Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  "I am waiting."

  "All right, all right.” She took a deep breath. “Nick, have you ever wondered what it would be like to travel back in time? Have you imagined visiting Egypt at the time of the pharaohs, or walking through ancient Rome and talking with Julius Caesar?"

  Whatever Nick expected, it wasn't this. Rubbing his forehead, he rested an elbow on his knee. “You want an answer? I suppose the thought has crossed my mind once or twice, but not recently. What has—"

  She held up her hand. “Not yet, please. Wouldn't it be fascinating to find out what those people actually thought about? Find out secrets that have been hidden throughout the centuries? Think of the lost knowledge that would now be available for the rest of mankind. Understanding our ancestors helps us to understand ourselves and the world we live in."

  Nick slightly inclined his head. His eyes were hooded; she couldn't read his thoughts. He probably thought she was a flake.

  She nibbled on her lip, deciding what to say next. “Okay, what about travel to the future, Nick? Have you ever considered what that would be like?"

  He shifted position. “Serenity, what maggot has rattled your brain? The future—"

  "Nick, you promised."

  He sighed. Picking a wild flower growing through the floor boards, he removed the petals one by one. “The future? No, I have not thought about it. Changes are occurring too rapidly for my liking. First we had air ascents by balloon, then steam-powered locomotion, leading to last year's steam-powered ferryboats. And the topper, some fool American—Fulton, Robert Fulton, I believe—has designed a floating mine that explodes under water. A torpedo, he calls it. Damned if I didn't see the demonstration myself, back in ‘05. A warship, nearly two hundred and fifty tons of her, was blasted out of the water. Nothing left but floating debris."

  Nick crushed the flower in his hand. “Fulton also plans to build an underwater boat—a submarine, so he says. A man does not stand a chance against these ungodly inventions. Blown to bits before he would know what hit him."

  He turned haunted eyes on Serenity. “War is hell—make no mistake. I have seen enough of it to know. But not to have a fighting chance! No, in my mind, the future will strip away man's dignity. I have no desire to see that. Does that answer your question?"

  Serenity sat opposite Nick, with her knees drawn to her chest. His opinion complicated matters. He was right in a way, the future did strip away man's dignity, in some respects. But that was only part of the equation. Every gain usually hid a drawback.

  She hugged her knees. “I understand, Nick. But, perhaps, the future will hold many advantages—a better quality of life for most people."

  He shrugged. “That is a matter of opinion, Serenity."

  "I suppose that's true."

  The rain beat down harder, almost shaking the tiny house. She listened to its comforting rhythm.

  Nick tapped her on the hand. “Serenity."

  It was time. She couldn't avoid it any longer. “All right, what if ... what if the future could produce a small box—a box that played recorded music?"

  He stared at her. He knew what she was referring to.

  She took the digital recorder out of her reticule. “What if the box also could record words?” She pressed “Play".

  Nick's deep voice spoke from the box. “That is a matter of opinion, Serenity."

  Hers followed. “I suppose that's true."

  Serenity stopped the recorder and looked at Nick. He sat unmoving, still staring at her. She waited.

  He took ragged breaths. “So, you expect me to believe that recorder comes from the future? Along with those colorful clothes from India?"

  Her small “Yes” sounded pitiful.

  "What about you, then?” he barked. “You are saying you also are from the future, isn't that so?"

  He was hostile. How could she expect anything less?

  She nodded.

  "And you are here to ... relearn lost knowledge? Spy on us and then return to your distant home?"

  "Something like that. But not spying, I mean. Listen Nick, I know it sounds crazy—"

  "Crazy?” he thundered, leaping to his feet. His tall form filled the tiny hut. “Good God, woman! You tell me you are from the future, here to study ancient man? And you expect me to believe that?"

  Nick swung around and faced her, his eyes burning. “How many years? How many years in the future?"

  "Almost—” Her voice cracked. She whispered, “A little over two hundred years. I'm from 2020."

  His eyes lost their glow. “Two hundred years! Blast it, Serenity, I am not some damned specimen under glass, for God's sake. Sounds crazy? I do not know which one of us is a better candidate for Bedlam. I—"

  He pressed his lips together to stop his words. Bowing, he said sarcastically, “I do hope you have found your visit amusing. Our antics must have been quite entertaining—mine in particular. Your servant, madam."

  "Nick, don't go. Please—"

  He didn't listen. Leaving the sanctuary of the shack, he walked through the forest of fir trees.

  Serenity watched his rain-drenched back until he was out of sight. She hung her head. Right then and there, her heart broke.

  * * * *

  Nicholas changed into dry clothes and sought his father in the study. No sense in wasting time. Might as well let the old man know he was leaving.

  The Marquess looked up from the massive mahogany desk. “Brockton, I did not expect to see you before dinner.” His shrewd gaze flicked over Nicholas. “Why don't you pour yourself a drink?"

  Good idea. Nicholas filled a crystal tumbler with amber fluid. Excellent Scotch whisky always reduced his worries. He took a gulp. His throat burned raw but he still felt his private pain. Perhaps he needed to down the whole decanter.

  "Nicholas, dear boy, the Regent was right. You do look like thunder. Care to talk about it?"

  Nicholas sprawled on the leather settee and took another drink. “I am leaving this afternoon. Headed for Brighton. Some government business to clear up."

  "Dear me. So sudden. Must you depart in this weather?” His father peered at him. Couldn't pull the wool over the old man's eyes.

  "Blast! It is only rain—I will not melt.” Nicholas finished his glass. He should leave before his father extracted the truth. Setting the tumbler down, he made a motion to rise.

  Somehow, the Marquess quit his own chair and stood towering over him. Lord Rotterham pointed an imperious finger. “Sit, Nicholas. You are not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on. You cannot gammon me, m'boy. Serry Steele is the reason you want to depart Reveley Hall. Will you now tell me what is wrong?"

  Nicholas refilled his glass. He watched the liquid swirl inside the crystal. “She refused me, sir."

  The Marquess positioned himself across from Nicholas. “You offered marriage and she turned you down?"

  After he nodded, his father laughed. “By Jove! I do like that female!” He laughed so hard, tears of glee streamed from his eyes.

  "I fail to see the humor in this.” Nicholas straightened his waistcoat. Blast his father. This was no laughing matter.

  "Get off your high horse, boy. I will settle down in a moment.” A final swipe at his eyes, and the Marquess ceased his chuckling. “Thought she would jump at your offer, didn't you? Yes, Serry is an unusual woman. She loves you, though. Any simpleton can tell. Why does she refuse you?"

  Nicholas rested his aching head on the back of the settee and stared at the ceiling. How could he say Serenity claimed to come from the future—to study early nineteenth century man? Just like those London fools who dabbled in the past—the Society of Antiquaries members.

  Hell and damn, he was no ancient specimen to be poked and prodded.

  He outlined his boot with his fingertip. “She has her reasons. She claims—” No, he would not say.

  "Nicholas, you are not going to leave me hanging. Ungrateful brat. She claims what? Husband is not dead? She is a bigamist? A spy? A murderer? Tell me
. The game grows tedious."

  "It is too fantastic. Too ... bizarre. I am better off without her, sir.” More whisky burned his throat. Perhaps if he said those last words enough, he would eventually believe them.

  "You are better off drinking like a fish, then, hey?” The Marquess walked to the window and watched the pouring rain. “What is she—an American? From Persia? From the antipodes? No? Is she a man?"

  Nicholas choked on the whisky. “Er, no, sir. I am certain of that!"

  They both smiled.

  "I do not see any problem, then, Nicholas. Whatever her reasons, marry her anyway. Don't let her get away, son. She is too rare an individual."

  "Oh, she is rare, all right,” Nicholas muttered. He ran his fingers through still-wet hair. “I see no alternative, sir. I must leave—before dinner."

  The Marquess placed his hands on Nicholas’ shoulders. “You are my son and I will support your decision. Why don't you lodge at the Lyndons for awhile? Give you time to think things through. Besides, Georgiana and Harrison tie the knot on Sunday. If you miss the wedding, you would be in their black books."

  Nicholas stood and shook hands with the older man. “Yes, you are right—as always. I will. Thank you, Father."

  He abruptly turned and left the study.

  * * * *

  Serenity awakened early and sat by her window. She stared out at the rising sun. It was the sixth consecutive dawn she watched. Nick had been gone from Reveley Hall six days; he was never coming back. In all likelihood, she'd never see him again.

  She felt empty inside. Cold and empty.

  Tears pricked at her eyes. Again. Lately all she did was cry.

  Get a grip, Steele.

  This day, Sunday, Georgiana would marry Harry, and then tomorrow Serenity could depart for London. After the heartache last Monday, she had wanted to leave immediately but she couldn't in good conscience miss the wedding. Staying one more week had been a small price to pay to see Georgiana's happiness. However, tomorrow, she would finally put Nicholas and Reveley Hall behind her.

  The morning light filtered through the feathery willow tree outside her window. One more day to be gotten through. Glancing at her bed, she relived the lovemaking she and Nick had shared. Only one regret touched her: that Nick had been hurt. She would have to live with the memory of his pain for the rest of her life.

  God, how she missed him.

  Resting her head on her bent knee, she sighed. Today's ceremony would start at eleven o'clock. No need to hurry and dress. She could wallow in her misery for another few hours.

  As the bedroom door creaked open, Serenity looked up. Maggie couldn't be bringing breakfast already.

  "What luck! You are up. Good, I hated to wake you. Here, I brought you some chocolate.” Amaryllis burst into the room, bumped the door closed with her hip, and set a tray on the night commode.

  She looked very fashionable in her apple-green round gown with puffy, long sleeves and pointed collar. But she always was last to make an appearance at the breakfast table.

  Serenity stood and pulled her wrapper around her. “Amaryllis, it's only seven o'clock. How come you're already dressed? Has the ceremony been moved forward?"

  The eldest Wycliffe daughter waved Serenity to sit back down. “No, no, nothing like that. Go on, do drink your chocolate while it is hot. I downed mine earlier."

  She pulled on the wardrobe door. “I am here to help you dress, Serry. Must find something that is suitable."

  Serenity took a sip of hot chocolate and made a face. Too sweet. She set the cup back on the saucer, feeling exhausted. Amaryllis's bustling about was tiring to watch.

  Stretching her arms overhead, Serenity yawned. “Maggie helps me dress. Why are you—"

  "Oh, bother!” Amaryllis flung a bright yellow gown on the floor. “This one would have been ideal but for the color. What were you saying, dear? Why am I here? Was that it? Didn't I tell you? Father has taken it into his head to have a meeting two hours from now. I have no idea what he wants."

  She dropped another dress on the floor. “Too fussy. What was I saying? Oh, and he stated he wanted the women to pay particular attention to their dress. Mother is taking care of Georgiana and I am taking care of you. I will lay odds a portrait painter is waiting for us downstairs—a surprise for the wedding. What do you think, Serry?"

  Serenity bit back an urge to say she thought Amaryllis was making a mess of her closet. Instead, she said, “Not enough time to sketch in the figures. But it's possible, I guess."

  When Amaryllis stepped over the pile of dresses, Serenity winced. “I hope you've found one to your liking."

  "I have.” Amaryllis pulled out a dark grey silk satin gown with a scalloped bottom exposing silver lace. “Father will think this perfect!"

  The shiny, square-necked gown was one of Serenity's favorites. “I didn't think your father concerned himself with female fashions."

  "As a rule, he does not.” Amaryllis shrugged her plump shoulders. “But today...."

  She hurried over to the bell pull. “Let's get Maggie in here and then we can start on your hair."

  Serenity sat on her bed and waited to be dressed and combed and cosseted, just like a doll. It was going to be a long morning.

  * * * *

  "Don't you think this is a bit much?” As she descended the marble staircase, Serenity touched her elaborate chignon. Pearls and tiny white rosebuds were woven through her hair and soft wisps of hair curled on her forehead.

  "That is the third time you asked that, Serry,” Amaryllis scolded. “You look fine. Come, we do not want to keep the Marquess waiting."

  After the last step, she pivoted and tugged on Serenity's arm. “Come! It is nine o'clock. Everyone is waiting in the study."

  "The study?” Serenity repeated dully. The wedding party would be small, but not that small. Only Zeena and Rodney—off on their honeymoon—would be missing from the festivities. And, of course, Nicholas.

  "You go ahead. I will get Cecil.” Amaryllis opened the door and pushed Serenity inside.

  The room was dark. The morning sun hadn't penetrated this side of the house yet. Serenity could tell she was alone. Odd, Lord Rotterham always seemed punctual.

  The back of a Jacobean wing armchair beckoned to her. She decided to relax from the fidgets of the morning. Before she realized it was occupied, she sat on it.

  "Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon!” She jumped up, her eyes wide.

  "My pleasure, I assure you,” Nicholas said, with maddening nonchalance.

  He appeared perfectly at ease with his legs negligently crossed and his hard thigh muscles showing through the tight, buff trousers.

  Serenity's gaze lingered on him, taking in every hard angle, every beloved shadowed line. But then her mind started to regain control.

  Her suspicions were aroused, and her eyebrows tightened. What was this all about? Why was he here and where were the others?

  She smoothed her gown, concentrating on her hands’ actions. “Am I correct in assuming there will be no meeting with Lord Rotterham, then?"

  "That is so."

  "I see.” Of course, she did not, but what was she to say? She headed for a window, and curled a wisp of hair around her finger. “If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked. No need to get Amaryllis up from her bed so early and engage in a deception with this dress."

  She heard him stand up and felt him walk close to her. Close enough to touch. She closed her eyes. “I have missed you, Nick."

  He turned her to face him. Lifting her chin, his grey-eyed gaze bore into her. “There was every need, m'dear. I have given this matter much thought. Once I made the decision, I also had to track down the archbishop. Much to accomplish, with the eleven o'clock deadline hanging over me."

  He ran his thumb over her cheek. “By the bye, I have missed you, too."

  His touch and his words sent warm tingles throughout her body. If only she could throw herself into his arms and kiss him with abandon. If only she could prete
nd she wasn't who she was, wasn't from the twenty-first century. If only....

  Stop it, Steele.

  "Deadline? Oh, you mean you wanted to return for the wedding. Well, I'm glad you're here. Is an archbishop going to perform the ceremony?” Not that she cared, but she spoke to divert her mind from what her body was feeling.

  "No, the archbishop is not required—now that I have these.” He pulled some folded papers from his coat. They were the color of parchment. “I would like you to read these, Serenity."

  She slowly took the papers from him. He obviously thought they were important. Opening them, she saw the words “Special License.” Puzzled, she turned the page. She read that Nicholas Edward James Basil Wycliffe was to be joined in holy matrimony with Serenity Steele.

  She gasped. “Nick, Nick, you know why I can't marry you. It's too ... too impossible! And besides, I have to return to my own time in February. I can't change that. I have to leave England on the fourth of February."

  With a sob, Serenity dropped the papers and sank down on the couch.

  He sat beside her. “Serenity, I am out of my league. I do not know if I believe you are from the future. I only know that you believe it. I am not asking you to stay here with me past February, if you believe you must not. But you do plan on staying until February. For five months we can be together."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed a silencing finger on her lips. “No, I do not want you as my mistress. I want you as my wife. Five months are better than no months, my dear. I have made up my mind and I will not have you refuse me this."

  "But, Nick, when I'm gone, what will you tell everyone? How will you explain?"

  He kissed her forehead, trailing his lips down to the tip of her nose. “When that time comes, I will think of something. Serenity, will you marry me?"

  She tried to pull away but he would have none of it. “Nick, I can't think when you're so close."

  "Good. Will you? Georgiana is so hoping for a double ceremony. And, since time is short, I cannot wait one more day to make you my wife.” He nibbled on her ear and kissed the hollow of her throat. “Indeed, not one more second."

  All her resolve slipped away. Now feeling light-headed, Serenity groaned. “You're a devil. I suppose—"