Mr. Stratton.
Harriett followed Florinda slowly. Nobody would question her laggard pace. Ladies were expected to be leisurely. Once she went indoors, she would have to remove the hat and veil. It would take all her control to keep a calm face. She could not imagine ever looking at the face of Mr. Stratton again. Like Florinda, she would have to keep her head bowed and her eyes averted. There was no point in begging Mr. Stratton again to help Bridget.
In this heat, in this shock of knowledge, Harriett could see little point in anything.
“Sherry,” Mr. Rowwells told the servant. “And what will you have, my dear?”
“Lemonade, please,” said Harriett.
Aunt Ada did not join them. Mr. Stratton was as angry at Ada as he was at Strat over this fiasco. Yet Ada did not seem to mind, or to be afraid, in the way that Florinda minded and was afraid.
Ada was far more at risk than even Florinda, though. Ada had nothing, absolutely nothing, not a stick of furniture nor a penny in savings. Yet Ada was calm. Spinsters dependent on unpleasant relatives did not normally experience calm. What did that mean? Was Ada no longer dependent?
“Well, Rowwells,” said Mr. Stratton. “Golf this afternoon?”
“I think I need to spend time with my fiancée instead,” said Mr. Rowwells. He smiled at Harriet, who managed not to shudder.
He wants to be kind, she said to herself. He wants me to love him. He wants my money, but after all, we must get along as well. I must make an effort. The quicker I allow Mr. Rowwells to accomplish this marriage, the quicker I will get out of the house of a man who shoves servants down stairs instead of just firing them. How could a gentleman care enough about a servant to bother with killing one? What could Matthew have done or said to make Mr. Stratton so angry?
“What might you and I do this afternoon, Harriett?” said the man with whom she would spend her life.
I shall pretend to be Anna Sophia, thought Harriett. I shall pretend to be a beautiful creature with lovely hair and trembling mouth. I shall pretend that it is Strat who loves me, and Strat who holds my hand. I wonder if I can keep up such a pretense for an entire marriage. Perhaps I will die in childbirth and be saved from a long marriage.
“Mr. Rowwells,” she said, “on such a day I would love to sit in the tower, and feel the ocean breeze. With you at my side.”
Mr. Rowwells was delighted. At last this difficult fiancée was showing some proper affection.
Up the massive central stairs they went, Harriett first. Down the guest wing and up the narrower steps to the next floor. And then up the curving beauty of the tower stairs, like a Renaissance lighthouse, painted with a sky of cherubs, clouds and flowers.
The tower was furnished, of course, because the Mansion had no empty corners, jammed with seats and pillows and knickknacks and objects. A tiny desk on which to take notes about migrating birds or lunar eclipses balanced precariously. No one, in fact, had ever taken notes on anything.
But paper lay on the desk, ink filled the little glass well and a pen lay waiting on the polished surface.
It seemed to Harriett that her entire life lay waiting on a polished surface.
She looked out across the white empty sand where only a few days ago her life had fallen apart, when the boy she loved found another to love.
A private railroad car!
Annie had learned about these in American history, but she didn’t know they were still around. Then she remembered that they weren’t still around; she was back when they were around.
It was beyond twentieth-century belief.
Oriental carpet covered floors, walls, window brackets and ceiling. Every shade and flavor of cinnamon and wine and ruby filled the room. Fatly stuffed sofas and chairs were hung with swirling gold fringe. Brass lights with glittering glass cups arched from the walls.
Wearing a veil indoors was rather like wearing very dark sunglasses. She adjusted the veil, feeling like an Arab woman peering out the slits of her robe.
“Hello, Stephens,” said Devonny to a uniformed waiter. Or servant. Or railroad officer. He too dripped gold. “This is Miss Ethel St. John, who will be traveling with us. Miss St. John does not feel well and will use Miss Florinda’s stateroom.”
Ethel! thought Annie. Where do they dredge up these names? Hiram, Harriett, Clarence, Gertrude and now Ethel! At least it makes Anna Sophia sound pretty.
Strat led her to a bulging crimson sofa strewn with furniture scarves, and sat her down. He unfastened the ribbons that tied her hat beneath her chin and tucked back the veil like a groom finding his bride. “I love you, Annie,” he whispered.
Her heart turned over. How physically, how completely, love came, like drowning or falling. He would take care of her, and how wonderful it would be. No cares.
We will go into Manhattan, and I will find out what a town house is, and see New York City a hundred years ago. I will become clever at the piano, and spend time on my correspondence. Devonny and Florinda and I will dress in fashions as beautiful as brides all day long. No more striving to be best, or even just to live through all those tests of school and life in the twentieth century. No more talents to display and polish, no more SATs, no more decisions about college or a major or a future career.
In Strat’s world—now hers—this safe, enclosed, velvet world, there was only one decision. Marriage.
Her heart was so large, so aching, she needed to support it in her hands. Or Strat’s. “I love you too,” she told him. They were engulfed in tears: a glaze of happiness instead of sorrow.
“Why, there’s Jeb!” cried Devonny, kneeling on the opposite sofa to see out the windows. “Excuse me, Stephens, I must speak to Jeb. Don’t let the train leave yet.”
Stephens had to lower special gleaming brass steps so that Devonny could get off. Leaning off the stairs himself, he thrust his hand high to signal the locomotive about the pause. “You look as if you’re giving a benediction, Stephens,” said Devonny, giggling. “Jeb! Come here! Talk to me!”
A startled Jeb turned from boarding a coach. “Miss Stratton,” he said. He flushed and stumbled toward her, dragging a big shabby case held together with thin rope. He could not meet her eyes. “I have to leave, Miss Stratton. You have to understand. People are laughing at me for being such a fool, stepping out with some Irish girl that kills people.”
“But Jeb—” said Devonny.
“I just said good-bye to her in the jail, that was the right thing to do, I’ve done right by her,” he said defiantly, as if Devonny might argue, “and now I’m off to California.”
“In jail?” repeated Devonny. “Bridget’s in jail?”
“Of course she’s in jail,” said Jeb, thinking that rich women were invariably also stupid women.
“Right now she’s in jail?” said Devonny.
Stephens said, “Miss Stratton. The train must leave. You must step back into the car. Now.”
But Devonny Stratton jumped down onto the platform instead, yanking her voluminous skirt after her. “Strat!” she bellowed, like a farmhand. Jeb on the platform and Stephens in the private car doorway stared at her. “Strat!” shrieked Devonny. “Miss Lockwood! Walk! Get off the train! Now! We cannot leave! We are not going into New York. Father lied. Bridget is still in jail. We must rescue her forthwith!”
Mr. Rowwells set his sherry on the little writing table.
His mustache needed to be trimmed. Its little black hairs curled down over his upper lip and entered his mouth, as if they planned to grow over his teeth. I cannot kiss him, thought Harriett. I don’t care if I am going to be a spinster. I don’t care how great the scandal is. I shall break off my engagement to him. I will not be capital. I will marry for love or I will not marry.
Far below them spread the world of the Strattons: groomed, manicured, wrapped in blue water. She could see Mr. Stratton getting out of the carriage onto the first green. He never walked when he could ride, not even on the golf course.
Thank goodness for gloves. Harriett f
elt the need for layers between them.
They talked of Mr. Rowwells’ world: groceries and money, new kinds of groceries, and increasing amounts of money. He talked of his hopes for mayonnaise in jars and perhaps pickles and tomato catsup as well. Harriett was not surprised that it would take a tremendous amount of capital to start such an enterprise.
That’s what I am. I am only money. And even that is not good enough for Strat.
She could not be angry at Clarence Rowwells. There were limited ways in which to raise capital, and marrying a rich woman was one. He had seen his chance to slip into her favor while Strat was mooning over Miss Lockwood. One hint that he thought her pretty; one hint was all it took.
His big hairy hand removed her hat, feeling her hair and her earlobes and her throat. He nauseated her, and she said, “I wish you to do something for your bride.”
“My dear. Anything.”
“I wish you to save Bridget.”
Mr. Rowwells stared at her. His hand ceased its movements, lying heavy and hot like a punishment.
“You are wrong that nobody cares about an Irish maid,” said Harriet. “I care.”
His big hairy hand came alive again, stroking her throat. It fingered the little hollow where her cameo lay on its thin gold chain, and she had the horrible thought that he might rip the cameo off her. A queer vibrating emotion seemed to come up from him, like vapor from a swamp. She fought off unreasonable fears.
“You can do it quite easily, Mr. Rowwells,” she said, envying him so for being a man. “You know what happened, Mr. Rowwells.”
His stare grew cold, like a winter wind. “I know what happened?” he repeated.
Inside her gloves, her hands too grew cold. They seemed to be on two sides of the same words, and she did not know why his side was so cold and frightening. “With Matthew,” she said. She gathered her courage to say an insulting thing to her future husband. “Mr. Rowwells, I know why you lied.”
He had lied, of course, because Mr. Stratton, the murderer, had told him to. That must have been part of the deal to get a favorable marriage settlement. Mr. Rowwells would accuse Bridget. Nobody would question the word of a gentleman, and nobody would question Mr. Stratton. Mr. Stratton was the murderer, so lying made Mr. Rowwells his accomplice. An unfortunate decision, but not irrevocable.
An extremely odd smile decorated Mr. Rowwells’ face, as if painted there, as clouds were painted on the blue ceiling. She was afraid of the smile, afraid of the way he loomed over her. Afraid, even, of the way he tipped the little glass of sherry past his hairy-rimmed lips.
“Sherry,” she whispered. “Sherry! You were the one for whom the tray was carried. Matthew was taking you sherry. You are—you are—”
He was the murderer.
She had betrothed herself to a murderer.
Not Mr. Stratton, after all, but his houseguest, Mr. Rowwells.
Harriett’s emotions came back. The sense of defeat vanished and the heat exhaustion dropped away like clothes to the floor.
“Well! That settles that!” She flounced her heavy skirts, each hand lifting the hems, preparing to descend the curling stairs. “You and I will have an excursion this afternoon after all!”
Harriett was filled with relief, and even joy. I don’t have to marry him! she realized. What an excuse! Nobody has to marry a murderer!
“We shall go to the police station, Mr. Rowwells,” she said triumphantly. I don’t have to fantasize about dying in childbirth, I can go to college, and Florinda is right, I need not marry. “You, Mr. Rowwells, will be a gentleman and admit your activities! Whatever Matthew did to annoy you, and however much it was an accident that you struck him so hard, you have a civic duty to discharge. And apologies to make to Bridget! You—”
Mr. Rowwells’ heavy hand remained on her throat. The fat, splayed fingers took a different, stronger position. “I think not,” he said.
“A gentleman—” said Harriett.
“Do you truly believe that the rules of gentlemanly behavior apply when the gentleman is a killer?”
The sun glittered on the open tower windows. The breeze came warm and salty on her cheeks. The sound of splashing water and the cries of triumph on the golf course reached her ears.
“Harriett, my dear, if I have thrown one down the stairs, why would I pause at throwing another?”
CHAPTER 13
Annie loved that: forthwith. It sounded like troops coming to the rescue. Devonny was going to be a wonderful sister-in-law.
“Bridget is still in jail?” said Strat. “But Father said—”
“This is ridiculous,” said Walker Walkley, shouldering Stephens out of his way. “Devonny, get back on the train this instant. We are not disrupting our schedules because of a serving girl.”
“A serving girl you lied about, Walker Walkley!” yelled Devonny. “Hiram Stratton, Jr.! Get off the train with me!”
A hundred heads popped out a hundred open coach windows as ordinary passengers delighted in the scene.
“I suggest we continue into the city,” said Walk, trying to convey this opinion in all directions.
If only we could, thought Strat. Annie will be in danger if I do what Devonny wants, and that is the last thing on earth I want. But we do have to get Bridget out of jail. I cannot let her languish there, nor go on trial, not when I believe Florinda’s story. But what if they put Annie in jail instead of Bridget?
He looked desperately back at his century changer. She had taken off the hat and veil. Cascades of dark hair, romantic as silk, fell toward him, and her beautiful mouth trembled, the way a girl’s should, needing him.
“Come, Strat,” said Walker Walkley. “Get your sister to behave and let’s get this train moving. We must not have a scene.”
“Walk, did you know Father lied about getting Bridget out of jail?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew. All the gentlemen knew.”
Strat was beginning to wonder about this word gentlemen. It was supposed to mean good manners, good birth and good upbringing. “You lied too, then,” he accused his friend.
“It wasn’t really a lie,” said Walk irritably. “It was a reasonable action. Your father didn’t bother with Florinda’s silliness because it meant nothing. Of course Bridget killed Matthew. If Bridget didn’t, then who did?” demanded Walk.
“Mr. Rowwells killed him,” said Miss Lockwood softly. “He and Ada together. They were both standing there. I was coming through time when the murder happened. It’s confused for me. I remember the scent of Mr. Rowwells’ pipe: apples and autumn. I remember the rasping of blackness. Silk on silk, I realized later.”
“Ada’s shawl!” cried Devonny. “It always makes that sneaky sliding sound.”
“They struck Matthew down gladly,” said Anna Sophia.
“Mr. Stratton,” said Stephens, “the train must leave the station. Now. You must sort out your difficulties on the platform, or in the car, sir, but not both.”
“Right,” said Strat. He lifted Anna Sophia to the ground.
Stephens shrugged, the brass steps were pulled up and the train pulled out of the station. Only Jeb left the village. Robert, who had not even had time to depart from the station, brought the carriage around.
Walker Walkley tried to think this through. Walk did not care for risk; the thing was to make others take the risks. The thing was to stay popular with those who had the power. At school, Strat had had the power; here, Mr. Stratton had it. How was Mr. Stratton going to react to all this coming through time nonsense? Whose side should Walk be on? Would he be better off trying to impress Devonny, Strat or Mr. Stratton? Whose friendship would prove more fruitful?
“ ‘Gladly,’ Anna Sophia? Do you mean that?” Devonny was shocked. “They enjoyed killing him? But why? Why would they want him dead at all, let alone enjoy it?”
“This is utter nonsense,” said Walk. “No gentleman would bother that much over a servant. I
refuse to believe Mr. Rowwells had anything to do with it. You females are always having the vapors.”
“I,” said Annie, “have never experienced a vapor in my life. And I never will.”
As Annie, this was true: she had never had the vapors. But as Anna Sophia, it was a lie: she had had the vapors. When I came back through time, she thought, I should’ve stopped the carriage right there on the estate and told Strat everything I remembered and trusted him to follow through. But I got vapored, thinking about how I might be hung.
She tried to figure out the rules, if any, of time travel. But all her rules had been broken, even the basics, like gravity. She didn’t know whether she could save herself, and have both sides of time, and keep everybody safe, and still end up happily ever after.
“And as for being a gentleman, Walker Walkley,” said Devonny, “you lied about Bridget making advances to you. You tried to yank her clothes off, didn’t you, and when she fought you off and escaped, you decided to take revenge, didn’t you?”
“She’s only a maid,” said Walk testily. “Who cares?”
Strat was stunned. He and Walk had both been brought up to believe that honor mattered. Both had memorized that famous poem I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honor more. And Walk had dispensed with honor? Had lied to hurt an innocent girl? A girl who rightly tried to protect her virtue?
Hiram Stratton, Jr., came out of the trance that had held him in its grip. It was amazing, really, how clouded he’d been by the love and the loss of Anna Sophia Lockwood. He had not been paying attention for ten days.
“Come,” he said. “Devonny. Annie. Get in the carriage. We’re going home. We have been thinking of Bridget and Anna Sophia, but first there is Harriett. Harriett is betrothed to a murderer. She might even be alone with him now. He wouldn’t hurt her, since he needs her money. We’ll extricate Harriett from whatever has been signed and deal with Clarence Rowwells. Father doesn’t want Harriett wed to Rowwells. He’ll be delighted to prove Rowwells a murderer.”
Walk shifted opinions on everything and hurried to open the carriage door for the ladies as Robert mounted to the driver’s seat. Now that Strat was talking so firmly, his was a better side to be on.
The Time Travelers: Volume One Page 14
