women. Any other kind and a guy could find himself serving time or worse.

  The whole damned planet was Third World, with no safe, clean home to run to. Knowing I wasn’t going to get any more sleep, I eased up out of the big pillow that was Derry’s bed and waited a heartbeat to make sure I hadn’t wakened Derry. He slept on peacefully, and I started to look around for my clothes. The chilly room, the floorboards under my feet, and a dire need to find a bathroom gave me a Boy Scout camp flashback I wasn’t in the mood for. Ezra had all my stuff, including the suit he’d lent me.

  Taking my gun, I crept to the door and peeked into the hall. Dark and quiet. With a vague feeling it was inappropriate to be wandering around in only a nightshirt, I headed for the room Ezra had designated the water closet. I tapped lightly at the door, and when no one answered, I went inside. Half expecting a wooden board with a hole carved in it, I was relieved to find a fairly regular-looking toilet. A shower and a shave was probably too much to ask for. I’d just do that when I got home.

  I went to Ezra’s room and knocked. He came to the door already dressed. “An early bird,” I noted. “Well, that figures.” Most of the people I didn’t get along with turned out to be morning people, including Leonard—well, and Reese, but I’d put up with it for the sake of supposed true love.

  Ezra swung the door open so I could come in. “I detect a note of contempt,” he remarked, “but you�
��re up already too.”

  “If I were home, I’d be in bed another five hours. I don’t sleep as well in a strange bed.”

  “You have my sympathy. What are you doing?” he added as I reached for my jeans. “You aren’t going to breakfast in those clothes?”

  “I’m wearing my own stuff, pal. If Kathleen doesn’t like it, she can kick me out.” I dragged on the jeans and tugged my shirt over my head.

  He didn’t say anything until I’d dropped onto his window seat to put on my sneakers. “If we should meet with any difficulty in sending you back—”