It's About Time

by Charlotte Douglas

  He stared at her with a quizzical expression as he finished his second piece of toast and wiped his lips with a linen napkin. “You’re not eating, Miss Caswell.”

  In her study of the puzzling Randolph Trent, she’d forgotten her breakfast, but the excitement churning in her stomach destroyed her appetite. “Eating can wait until you’ve answered a few questions. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m Randolph Trent, and I’m here at the Bellevue for a working holiday.” He pushed away his plate, folded his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “I might ask the same questions. Who are you, Miss Caswell, and what are you doing here?”

  Blood pounded in her temples. There had to be a rational explanation. Maybe he was Trent’s great-grandson, the spitting image of his ancestor. “When did you arrive at the hotel?”

  “What’s today?”

  “Monday.”

  “I arrived three weeks ago,” he said, “and checked into Room 131.”

  Liar. She had checked into Room 131 four days ago. Then an impossible idea struck her. “What year?”

  “That’s a ridiculous question. The same as now, 1897, of course.” He pushed back from the table and started to rise.

  She felt the blood draining from her face. “But 1897 was almost a hundred years ago.”

  He dropped into his chair like a rock, and his face paled beneath his tan. “If you’re trying to be amusing, Miss Caswell, you haven’t succeeded.”

  “I’m not laughing, either.” She reached for the remote control and flipped on the television to the weather channel. The thirty-six-hour forecast scrolled across the blue screen. “See, there in the upper right-hand corner? That’s today’s date.”

  Looking stunned, like a man who’d just suffered a devastating loss, Randolph Trent stared at the television set. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “No, it’s not you. It’s that box....” He stared at the television like a man entranced, catching his breath as the forecast gave way to a commercial filled with gurgling babies.

  He rose to his feet, ran his hand over the screen, then jerked it away abruptly at the jolt of static electricity he received. Peering down the appliance’s backside, he examined the cable wires connected to the wall.

  “How do you do that?”

  Feeling like a fairy godmother, she waved the remote control, flipping from channel to channel.

  He tore his attention from the set and returned to his chair. “This must be some kind of trick. How did I get here, and what happened to the last hundred years?”

  She dropped the control and settled in her chair, remembering Angelina. “Maybe you died last night.”

  “Oh, no.” He held up his right hand, wrapped in the damp facecloth now pink with blood. “Ghosts don’t bleed.”

  “Until last night, I didn’t believe in ghosts.” She looked away, distressed by the injury she’d inflicted on him. He didn’t appear to intend any harm but seemed as confused as she was.

  Rand folded his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “What exactly happened last night?”

  “The ghost of Angelina Fairchild confronted me in the ballroom.” She sipped cold coffee, avoiding the intense stare of his gray velvet eyes.

  “Maybe she wasn’t a ghost.”

  “She’s a ghost, all right. Emma says—”

  “Emma?” he asked.

  “The maid who brought breakfast. She told me Angelina’s been scaring brides here at the hotel for the last hundred years.”

  His eyebrows arched above eyes that widened with alarm, and he rose to his feet. “If you’re a bride, then my presence places you in a compromising situation. Now that my head has ceased pounding and my light-headedness has passed, I’ll leave at once.”

  “No. Please, stay.” Dismay at the thought of his leaving surprised her. Earlier, all she’d wanted was to be rid of the man. “I’m not the bride. My sister was married yesterday.”

  “I don’t understand. I saw Angelina Fairchild at dinner last night—a charming young woman.” He sat down and absentmindedly helped himself to another piece of toast.

  Angelina’s pleas rang in her mind. The man across the table knew her. Was he the man Angelina sought? Had the girl known Randolph would appear? That might explain why the ghost had accosted her and not Jill. She’d ask Emma for the name of Angelina’s lost love.

  Meanwhile, the possible source of Angelina’s torment sat across from her. What young woman wouldn’t appreciate such rugged good looks? How many other hearts had he broken? She squared her shoulders, breathed deeply and vowed not to be another trophy added to his belt.

  He spooned marmalade onto his toast, started to take a bite, then paused with the bread halfway to his mouth. “Why does she haunt brides at the hotel?”

  “The man Angelina loved quarreled with her. She died in an accident before they could patch things up between them. Maybe she’s jealous of all brides and their happiness—or believes she’ll find her own lost love in such an atmosphere.”

  Indignation flared his nostrils and turned his eyes to gray smoke as his teeth tore into the toast as if attacking the man who’d quarreled with Angelina. If he’d been the one who loved her, he hid it well.

  “What kind of man would upset such a lovely young girl?” he asked.

  “My question exactly.” She considered his strong, square jaw as he chewed his food with pleasure. The very attractive flesh and blood of the man across from her played havoc with her concentration.

  She leaned back in her chair to regard him more seriously. His face revealed no remorse. “But Angelina’s not the problem. She only appears at weddings, so she won’t be troubling me again.”

  “What is the problem—other than being out of food?” He had devoured every morsel from the serving dishes and gazed longingly at her breakfast, still untouched. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  She handed him her plate and watched in astonishment as he dug into it. The man was definitely no ghost. At the rate he was eating, he would soon add a pound or two to his very real muscled bulk.

  She dragged her attention to the dilemma he presented. “Problems—plural. The first being a violation of the law of physics that two bodies cannot occupy the same space.”

  “You mean Room 131?” He smiled across the table at her and poured fresh coffee in her cup as casually as if he always shared breakfast with a strange woman.

  Her stomach fluttered as she toyed with the idea of Randolph Trent at her breakfast table every morning, then thrust aside the absurd notion. “The other problem is yours, not mine. How will you return to the Bellevue of 1897? If you can solve that one, the overcrowding in Room 131 takes care of itself.”

  His smile disappeared and vertical lines appeared between his thick brows as his forehead wrinkled in thought. “You might as well ask me to fly.”

  “Flying I can manage. The rudiments of time travel escape me.”

  “You can fly?” He dropped his fork and stared at her in disbelief.

  “Not without a plane, of course.” She stifled a giggle at the incredulous look on his face.

  “Plane?”

  “Huge flying machines that can carry hundreds of people through the air—but unfortunately, not through time.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Time travel—I read a book by Mr. Twain last year about such a phenomenon. A blow to the head conveyed the character to medieval England, and another blow restored him to the present. But that was fiction, of course.”

  “It might be worth a try.” She hefted the coffeepot and eyed him speculatively.

  “I applaud your enthusiasm—” his mouth split into an engaging grin “—but I remember no blow to my head last night. However, I distinctly recall entering my room, this room, and falling into bed. Besides—” he nodded toward the phone book on the dresser “—you’ve already attempted that solution, and it didn’t work.”

  Her stomach flip-flopped as he smiled at her
in his good-natured way. “I know nothing about time travel,” she said, “but I can solve our first problem.”

  She carried the telephone to the table and punched in the numbers for the front desk. This time she received an immediate answer. “This is Victoria Caswell in Room 131. I have a friend who’s arrived unexpectedly and needs a room.”

  Rand threw her a quizzical look when she hung up. “Well?”

  “They’re checking their reservations and will get back to me.”

  “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, but I don’t want a room. I must return where I belong. Surely a society that builds flying machines and captures moving, talking pictures in a box has some way of sending me back through time?”

  She threw him a wry grin. “Not unless I can contact Dr. Who.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Who is a character in a television time-travel series.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Feeling like part of an Abbott and Costello routine, she gave in to laughter until she saw the disappointed look on his face.

  “It’s imperative that I return immediately.” He rose from the table and paced the length of the suite, looking like a character from Masterpiece Theater in his antiquated clothing.

  Her conscience nipped her. She’d been incredibly selfish, thinking only of her own inconvenience. How would she feel, thrust a hundred years into the future? Was someone searching for Randolph Trent, wondering where he’d gone? “Your family, they must be frantic.”

  His eyes chilled her like a winter day. “I have no one. My parents are deceased and I have no siblings.”

  She left the table and curled into the corner of the sofa, watching as he continued to tread the carpet from one end of the suite to the other like a powerful, caged cat. “Surely someone will miss you?”

  He stopped, thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I left my valet behind in Chicago this trip. But if I’m not at the hotel to finish my negotiations by the end of the week, I stand to lose a great deal of money.”

  “You’ve been yanked forward a hundred years and all you can think of is money?”

  The lines of his face hardened and his eyes hooded like a predator’s. “Making money is what I do. I see no need to apologize for it.”

  “But isn’t there someone you miss, who’s missing you?” The warmth she’d glimpsed in him earlier had disappeared, leaving a coldness that made her shiver.

  “I assure you, no one is inconvenienced by my absence, if it is brief, but my business could suffer great losses.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  But her pity was not for his bank accounts. Randolph Trent evidently had no one in his life for whom he cared deeply. He longed to return, not to his friends, but his finances. If he was the lover Angelina searched for, she should have saved herself the trouble.

  Someone knocked and a moment later the hall door opened. Emma staggered in under an armload of linens, blankets and pillows.

  “What are those?” Tory asked.

  “You called the front desk for a room for your friend.” Emma dumped her burden beside Tory on the sofa. “The hotel’s full up until the end of the month, but I was able to find Mr. Trent a bed.”

  “Where?”

  Tory hoped it would be at the opposite side of the mammoth building. There, out of sight and sound, he could rail all he wanted about losing money.

  Emma’s eyes twinkled like Christmas lights. “You’re sitting on it, m’dear.”

  “What do you mean?” Tory’s patience had worn thin.

  “Don’t worry. It’s a sleeper sofa, quite comfy. Will you be needing anything else?” Emma tucked her hands beneath her apron, waiting.

  “Yes, bring my bill. I’m checking out. Mr. Trent can have the suite to himself.”

  “No.” He stopped pacing at her words. “I won’t let you ruin your stay on my account. I’ll find someplace else.”

  “Well, miss?” Emma asked.

  Tory took a hard look at the man before her. His old-fashioned clothing exhibited all the signs of being slept in, and stubble darkened his strong jaw. Handsome and fit, he still resembled a homeless vagrant, which, in a way, he was. Unless his pockets were filled with gold, he hadn’t enough money to live on and, even worse, no knowledge of late-twentieth-century culture. If she abandoned him now, he’d probably end up in jail or the state mental hospital. Who’d believe he was a time traveler? She wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

  “Never mind, Emma. I’ll call the front desk when I’m ready to leave.” She closed the door behind the maid, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She still didn’t trust the roguishness in the man’s gray eyes.

  “I meant it, Miss Caswell.” He loomed over her, his massive frame blocking the light. “I’ll leave the room to you and find another place.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  He emptied his pockets, rattling a few coins in his hands, handing her his checkbook, while he repocketed a large, antique gold watch.

  Tory studied the checkbook. Although the paper seemed new, the checks on the Chicago bank lacked computer account numbers and printed name, address and telephone numbers.

  “That may not be any good now,” he said. “I don’t even know if that bank still exists.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  She dialed long-distance information and asked for the bank’s number. The telephone company had no listing for such a bank, but the chatty operator volunteered that the building at that address had burned to the ground thirty years ago.

  “You’re out of luck.” Tory returned his checkbook.

  Tucking it into his pocket with the rest of his belongings, he shrugged. “Thank you for trying.”

  She took a deep breath. She was plunging in over her head by accepting responsibility for Randolph Trent, but she couldn’t abandon him, yet. “If we’re going to be roommates, call me Tory.”

  “Rand.” He extended his hand, enveloping hers with long, powerful fingers, and a slow grin lit his face. “I’d be like a babe in the woods without someone like you to guide me. I’m grateful.”

  He meant every word. Without Victoria to advise him, he’d bumble like a tourist in a strange country without a guide. He’d noticed that, although he could understand her words for the most part, the cadence of her modern speech was quite different from his own, and he was certain he’d encounter new inventions that required explaining.

  She seemed uncomfortable with his gratitude, unlike Selena, who had always reveled when Rand was in her debt. A faint blush singed Tory’s cheeks, and her lovely eyes refused to meet his.

  “Look, Rand, I need to check with the catering manager and make sure there are no loose ends from the wedding and reception yesterday.” She picked up the small object that had operated the magical box, clicked on the pictures and handed it to him. “Why don’t you catch up on the twentieth century while I’m gone?”

  His fingers closed over her soft hand, sending a tremor of pleasure through him. Her subtle scent, an alluring mixture of magnolias and spice, teased his nostrils, and her eyes gazed at him, questioning. He grasped the control, released her hand, and the moment passed.

  Emotion clogged his voice. Gratitude—that had to be it. He’d vowed after Selena he’d never let another woman touch his heart again.

  He cleared his throat to speak. “An excellent suggestion.”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  The subtle swing of her hips, accentuated by her masculine trousers, riveted his attention as she crossed the room. She turned at the door with a waggle of her fingers before closing it behind her. The room seemed empty without her.

  You’re wasting your time, his long-dead uncle’s voice echoed in his brain. You should use every minute to full advantage. Time, after all, is money.

  The wail of a siren from the strange box she’d called a television drowned out the unwelcome reminder. He settled onto the sofa and punched buttons on the small box to change the
picture. For half an hour, he watched sleek, fast horseless carriages, flying machines, foreign chefs, basketball players, a large purple creature talking with small children, and more bare arms, legs and bosoms than he’d seen in all his thirty-two years.

  The longer he watched, the more aware he became of his inappropriate apparel. Unless he wanted to call attention to himself, he’d have to adopt modern clothing.

  He dug into his pockets and extracted his checkbook, his watch and the fistful of change, set aside the useless bank book and counted his money. Then he picked up the telephone, punched the numbers indicated for the front desk and asked for the concierge.

  * * *

  TORY HURRIED BACK to the suite. Her time with the catering manager had expanded into twice what she’d expected. She’d had to sign more receipts, pay the remainder of the bill, arrange to have the wedding flowers delivered to local nursing homes and oversee the packing of the wedding cake’s top layer in dry ice for its shipment to Australia, where Jill and Rod could store it in their freezer until their first anniversary—an old Southern custom and a surprise Jill wasn’t expecting.

  She’d also made a detour by the historic exhibit in the west wing. There, just as Emma had said, hung photographs from the hotel’s early days. Prominently pictured on the steps of the west portico stood the man she’d found in her bed that morning. His high, stiff collar held his head erect as he looked toward the camera with his penetrating gaze.

  But it was the woman whose hand lay possessively on his arm who caught Tory’s attention. Dressed in a dark skirt, starched shirtwaist, and wearing a straw boater over her dark curls, Angelina Fairchild gazed up at Randolph Trent with laughter on her lips. On her other side stood a pleasant young man in golfing tweeds.

  Tory turned toward her room. She’d ask her strange visitor again what he knew of Angelina. Two figures from the past popping into her life within a few hours of one another had to be connected somehow.

  When she entered her room, the housekeeping staff had made the bed and cleaned, the breakfast dishes had been cleared, and the television was still on, as she’d left it, but the sleeping alcove and sitting area were empty. She could see through the open door that the bathroom was vacant, as well. Randolph Trent was gone.