by Bess McBride
“We stand at the very spot where I traveled forward in time. My horse does not await me, and I hope he returned to the stables. It is but a walk of several miles to my father’s house. I could hasten to the estate to procure a carriage, but I do not like to leave you alone in the dark.”
“I can walk. But Reggie, what if we haven’t arrived back in your time? What if we ended up in the sixteenth century or even in my time, but in England?”
“It is not what we wished for, but if that does occur, I shall appeal to either my ancestor or my family’s descendents for assistance. All will turn out well, Phoebe, do not fear.” He grinned, and Phoebe thought she saw a new confidence in him. Of course! He was probably home.
“Shall we?” Reggie gallantly bowed and held out his arm to Phoebe. She took it and they set off down the road. “Take care with the ruts. They are as they were when I left, dried after the spring rains. The road will smooth out as we near Hamilton Place.”
Phoebe, feeling as if she were hanging onto him, slid her hand down to his.
“Do you mind?” she asked. “It’s easier to hold your hand as we walk along the road.”
“Not at all,” Reggie said. “I have become quite attached to this form of perambulation.”
“So, where exactly are we, Reggie?”
“We’re in the county of Bedfordshire in eastern England. This is the road leading from Hamilton Place to Wellston, the local village, where one can catch the post to London. The road upon which we now walk is part of my father’s estate which extends all the way to the village.”
“How far did you say it was to your father’s house? And why do you call it your father’s house? Isn’t it your house as well?”
“Several miles. No, it is my father’s house while he is master there. It is my home but not my house. Is it not that way in America?”
Phoebe shook her head. “Not really. Kids usually call where they live ‘my house,’ as in ‘let’s go to my house to play.’ At least they do now. I don’t know how they did things in America in 1827.”
Phoebe tightened her grip, clinging to the strength in his hand, hoping it would sustain her in the coming hours or even days. If they had traveled back to his time, she didn’t know how long she was going to be here. She supposed she could just stop Reggie and insist he join her in wishing her back to her time—if that were the way this time travel thing was working—but she didn’t want to let go of him yet. And she didn’t want to say goodbye. Not yet.
“What’s going to happen when we get to your house, Reggie?” Phoebe’s voice sounded small, and she felt very child-like at the moment. Dependent. Frightened, but she didn’t want him to know how scared she was. Life in the early nineteenth century was considerably different than in the twenty-first century, especially for a woman, and for all the I.C. Moon books she’d read, she had no idea what that life in the era was really like. Not really.
Reggie tightened his hand. “I have given that some thought, Phoebe. I am not decided as to whether we should knock on the front door and reveal all, or whether I should devise some other story to explain your presence, and my absence, although when I left, I did state that they should not expect to see me again. If Sebastian returned to the stables, as I most fervently hope that he did, then my father may have sent some men to look for me, fearing me to be lying in a ditch somewhere, fallen from my horse, perhaps injured.”
“You’re not really going to tell them the truth, are you? Look, no one believes in this time travel thing in my time, and that’s a couple hundred years into the future when we can fly into space and walk on the moon.”
“Walk on the moon?” Reggie asked.
Phoebe looked up at the moon, wishing she hadn’t said something. How to explain that? She tried briefly but ended up confusing Reggie.
“So, you are saying that although man can walk upon the moon, they cannot live there?”
Phoebe nodded. “Which doesn’t help us figure out what we’re going to do when we get to your house. Or at least what I’m going to do.”
Reggie paused and turned to look at her. “You sound frightened, dearest.”
Phoebe almost melted at the endearment. She nodded.
“I am frightened. Just as I imagine you must have been.”
He raised a hand to her cheek, and she covered it with her own.
“I will not let any harm come to you, Phoebe, you have my word. As you cared for me, I shall care for you.”
“I know you will. I trust you.”
For a moment, Phoebe thought he was going to kiss her, but instead, he took her into his arms. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She felt a tremor in his body, and he lifted his head and spoke with a shaky laugh.
“I seek only to reassure you, Miss Warner, not to press myself upon you when you are vulnerable.”
“Either way,” Phoebe murmured, pressing her face against his chest, warming to the thudding beat of his heart. “I wish we could stay this way forever.”
“I might echo your words but for the still bright moon overhead. I cannot imagine the course of our lives attached to each other in perpetuity in this position. How might we eat? Dressing could be a most arduous task.”
Phoebe chuckled. “You’re right. I’d better be careful what I wish for.”
“I know what my wishes are,” Reggie said, “but I will keep silent lest they be opposite yours.” He was silent for a moment, and Phoebe remained silent, savoring the moment.
“Come! I have thought of another scheme,” Reggie said. “If you can mange, we shall make our way to the neighboring estate to seek out the aid of Mrs. Matilda Sinclair. She is the American I spoke of, and she is more likely to accept the presence of a strange young woman from America than my father or my stepmother would do. I bitterly regret now that I failed to purchase my own lodgings, my own estate, but it did not seem necessary as I was a bachelor.”
“Sinclair? That’s where I work,” Phoebe mused.
“Yes, I know. It is not an uncommon name, I believe.” He took her hand again and started walking.
“So, this is the lady you had the crush on, huh?”
Reggie didn’t speak for a moment, and she hoped she hadn’t offended him. She needed to stop harping on that.
“Yes, this is the young lady for whom I developed an infatuation at one time. It seems a long time ago now, and my interests lie elsewhere.”
Phoebe grinned. She thought that was Georgian-era speak for “You’re the one I like now.” At least she hoped it was.
“Mine, too,” she said with a squeeze of his hand.
Reggie returned her smile. “I am glad of it.”
They walked on down the road with Reggie helping her sidestep some of the deepest ruts and apologizing that his father had not yet sent men out to attend to the road.
“I shall speak to him about it. No doubt he does not know the condition of the road as he has not traveled away from home lately. We approach the gates to Hamilton Place now.”
Phoebe looked toward where Reggie pointed. Two stone pillars topped by lions sitting on their haunches flanked iron gates.
“Well, that’s impressive.”
“A folly of the fourth earl in the eighteenth century. My father is not fond of them, but feels he must preserve them for his descendents.”
“That would be you,” Phoebe chuckled. “Do you like them?”
“They bother me not at all. I am fond of ostentation. Were I not, I could not live at Hamilton Place. It is a very ornate manor”
They passed the gates and kept walking. Phoebe craned her neck to peer down the entrance, but could see very little other than another long road.
“You will see it soon enough, Phoebe, perhaps as soon as this evening if Mrs. Sinclair is not able to assist us.”
“Exactly what do you mean by ‘assist us?’” Phoebe asked with growing suspicion. “You’re not planning on leaving me there, are you?” She stopped walking and pulled against his hand, forcing hi
m to stop as well. “Because I’m not going if you are. I’m staying with you.” She faced him with narrowed eyes.
“I cannot stay with you, Phoebe. It simply cannot be done. My plan is to ask Mrs. Sinclair to give you shelter. I will know better when I speak with her whether I shall attempt to tell her the truth or devise some other story, though at the moment, I can think of nothing plausible to explain your form of dress. It is my fervent hope that, since you share a common heritage, she will help us. But there is no possible excuse for me to stay, not when my own home is just next door.”
“Reggie! Please don’t leave me there. Can’t I stay in your stables or something?” Phoebe knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t bear to be parted from him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“Phoebe, dearest, please try to understand. Of course, I would take you to my home if I could, and I am not afraid to make the attempt, nor would anyone in my home deny you shelter. But I do not wish to subject you to the possibility of my father’s ill graces or my stepmother’s censure. Mrs. Sinclair has always been kindness itself, and I believe your reception at her house will serve you better.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Stables indeed! Although I might find myself sleeping in the stables tonight.”
He tugged at her hand gently, and she allowed him to pull her farther down the road. Phoebe didn’t mind meeting the American woman, Mrs. Sinclair, but she really had no intention of staying in a strange house somewhere in Georgian England—not if Reggie wasn’t staying with her.
In fact, she knew within an hour of meeting Reggie that she never wanted to be further from him than the next room. She’d fallen hopelessly in love with him, and she wished with all her heart that she could stay with him forever. She glanced up at the moon and kept her mouth shut—just in case Reggie had other wishes. Though she hoped he didn’t.
Twenty minutes later, they approached another gate, this one a little less ostentations than the lions. No animal perched on top of the stone pillars that stood about six feel high. She wasn’t quite sure what the gates were for. She hadn’t seen any fences to keep anything in or out. Perhaps they were just a statement or even a marker. “Make a left when you reach the stone lions and you’ve arrived.”
They turned into the entrance and walked down a well-maintained path flanked by trees. She couldn’t tell what kind they were in the dark.
“I have never walked down this path but always ridden across the estate or taken a carriage here with my father and brother. How odd it feels.”
Phoebe dragged her feet, unwilling to face what might come. Maybe this Mrs. Sinclair would boot them out of the door. That would be nice, Phoebe thought. Well, embarrassing, but preferable to Reggie leaving her.
“Come, Phoebe. You will like Mrs. Sinclair. I do not know how she will receive us unannounced at this hour, but I trust she will be kind. I have never known her to be otherwise.”
“I’m sure she’s a fine person.”
“Ah! Then you lag because you are worried about my imminent departure.”
Phoebe gulped. Not departure. If he only went to the neighboring estate, it wasn’t really a departure, was it?
“Yeah, but don’t you think we should stay together? What if you accidentally travel forward in time again...and I’m not there? What then?” Hah! She was right. They needed to stay together.
“I think we must wish for the same thing to effect the time travel, and at the moment, I do not believe we share the same wishes. I wish for your safety and comfort, and you wish to sleep in a stable. I do not fear that I will travel in time.”
“What about me? What if I wished hard enough and I returned? But you didn’t know it. And then you would look for me, and you’d be worried when you couldn’t find me.”
Reggie paused to look at her. Before he could speak, she grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him against her. She looped a hand around his head and brought his mouth to hers. Startled at first, he wrapped his arms around her and returned her kiss with warmth. Phoebe clung to him, her knees weak.
“That was just in case we get separated,” she murmured against his mouth. “I don’t want you to forget me.”
Reggie lifted his head and studied her face. “I could never forget you, Phoebe, not if I lived for another two hundred years. We will not be parted, I promise.” He bent to kiss her again then dropped his hands from her waist. “With the exception of your lodging arrangements.” He grinned.
“You’d better promise,” Phoebe muttered.
They turned and headed farther down the path. The trees opened up and moonlight shone on a huge house—just like one of the English country mansions one always saw in magazines.
“Wow!” Phoebe exclaimed.
“This is Ashton House,” Reggie said. “Come, there is nothing for it but to knock on the front door. I think I will settle you on a bench in the garden until I am certain Mrs. Sinclair is at home and will receive us. I do not know what she will make of my garments.” He looked down at his jeans.
They approached the house. Phoebe knew nothing about architecture, but she thought the house resembled one of those fabulous mansions one saw used for the movies based on I.C. Moon’s books—at least three stories, seemingly hundreds of windows and numerous chimneys. As they neared, she noted thick, lush ivy growing up the sides of stone walls. Several windows on the third floor showed flickering lights, but in general the house seemed dark and shut down for the night. Lamps on either side of the main entrance glowed softly, a bit like nightlights. She wondered what time it was. Having foregone a watch in lieu of the clock on her cell phone, she had no idea how late it might be.
Apparently knowing his way around, Reggie veered off from the front of the house and led Phoebe along a path around the left side of the house that ended in a garden of some sort. Luckily, the moon gave them enough light to see several benches scattered throughout. He seated her on one of them.
“Do not be afraid. I know it is dark, but there is nothing here to harm you.” He looked up. “The moon will watch over you.”
“Fine job it’s done so far,” Phoebe mumbled. She resisted letting go of his hand, ashamed of her fear—the fear of somehow losing him. She lived in New York City. She wasn’t afraid of a quiet English garden at night.
“It has brought us together,” he murmured. He brought her hand to his lips. “I shall return as soon as possible.”
He strode away toward the front of the house, and Phoebe, too keyed up to sit still, jumped up to survey the house and gardens. Moonlight reflected off several of the darkened windows on the side of the house. The sound of a fountain tinkled nearby. Although she couldn’t see the colors of the flowers bordering the path, the alluringly sweet smell of flowers filled the air. Spring had arrived in England, it seemed.
She couldn’t say she was exactly surprised to find that time travel was possible—not since finding Reggie on her apartment floor—but she had no earthly idea that it would ever happen to her. It made sense, of course. If one could travel forward in time then one should be able to travel back in time. And weren’t so many romance novels written about that very thing? It was just that, as far as she knew, time travel had not been proven to be possible. So, why should it happen to her? Or to Reggie?
Phoebe imagined a scenario where she returned to New York City, announced her discovery and experiences, and wrote a best-selling book followed by rounds of talk shows and public appearances. She would buy an English mansion—maybe one like Ashton House—with her newfound wealth. The image of curiosity seekers and tourists knocking on her door by the busloads and asking her to tell her story in person threw a kink into the rosy future—as did the Reggie’s absence in her scenario.
Where would he be? In the past? Lost in the future? And wouldn’t he be subject of intense media scrutiny a la movie star? His life would be horrible. No wonder she couldn’t imagine him in the scenario.
That was if anyone believed her anyway.
She paced the path restlessly, l
istening intently for Reggie’s return. Time travel to the past was one thing—frightening, surreal, even seemingly impossible—but time travel to the past without Reggie’s presence was unimaginable.
Footsteps approached. Phoebe turned in their direction and steeled herself for the unknown, remaining silent in case it wasn’t Reggie.
Reggie appeared out of the darkness.
“Forgive me for leaving you here, Phoebe.” He took her hands in his. “Much of the house was abed, but Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were not, and they await you in the library.”
“Oh, geez, Reggie. Isn’t there some other way? In the library? Like Mrs. Plum and Colonel Mustard?”
“There are no persons here by that name. The Sinclairs have no guests at the moment. I understand your fears, truly I do, but this is the best possible course of action at the moment. Mrs. Sinclair is most anxious to meet you, a fellow American.”
Phoebe had forgotten that Miss Crockwell/now Mrs. Sinclair was an American. She relaxed—a tiny bit.
“I still wish you could stay with me,” she said.
“Of course he’s going to stay the night, aren’t you, Reggie? You can’t just leave her here with strangers,” Mrs. Sinclair said from the darkness behind them.
Chapter Nine
Reggie and Phoebe swung around at the unexpected voice.
“Mrs. Sinclair! I thought we were to meet you in the library. William! You too?”
William followed his wife, carrying a lantern that he held aloft. Both were fully dressed, having only just retired for the night, as they had reported.
“Reggie, surely you know that your message of bringing an unfortunate young woman from America to stay for an indefinite period was not conducive to Mrs. Sinclair waiting patiently in the library, nor is your unusual manner of clothing. To my wife’s credit, she did stand there for a full minute before rushing out of the door behind you.”
“Hi, I’m Mattie,” Mrs. Sinclair said with a shocking lack of formality. Reggie eyed Mattie Sinclair as if she had gone mad. He had hoped for recognition from a fellow compatriot, but was astounded to see Mattie clasp Phoebe’s hands in her own as if they were indeed friends of long acquaintanceship.
