by Jo Noelle
When they arrived in the field, Lord Cottrell stood in front of the group. “Three teams have volunteered for this competition. You may use your own shotguns or one of those provided on the tables. Members of the team will take turns at the shots in a set rotation. A kill point will be awarded for any broken glass bulb. We’ve made an innovation this year to our contest. Instead of throwing the glass balls into the air, they will be launched via slingshots to throw them at an angle better simulating the flight of a bird. Our gamekeeper and his assistants will toss the globes for us.”
Wyndham and Wetheridge joined with May’s brother, James, as the first team. Simon, Lord Saalfeld, and Everett stepped up as the third team. The table for the second team was yet unattended.
Lord Cottrell called the group’s attention. “On the women’s team this year will be my wife, Lady Cottrell, my daughter, Lady May Cottrell, and Miss Cora Rey.”
James groaned, then said to his team, “My mother and sister shoot very well, but perhaps Miss Rey can’t shoot. Then the other teams may have a chance.” His voice lifted at the end as if he were asking her a question.
Cora’s eyes brightened, but she offered no clarification. The flat smile across her lips told Simon she was holding back a laugh. He knew—she could shoot, expertly.
Wetheridge asked across the table that separated him from the women’s team, “Are you a crack shot, Miss Rey?”
“I shoot, and today, we’ll find out how well.” Though her voice was teasing, Simon heard confidence.
Lord Cottrell listed the rules. “The first team may take a shot at the globe during the ascent of the target tossed for them. If they miss, the next team …” He smiled warmly at the women. “… may take a shot at the ball on its downward arc to steal the point. If both teams miss, the third team may take a shot after the second. If the second team fails to make an attempt before it falls to the ground, the last team is awarded a point by default. We’ll declare a winner after three sets of three rounds each.”
Lord Cottrell lifted one finger and announced, “If anyone cares to make a wager, I’ll act as the bank and hold the vowels for it. Again, any proceeds earned by the bank will be donated to the children’s home.”
Simon noticed that although he tried to sound nonchalant, Lord Cottrell, too, was confident. James boasted among the men that one weak member of a team was all the women needed for a loss, raising bets for the men’s teams to win.
Simon called out, “I’ll double the bank’s position. If your team should win the bet, the award will be paid twice.” That encouraged the stakes to rise.
When the teams and spectators returned to their positions, May waved daintily at her father. “Would you permit Cora to take a practice shot before we begin the competition? She’s never shot this type of gun before.”
He gestured to the men’s teams, and they agreed. May carried a glass goblet out into the field at an even distance to where the gamekeeper would be throwing the orbs, set it on the ground, and walked back to her team.
Cora sighted down the barrel to where the wine glass glinted in the sun. Simon considered how that angle would affect the trajectory if the sights were inaccurate. Apparently, she did too. The better position for the practice would have been prone on the ground except that her arms wouldn’t have been free to move. Besides, she could hardly do that in the contest. Instead she knelt and sat on her right foot while holding her body at a forty-five-degree angle to the goblet as she leveled the gun.
Simon wished he could have the stability Cora demonstrated in that position. She would make an army marksman proud. The children’s home was going to add another sizable gift to its coffers today.
“I wish to change my bet,” called one of the gentlemen.
With the butt of the gun against her right shoulder, Cora pulled the trigger very slowly. Neither the explosion nor the recoil seemed to bother her, and she watched steadily to see where her bullet hit in the ground—about a foot short.
“On second thought, I’ll double it,” the same man called out.
“I’ll take that bet,” Simon called back, and then he smiled at Cora and nodded to Lord Cottrell. She now knows by how much she needs to adjust her shot. She’s brilliant.
Everett nudged him. “You’re betting against us.”
“Quite.”
Lord Cottrell called for the teams to take their positions. Lady Cottrell stood in front of May, who stood in front of Cora. On team number one, Wetheridge lined up even with Cora as the third shooter for his team. Simon stood in the front of the line for his team.
Lord Cottrell called out, “Shooters, to your mark.”
Simon, Bethany, and James stepped forward and raised their guns. A glass globe filled with feathers was launched into the air, and James took the first shot. The glass burst, sending shards glinting in the morning light and feathers floating on the wind.
“Point,” called Lord Cottrell. The spectators clapped. The next two tosses ended with the same result. Following Lady Cottrell’s kill shot, the women in attendance cheered. During the second round, Wyndham missed his shot, and May was able to score that one and her own as a kill for the women’s team, making them the leaders.
Cora stepped into position for the third round. Simon watched her steady hands and the concentration on her face as she followed the orb tossed for Wetheridge until his shot broke it. Cora scored a point as well on her turn. Lord Saalfeld missed his shot, and Wetheridge waited until the ball nearly grounded to take a shot. He missed it, but Cora didn’t have a chance to fire before it shattered.
“So, that’s how it’s going to be?” she asked Wetheridge.
“Strategy is part of battle,” he replied to the amusement of several men.
Simon saw her smile and nod but knew it was not an agreement, just acknowledgment that she could play that game.
In the next set, James, Lady Cottrell, and Simon all made their shots. Wetheridge was up for the first shot of the second round. The gamekeeper slung the glass orb into the air as May stepped behind Cora and tickled her, causing Cora to giggle and draw the attention of every man, including Wetheridge, whose shot went wide. Cora quickly sited her gun and squeezed the trigger. The ball blew apart.
“Your behavior borders on being dishonorable,” Wetheridge barked out toward the women.
Immediately, Cora replied, “Strategy is part of battle.”
Simon considered how lovely that sounded coming from her lips. He loved her wit.
In the third and final set, the women’s team was ahead of James’ team by two points and even with Simon’s team. The last competitor, Everett, missed his shot. Wetheridge waited as the ball descended. Waited. Waited. Everyone knew that if he missed, it would be inches above the ground. Again Cora knelt and pulled the trigger as soon as Wetheridge’s gun discharged, her shot blasting the ball apart just before it disappeared into the grass.
Simon cheered. Lady Cottrell and May hugged her. Simon wished he were able to put his arms around Cora in celebration. That he was able to pick her up, twirl her … kiss her.
Everett was right. He’d chosen his wife—she didn’t know it yet, but now he did.
He’d not shown interest in any other lady, and he knew he wouldn’t. She completely anchored his heart and soul. There was certainly no commitment or understanding between them. There had been no talk of courting, even. As far as the rest of the world knew, he wasn't partial, but Simon knew he couldn't fool Everett, who might know Simon’s mind better than he knew his own.
The women came from the sidelines and hugged their team, cheering and shouting. When the celebration calmed, Lady Cottrell shouted, “The children’s home thanks you for your generous donations, gentlemen.”
Chapter 10
Cora
The next day was completely unplanned for much of the time. This gave the newly forming couples an opportunity to take a walk, go shopping, or be otherwise engage in courting. May and Cora opted for sewing and reading in the morning room with
Bethany until their—dates?—arrived.
At precisely one o’clock, the door to the morning room swung open, and the Cottrell’s butler announced, “Lord Saalfeld and Mr. McElroy to visit, my lady.”
Cora noticed May quickly dabbed her eyes and then stood.
“Might we collect the young ladies?” Mr. McElroy asked, bowing over Lady Cottrell’s hand.
“Of course. We’ve been expecting you.” Mrs. Cottrell looked toward May and Cora. “Have a lovely drive, girls.”
After the ladies tied on their bonnets, both couples descended the front steps toward a lovely black phaeton just outside. Cora couldn’t help but think that it looked a lot like a pram.
Lord Saalfeld sat beside May in the forward-facing seat while Mr. McElroy sat next to Cora on the aft-facing cushions. The open carriage allowed the sun to warm her arms. Cora considered that the weather in England was quite unlike the blue skies she grew up with in Texas. Days like today with clear and sunny skies were to be treasured here.
“You’ve certainly arranged a perfect day for a ride,” Cora said.
Mr. McElroy swallowed deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously up and down against the top of his necktie. “Well, we did our best. Aye, Saalfeld?”
Lord Saalfeld, however, wasn’t listening—his attention wholly on May. Cora watched with some surprise to see him extend himself at all. The bored lord persona was gone, and he looked—besotted. He turned toward May and spoke so low that Cora couldn’t hear the words. But by the smile May was failing to suppress, the pink glow to her cheeks, and the flirty glances she gave him, it appeared that May was enjoying the attention.
Cora turned to Mr. McElroy. “I guess we’re on our own.”
His face visibly paled. “The … um … property on our left belongs to my great-uncle. Um … when he … I mean, should he die … I stand to inherit. There are no other heirs.”
“That’s wonderful. What will you do with the property?” Cora asked, wanting to keep the conversation going to allow May a small amount of privacy.
“My uncle has begun my training. I suppose I will continue to do what he has done.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
“His investments are in the manufacturing of cotton fabrics.” Mr. McElroy glanced at Cora. She thought she saw fear in his eyes. “Our money is based in trade.” His voice sounded a little shaky when he added, “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
Oh, goodness. It’s like he’s at a job interview. I don’t need to hear his resume like it’s an application for a marriage contract. Cora answered, “No, it doesn’t. I’m American—capitalism might be our national religion. I’d like to hear more about textiles.”
For the next thirty minutes, Mr. McElroy talked nonstop with growing confidence.
“The growth of the textile industry, particularly cotton production in the southern states of the colonies, has changed the potential of the industry … Or their factories in the north of England show particularly promise for long growth rewards … The power looms have greatly increased profits for … The economical cost of importing cotton from America is dependent on low labor costs, thus making it feasible to make the cloth we ship abroad … Not really the sort of think I’d expect you to worry your pretty head about.”
Cora strained to remain polite and silent. Did he not stop to think that his industry had long supported and exploited slave labor? She bit her tongue and reminded herself that this was a different time. And they were already on their way back to May’s house. It wouldn’t be long now.
As they neared the home, she said, “It sounds like a complex business interest for sure. England must have figured out a way to minimize the dangerous working conditions, child labor abuses, and even the appalling poverty of the workers receiving low wages for the long hours they work. Maybe next time, you can tell me about your solutions. America hasn’t figured that out yet. By the way, you are financially incentivizing slavery.”
Mr. McElroy’s mouth dropped open and shut several times. Perhaps he hadn’t knowledge of that, or it could be he saw nothing wrong with it. Maybe he believed a woman should not know about or speak of it. Whichever, he was out of the running for this bachelorette.
From the corner of her eye, Cora noticed that the whispered conversation just across from her had gone silent but not because they were paying attention to her. The couple’s heads leaned slightly toward each other until the phaeton rumbled to a stop. When they said their goodbyes, Lord Saalfeld bowed deeply, and May’s curtsy matched it. Cora wondered at the full story they were hiding that made something as mundane as a bow sizzle between them.
The ladies entered May’s house, and the gentlemen left. Cora wondered if it would be an intrusion to ask May about the tears she’d been blotting that morning. On one hand, May hadn’t offered to confide in her. On the other hand, Cora considered her a dear friend.
“I noticed you were sad before we left this morning. Is there anything I can do?” Cora asked as the women ascended the stairs.
May shook her head but said, “Just before you arrived, I’d taken a ‘vacation.’ That’s what I tell Saalfeld whenever I go to my other century. I miss him. He misses me. I can’t give an explanation of what I’m doing, but he wants one. It’s the same every time.” May sighed. “I don’t always come back out in society the exact night I return because there’s a change in me for the time I’ve spent away, so I skip a month. He would notice if I were suddenly tanned or my hair were sun-bleached.” May stopped in the hallway outside Cora’s door. “I was thinking about it and about him. I was pretty emotional right then. I’m okay now. It was a very good day.”
Cora hugged her friend before she went into her room to change. She knew there was a lot more to that story, but she hoped May sensed her support and concern for her.
The following morning after a cup of bitter chocolate—the taste was growing on her—and dry toast, she dressed for the day and made her way to the music room to practice. The dozen or so ladies still staying at the Cottrell’s had been bundled off to do some shopping, but Cora had awoken with a headache and begged off the trip. Of course her decision to play the piano for Simon had caused the headache in the first place. She kept telling herself, “Just Simon, not an audience,” but butterflies continued rioting in her stomach.
She spent an hour playing songs from heart before she committed to choosing one that was perfect for her private concert.
Simon had attended events with music before, and Cora noticed him straining to hear the instruments. He often turned his right ear toward sounds but still had a look of irritation on his face. To anyone else, he might have just looked nervous, displeased, bored, or as if he were fidgeting. But she knew it must be frustrating for him to sit and only hear some of the notes. At balls, he strategically positioned himself near the musicians to be able to dance. He even admitted to her that he used to enjoy music, meaning he no longer did—but maybe he could again.
She had experienced it in a college class. The students inserted noise-cancelling plugs in their ears, then used conduction through their jawbones to hear. In the experiment, she held a stick between her teeth and then pressed the other end of the rod to the soundboard of a piano, much like Beethoven did. The music was softer but surprisingly sweet as it vibrated through her jawbone and into her ear.
This could work. She didn’t want to subject Simon to another musical failure, but if it was possible …
Cora paced in the music room on shaky legs, back and forth across the red carpet—her performance anxiety in full swing. She found she couldn’t ignore the irrational thoughts plaguing her. What if she missed the notes? What if he hated it? What if he couldn’t hear it, and she failed him? Her mouth felt dry even as her body felt sweaty. She had to get a grip to make it through this.
She closed her eyes and chanted internally, “He’s not coming here to judge me. It isn’t helpful for me to judge myself a failure before I even start.” She took a cleansing breath between each
repetition of the phrases. She could feel the squirmy feeling in her stomach easing. It was going to be all right. Or not.
Maybe if she worried about something else, it would help. Was this the right thing to do? In her own century, there would've been no decision to make. She would have simply invited Simon to come sit beside her at the piano. But in this century, what she was proposing would be a clandestine meeting. Under the best of circumstances, if they were caught, she would be asked to leave the house and no longer be a guest. Under the worst circumstances, she would be expected to marry Simon quickly.
She had decided it was worth the risk. If he could have music back in his life, she would do it.
An hour later, at her request, Everett and Simon entered the music room.
“I have a special request of each of you. Simon, I’ve prepared a private concert for you. And Everett, I wondered if you would guard the door. Although everyone seems to have gone shopping, I’d feel better knowing that no one will disrupt us.”
Cora would have laughed out loud at their expressions—Simon’s full of curiosity and a bit of fear, and Everett’s of surprise quickly turning to mischief—had she not been so nervous that butterflies were rioting in her stomach.
Everett was the first to recover from the odd request and saluted Cora then left, shutting the door behind him. Simon stood, rooted to his spot. It wasn’t often that Everett left Simon to make his own way, and Simon looked a little unsure about what to do.
“Will you join me?” Cora asked, then turned back toward the piano, staring at the landscape of white and black keys that seemed to sway. She wouldn’t let this stop her. She looked straight into Simon’s eyes and motioned for him to sit beside her. With a huge grin, he sat to her left as if he would be turning pages. That was exactly what she needed. His expression hinted that he accepted her and trusted her. She could do this.
“I chose this piece because it uses so much of the keyboard. I thought you could tell me which parts you most enjoy and which parts are hard to hear.”
