by Leela Ash
“Nu-uh,” Jasmin interrupted him, holding her free hand up before them as she added, “I do spend a lot of time here, to be sure—but I also have every intention of heading into London proper and writing up a storm for your publishing company. And, while I’m at it, I think I’ll do my part to advance the rights of women in your time.” She paused here, pitching her head back and adding in a wail that sent the swans and geese around them flying for cover, “Watch out, Victorian England! Hurricane Jasmin has arrived!”
Nathaniel guffawed outright.
“Victorian England is most fortunate to have you,” he praised her, adding in a softer tone that dripped with love, “And so, for that matter, am I. I love you, Jasmin.”
THE END
into the duke’s arms too
Katie Maddox
Copyright ©2016 by Katie Maddox. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Thank you so much for your interest in my work
Chapter one
***
Florida, 2016
“Sheesh, some people will do anything to avoid reporting for work at their food service jobs. Even dissolve into thin air and possibly travel through time. Drama queen.”
Standing at the center of a lustrous Victorian style sitting room, Callista Vale made a weak attempt to—well—veil her air of keen concern in a masquerade of her usual good humor.
Most days throughout the course of her one-year employment at Chez Victoria, an elegant Florida area tea room, the dreamy 22-year-old was able to lose herself in the splendor of her surroundings; admiring in full the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, plush ivory carpeting, and central tables doused in reams of pure white lace and topped by a lavish setting of floral-print china. Overseen by the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand-painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky, the room seemed very much like a mystical portal to another time.
A mystical portal that, as an added bonus, actually offered a happy hour for tea drinkers; and sometimes Callista took great enjoyment in imagining her regular pool of attentive female customers smashing floral-print teacups up against their delicate foreheads and letting loose with random screams of “Chug! Chug! Chug!” as one of their number dared to gulp down copious amounts of cinnamon brew. Spiked with honey and lavender, of course.
As a resident chef and server at Chez Victoria, Callista cooked up many of the Victorian delicacies that lined the eatery’s silver cast food carts. She took great joy in preparing the piping hot scones topped by clotted cream and jam, finger sandwiches, decorative iced fancy cakes, and—of course—tea that their customers so coveted.
The early days of Callista’s employment at Chez Victoria had been brightened and highlighted by the vibrant presence of a particularly charming co-worker. Recent college graduate Jasmin Lawrence always managed to brighten their surroundings with a hearty dose of humor and her loud, boisterous, but ultimately kind-hearted demeanor.
Fast friends from the moment they met, Jasmin and Callista often joked and laughed their way through long days of food service work spent at Chez Victoria. One day, however, something happened that even the Twin Terrors of Chez Victoria couldn’t joke about; an incident that, somehow and in some way, had led to Jasmin’s disappearance.
The day had started off normally enough for the spirited red-headed Callista, who donned the foot-length dress of lace-trimmed steel gray and the poufy white wool hat that designated her position as the ‘help’ at the manor of Chez Victoria (also donning the hoop skirts, pantaloons, not to mention those ancient mummification devices known as corsets that punctuated the wearing of Victorian apparel—and here she had once complained about having to wear heels to a college office job! She never knew just how good she had it!) and headed in to cover the lunch rush at the popular Florida eatery.
Soon immersed in the preparation of tea and tea cakes, biscuits and pastries, she just barely noticed the loud crash that emanated from the dining room; one that sent the rest of the staff scurrying to investigate as she joined them with trudging steps.
“I don’t know what the big deal is,” she acknowledged with a shrug. “Chances are, one of the newbie servers just dropped a crepe tray in unseemly haste. Hardly a biggie.”
Her opinion was amended moments later, as she saw her friend’s rubenesque form flattened hard and still across the surface of her silver-plated meal cart; her head fallen forward across the hard brass handle that lined its northern border.
“She’s not talking,” Callista muttered, frantic feet now rushing forward to aid her fallen friend. “She must be dead.”
Her mind was eased moments later when their supervisor--a tall, slender woman with distinguished silver hair and a flowing day dress of pure blue satin adorned with lace and sleek ruffles—rushed onto the scene to hover over her employee’s fallen body and check her vital signs.
“She’s alive!” Jessymyn O’Reilly declared with her usual dramatic aplomb.
Well thanks much, Dr. Frederica Frankenstein, Callista mused inwardly, all the while racing to the side of the cart before she and Jessymyn carried Jasmin’s notably unconscious body to the warm realm of a nearby fireplace.
Laying her still form in the luxurious softness of the rug of scarlet velvet that lay just before the fireplace, Callista glanced briefly at the newly placed curiosity piece that adorned its mantle.
Just that morning, Jessymyn had enhanced the dining room décor with the placement of a brass-framed oil painting that apparently depicted a handsome Victorian duke; one that immediately caught the notice of every female employee at the tea room. And, Callista couldn’t help but notice, some of the males as well.
His tall muscular frame dressed resplendent in a long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and tight fitting taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons, the subject of this portrait boasted a chiseled face featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and eyes that shone as bright and azure as the image of the bluest sky. This face came framed with a shoulder length mane of thick ebony hair that fell free across muscled shoulders, and came adorned with a soft, subtle upturn of his full moist lips.
Quickly questioning the identity of the Victorian styled ‘beb’, as she so cleverly deemed him, Jasmin and her co-workers were quickly introduced to the painting’s downright ethereal subject.
“The beb, for your information, is Lord Nathaniel Barrett; the man who originally made his home in this very building—or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile,” Jessymyn informed her employees, adding with a proud smile, “A local historian is writing a book about this area and he interviewed the lovely elderly couple that owns this fine establishment. And, as it turns out, the structure of this tea room is based on the floor plan of a manor house they visited while on a trip to London. They had seen the home of a stately nobleman named Nathaniel Barrett, a widower who lived the gist of his days alone and miserable in his big old house. They thought that it would be a fitting tribute to build a house much like his, then fill it with laughter, good food, and lots of company for his lonely spirit.”
Now, Callista couldn’t help but note, Jasmin just happened to lay directly beneath her Victorian heart throb.
“A place she’d probably love to be,” Callista mused in silence, adding in a more serious tone, “It’s almost as if he is watching over her.”
Yet not close enough, apparently; for after rushing about to call an ambulance, reassuring their customers that things like this usually didn’t happen at this upscale establishment, and notifying all employees on hand that there was indeed “Nothing to see here—Move along and refresh the sugar bowls while you’re at it”, Jessymyn and Callista returned to the fireplace to find that—much to their shock—Jas
min was gone.
A full month had passed since Jasmin’s disappearance; and in that time, concerned friends and family had contacted the police and conducted extensive personal searches for the woman who could not, would not be found.
“It’s as if she disappeared into thin air—although, I must admit that I never have quite comprehended the phrase, ‘disappeared into thin air.’ I mean, wouldn’t the air have to be pretty blasted thick for someone to disappear clear into it? Foggy and smoggy, even?” Callista mused, shaking her head from side to side. “Oh well. Wherever she is, I sure do miss her.”
Callista had found a kindred sister in Jasmin; a true and dear friend who shared her interests—ranging from romantic Victorian literature and movies to an intense disdain for food service work (nope, make that an incredibly overwhelming, nearly paralyzing disdain for food service work)—and shared her unique and truly vibrant personality.
“Translation,” Callista mused with a smirk. “She’s incredibly, indescribably weird. I am even more so. Each of us, at long last, found someone on the planet Earth who could stand to be around us for more than—oh, say—ten minutes or so.”
In a world where good friends were few, Callista had found the best; only to lose her in a bizarre, mystery-laden disappearance that seemed to know no easy solution.
“Where in the blazes is she?” Callista pressed, taking a break from her duties to approach the captivating oil painting that had exerted such an intense hold on her friend.
Sniffing full in the face of the gorgeous, distinguished looking gentleman who formed the focal point of this interesting artwork, she ignored his seductive, come hither eyes and went straight for his (presumably) foxy jugular vein.
“Stop pouting at me, you Bargain Basement Darcy, and tell me where my friend went!” she released in a furious whisper, drawing quizzical stares from those around her. “Dish! Spill the Earl Grey tea or be prepared to pay! And pay big!”
Chastening herself for chiding and harassing an inanimate object, Callista made to step away from the painting, only to freeze in her place as she noticed something markedly different about this annoying artwork.
While the original framed image posted on the wall of Chez Victoria had featured a single subject—the afore mentioned pouty, undeniably hawt but annoyingly tight lipped Victorian nobleman—this portrait seemed to feature a second subject; this one far more familiar to her, nonetheless disbelieving, eyes.
Standing at Nathaniel’s back was the spitting image of the very woman she was looking for; one who regarded her over the gold-trimmed rim of a lovely hand-painted floral print fan.
Although not a classic beauty, the robust lady before her sported a winning beam and a thick flowing mane of dark curly hair; not to mention sparkling blue eyes that peered at her through the prism of clear glass spectacles.
“Jasmin,” she gasped aloud, not really caring who heard her as she drew closer to the painting. “I know I should be questioning my ever lovin’ sanity right now—even more so than I generally do on a regular daily basis. I know that I should be disbelieving my own eyes at this point. Somehow, though, I always knew that she was with him. Somehow, and in some way, I knew that she had crossed over—that she had transported herself back to the time that we both so adored. The time, perhaps, where we both belonged.”
Shifting her gaze to the exquisite floral fan that shone resplendent from Jasmin’s grasp, Callista suddenly felt the weight of a hard day’s work bearing down upon her thin, short frame; dulling her senses as a wave of fatigue threatened to consume her.
As her gaze was captured by the intimate, ebullient floral print that lined and adorned Jasmin’s hand fan, she felt her senses brim and swim in a thick, confused haze. Her heart and pulse pounded in a single accord as her public surroundings dissolved around her. The vision of lace-covered tables and velvety seats gave way to a blinding prism of ebullient dew glistened red roses set against a silky backdrop.
Within seconds, her knees buckled and she felt her body fall with an unceremonious thump to the ground beneath her.
Scarlet red dissolved to black—and she was lost.
Chapter two
Callista awoke to the same vision that had greeted her moments before; only this time, she couldn’t help but notice this image seemed more three dimensional in nature.
Plus now it talked. Criminy.
She recognized immediately the pristine, out and out gorgeous image of Lord Nathaniel Barrett; his tall, muscular frame dressed in the same long jacket of azure jacquard, white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and oh so delightfully tight taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons, pictured in the portrait.
Even more impressive was his chiseled face framed by the glorious mane of long thick ebony hair and featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and full, moist lips.
Lips that now parted to say something that—immediately at least—seemed totally inappropriate and entirely too personal.
“Well I must say it, Darling,” Nathaniel observed, staring into her bleary, half opened eyes with no small amount of curiosity. “This seems like a most peculiar case of déjà vu.”
Callista parted her pert pink lips to inquire just as to who in the blazes he thought he was, calling her ‘Darling’—only to snap it shut moments later, as another woman stepped out from behind the tall imposing form of Lord Nathaniel Barrett, one whose round and bespectacled face she immediately recognized.
“I’d like to think of it more as déjà vu all over again,” Jasmin observed, cocking her head in Callista’s direction.
Nathaniel pitched his head back, letting loose with a deep sonorous laugh as he considered the words of his apparent lover.
“I swear it, my love, I really don’t know as to how you manage to be so very witty, all day and every day,” he praised her, wrapping a loving arm around the surface of her sturdy shoulders. “You never fail to make me laugh and amuse me.”
Gracing her lover with a cheeky grin, Jasmin nudged him gently in the ribs as she revealed, “Well that particular line, I must admit, is not mine to claim. It was baseball’s great Yogi Berra who coined the phrase, ‘It’s déjà vu all over again.’ But hey, since that dude hasn’t been born yet, I can claim these words as my own,” she paused here, adding as she pumped her fist triumphantly in the air, “Time travel rocks!”
Callista rolled her newly opened eyes, expressing her sharp and abject disagreement with this point.
Oh, she had to admit that Jasmin glowed in a period dress that fit and flattered her rubenesque curves; a smooth, glittery full-length satin frock with a boned bodice boasting lush satin bows, ruffled lace lining the neckline, additional lines of lace accenting its wide sleeves, and a flowing skirt that bustled soft and graceful around her buxom waist.
Her friend’s lustrous mane of ebony hair was piled high atop her head; revealing a pair of glittering diamond earrings and a smile that glimmered brighter still.
“I have never seen Jasmin so happy,” she observed with a slight smile. “She’s just radiant.”
And their surroundings, when she finally got around to sitting up and examining them up close, glowed nothing but resplendent before her admiring eyes.
Recognizing immediately the glamorous interior of the Chez Victoria tea room, she nodded as she spotted the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, and plush ivory carpeting; also noting the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand-painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky.
Yet, replacing the full assortment of tables that generally came filled with customers waiting to be served, came a long, lace-covered single table adorning the center of the room; topped as it was by a gleaming setting of polished rose print china.
“Cha, there is just one problem with all of this,” she decided finally. “While this joint does indeed look like an early version of the Chez Victoria tea room, it is not the elaborate tourist trap of a business where I work and pick up my paychecks four days
out of the week. So in essence, I seem to have skipped out of work early to travel to a different country and century. Drat it to blazes, the boss is going to kill me!”
Letting loose with a loud, frustrated groan, Callista pointed an accusing finger in the direction of her watching friend.
“So it seems you’ve really done it this time, Lawrence,” she accused a still smirking Jasmin. “Now you’ve transported us both back in time, with little probable hope of return. Good job! So what do you plan to do for an encore?”
Jasmin rolled her eyes.
“Ah Callista, always the drama queen,” she scoffed, adding as she offered a helping hand to her confused, frowning friend, “And as far as what I plan to do for an encore. Well, how about a whole new and downright enchanting life in another place and time? Doesn’t that sound awesome sauce?”
Chapter three
A short time later, Callista found herself sitting upright in the lavender-cushioned chair bordering the long table at the center of the dining room; sipping some soothing lemon tea from a rose print tea cup.
Facing her at the table was the couple who brewed and served her this heavenly concoction; its hot languid streams soothing her rattled nerves as she asked them, “How did I get here?”
Nathaniel, sitting tall and proud at the head of his elaborate lace-covered table, shook his head from side to side in response to this question.
“Blast it if I know, Miss,” he admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders as he continued, “Now as I recall, milady here did mention something about inviting a friend to tea sometime.” He paused here, arching a feathered eyebrow to sly effect. “She just didn’t mention that you’d be coming from such a far piece. Do you, by chance, need us to cover what Jasmin so adorably refers to as your cab fare? I still fail to understand as to why you ever so clever 21st century types surrendered the use of carriages; far classier rides, and—all things considered—horse droppings are far easier to clean up than what she describes as fossil fuels.”
