Now Playing on Outworld 5730

by R. T. W. Lipkin

  Chapter 34

  Sophia was in her sitting room, as she always was these days. It was a beautiful room. A spacious room. And she imagined that in the distance she could see the field where the transport would land, bringing Edgar back to her. But she knew that really she’d never see the transport from here.

  For one thing, the rain was an effective camouflage for anything at all and made invisible everything more than a few feet from the windows. For another thing, even if it weren’t raining and wouldn’t rain again, even if the sky were clear, even if there were no leaves on the trees, even then it wouldn’t be possible to see the landing field from anywhere at Hollyhock Manor, not even from the duchess’s well-placed rooms.

  That was the kind of thing that was carefully attended to at majestics—keeping the illusion alive. If you could see transports landing from your bedroom or sitting room or dressing room or bathroom windows, you’d hardly think you were in nineteenth-century England. You’d know you were on Outworld 5730, playing the part of a duchess and pretending that you and your beloved were married, happy, having no worse problem than what to wear to dinner tonight, and altogether free from any current-day life situations.

  But even without being able to see the landing field, Sophia knew she wasn’t married to the duke, that Edgar wasn’t a duke, that she wasn’t a duchess, and that she had far worse problems than what to wear tonight.

  The problems ran in circles inside her conscious and subconscious minds. They chased one another, taunted one another, and tortured both Sophia and Marguerite. Without Edgar, without Nicholas, here to distract her, she’d sunken about as low as she’d ever been.

  Scenes of her rotting away in exile plagued her dreams. She vividly envisioned her arrest and trial. The presentation of evidence that Clive had so carefully preserved. Everyone abandoning her. Nicholas glad to forget her.

  While awake, she imagined Clive forcing her to watch his disgusting sexual exploits—a threat he’d often held over her. If she refused him in their bed, he’d be pleased to use her as a spectator. You choose.

  His last steady mistress had lived in their guest house for months, and it was only luck, really, that Marguerite had never encountered her. If that’s what passed for luck in Marguerite’s life.

  And his latest mistress, who he’d met when he’d gone to a majestic in the thirty-fifth-century bordellos, was going to move into the house while Marguerite was away. The trunks had been stacked in her room for a week before she’d left. He had someone else as well, someone he kept well hidden. Perhaps others too.

  She ignored the knocking on her door. The entire staff knew not to bother her. It couldn’t possibly be Edgar—he wouldn’t knock.

  Winding streamers rose through her abdomen and chest. What if Clive had come to the majestic and was there to force her to go home? What if Clive had grown tired of her and had turned the evidence over to the council and this was her arrest?

  “Your Grace,” said the mellifluous voice from the hallway. Not Clive. Not the council officers.

  Sophia stopped pacing across the plush carpeting and opened the door to Sumner Dobbs, the Earl of Saybrook. He looked like he belonged in the nineteenth century, she thought. Unlike some of the other players, he looked comfortable in his clothes, and the hairstyle, although tousled, looked right on him.

  “Lord Saybrook,” Sophia said. Even though she’d known that it couldn’t be Edgar knocking on her door, a microsecond of hope had passed through her as she’d opened it. Maybe it wasn’t her arrest, but Edgar, surprising her.

  “I believe you’ve been waiting for this, Your Grace,” said Saybrook, handing Sophia the plain brown envelope that had been under his arm.

  “Thank you,” Sophia said.

  She wanted to tear open the envelope right then, but held on to the door handle with one hand and the envelope with the other. She hoped that Saybrook would take the hint and leave, but he didn’t. Wasn’t it wrong of him to be delivering her things, to be standing outside her room? She forgot the particular etiquette involved, but it felt wrong, no matter what the century.

  “He told me to say he’d return soon,” Saybrook said, then turned and left.

  Sophia slammed the door shut, locked it, and tore open the envelope.

  Dearest Marguerite, I did not intend to be away for so long, but circumstances here are worse than I’d imagined. Please do your best to enjoy the majestic and know that I’ll return at the first opportunity. In the meanwhile, trust Saybrook with anything and everything. I’ve known him and worked closely with his family for years. Otherwise I’d never’ve been able to get this too-brief letter to you. I love you, Marguerite. You have only to say the word and we will be together always. Your Nicholas.

  Sophia read the letter over and over and over again, until she had it memorized. She slept with it clutched to her chest, read it again the next morning, then tossed it into the fire and watched it turn to flames and cinders.

  Chapter 35

  After Violet left him, Trevelton quickly buttered a roll and ate it in two bites. The butter was delicious, as Violet had said. Violet herself was delicious, but he’d played around with her long enough.

  He poured himself a cup of tea, drank it down, and poured another. Rosie had prepared the tray and, as always, had made up everything the way Violet preferred. Violet’s favorite tea, Violet’s favorite pastries. Even Violet’s favorite china, with the blue and white pattern.

  He’d intended to break up with Violet that morning but hadn’t had the nerve to tell her directly. Instead he’d retreated into himself, unable to speak the words he’d prepared: You’ve been wonderful, but I’m afraid this has to end. Those words had sounded fine to him the day before when he’d composed them. Short, to the point, direct, complimentary, somewhat regretful, not too horribly painful, and final.

  He’d composed a longer speech as well, in case she’d wanted to argue. In the wordier version, he’d blamed himself repeatedly, told her how fantastic she really was without also telling her that he was in love with her, explained that he had other things to concentrate on now, that time was running short, and that he needed to get her out of the way. Out of danger. And out of his thoughts.

  But when he imagined her arguing back, he couldn’t come up with sufficiently good responses. What danger? Why can’t you concentrate on us as well? You don’t love me? Questions he couldn’t face. So he’d decided to stick with the shorter speech, and he’d shortened it even further, saying nothing at all. Yet Violet had gotten the message.

  Good of her, really, to let him off the hook. To just leave. To resume her role as Lady Patience’s lady’s maid and let him resume his role, a role he’d let slip away.

  In truth, he’d forgotten his role, forgotten the roles of both Rafe Blackstone and Ephraim Croft.

  Ephraim had come to the majestic for one purpose. Ever since that weekend when Wyatt had seduced Charlotte right in front him, and the two of them had gleefully flaunted their undisguised relationship to not just Ephraim, but to everyone in the bloody galaxy, Ephraim had had but one objective—to cut Wyatt Conroy down so far that he’d never consider getting back up again.

  Yet, since practically the moment he’d arrived on Outworld 5730, at Hollyhock Manor, he’d become increasingly involved with Violet Aldrich, and when she wasn’t with him, thoughts and imaginings of her filled his mind. How she would fit in so beautifully in Northumberland. How he’d redecorate the house with her, stripping away all of his past, creating a new, bright life.

  How beautiful she looked when her chestnut hair was undone, strewn about her shoulders, her iridescent green eyes ablaze with that extraordinary fire he’d become addicted to.

  He hadn’t slept the night after that incident in the hallway, the one that’d resulted in the duke’s leaving Hollyhock so abruptly.

  Something must have happened in the man’s actual life—that much was obvious. No one would leave an elaborate holiday like this for something trivial. Speculation at
dinner that night had frequently touched on areas that were not at all conducive to maintaining the illusion of Regency England.

  Yet even through the gossip, the chatter, the incessant foolish laughter of Vernie Dalston, forever seated beside Trevelton no matter how hard he’d tried to rearrange this, all he’d been able to think about was Violet. How she’d wrapped herself around him, how she’d kissed him, how he wanted to kiss her and not let her go. How he couldn’t survive another moment without her . . .

  That next day, they’d finally made love, out in the forest on the too-thin blanket he’d brought with him, their cries and demands absorbed by the trees and skies and finally drowned out in yet another of the outworld’s daily downpours.

  But, as Ephraim had discovered two days ago, his relationship with Violet had also drowned out his memories of Charlotte, his anger at Wyatt, and what he’d thought of as his unrelenting need for revenge. How the hell had that happened?

  Yesterday, he’d tested himself. He’d purposely stared at Violet and ordered himself to think of Charlotte, to picture himself and Charlotte riding through the fields in Northumberland, to repeat to himself all the things he’d said to Charlotte, infusing them with a certainty that they not only had once been true, but that they were still true.

  My heart is filled with your heart. Over there’s where our children will share their first secrets. How have I lived so long without you?

  The very things he’d never say again, that he’d never mean again. Charlotte had wiped all that out in a startling instant.

  From riding joyously next to her in the fields to watching her as she’d tossed her thick mane of blond hair back from her face and looked up into Wyatt’s eyes as though she’d never seen a man, or perhaps even another human being, before. The way she’d licked her lips. Her heaving chest, which he’d thought moved only for him.

  Yet as much as Ephraim had driven himself to remember all this, to rigorously repeat all these things to himself, to focus on Charlotte, on Wyatt, on his purpose, he’d found himself inexorably caught up in what Violet was saying. She was telling him how she thought it was possible that LP had fallen for someone, but she wasn’t sure who that was. Although she had her suspicions. What did my lord think?

  Then she’d laughed her freest, happiest laugh, kicked up her skirts, and run down the very hillside she’d collapsed on that first night, the night he’d started falling in love with her. And he forgot about Charlotte, about Wyatt, about everything except Violet all over again.

  Exactly what he hadn’t wanted.

  So, today, he ended things with Violet. It was time to get back the anger, the absolute fury, the truth, that were the driving forces in his life.

  And cutting himself off from Violet Aldrich was the only road back.

  Chapter 36

  “Vi! I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” Rosie said. She’d dashed back up to her room, right across from Violet’s, to get her sketchbook, which she always had with her in her apron pocket, but had forgotten that morning, and saw Violet going into her room.

  “Rosie,” Violet said. “I’m afraid I’m having a bad morning.” She sighed the kind of sigh that nearly everyone on Outworld 5730 sighed—the thin atmosphere made sighing a necessity.

  “Not that bastard again, is it?” Rosie said. She despised Trevelton and was sure he was far worse than even she imagined he was. Far nastier, far less sincere, far more heartless.

  “Shh,” Violet said, then motioned Rosie into her room. The two of them sat across from each other at the little bedside table—Vi on the bed and Rosie perched on the room’s sole chair.

  “Something happened, didn’t it, Vi?” Rosie said.

  “He broke up with me,” Violet said so matter-of-factly that Rosie was almost shocked. Hadn’t Violet been madly, passionately in love with this no-good pretend lord? Well, so much the better. Now he’d broken up with her and it was done with.

  “Good,” Rosie said. “Serves him right.”

  “Serves him right?”

  “He doesn’t deserve you, Vi. Find someone better. There are so many choices here. And this won’t be the only majestic you’ll do. Mrs. Allman likes you. She’s sure to hire you again.”

  “She disapproves of what I’m doing—what I was doing—with Trevelton even more than you do, Rosie. She’ll never hire me again.”

  “You’re wrong there. You and Trevelton are one of the few things that’s keeping this majestic interesting.”

  Rosie and Violet had fallen into talking with each other as though no one else were listening, as though they were offstage, even though there was no offstage, no backstage, at a majestic.

  Yet even though they were on their own invented offstage, they were forced to refer to both each other and the other players by the names of the roles they were playing, since neither of them knew who anyone really was. This was one of the dreamlike and at times almost nightmarish aspects of being in a majestic.

  Violet didn’t know who Trevelton was—he’d never told her. And she’d never told him who she was, although since Violet Aldrich was her real name, her actual identity wouldn’t be hard to track down if he’d wanted to.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Violet said.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Allman has thought of that,” Rosie said. “A little scandal is a good thing. Keeps everything lively. She said so.”

  Violet kicked the backs of her legs into the side of the bed.

  “But only a little scandal,” Rosie said. “It had to end sometime. Better now than later, Vi, when you would’ve been devastated.”

  “I was not going to get involved with him. Or with anyone,” Violet said. “I have Booker’s debts to pay off.”

  “I know,” Rosie said. Violet had told her about Booker, although she knew hardly anything else about her or any specifics about what had happened in Los Angeles. There was only so much time to be out of character, and she and Violet had started to sense that they were testing the limits to their capacity.

  This was the first majestic Rosie had done where she’d dared to be herself, even if it was for only moments here and there. She was discovering that it was both a necessary outlet and a source of mounting anxiety.

  Unexpectedly, the image of Sumner Dobbs, the envelope under his arm, flashed through Rosie’s mind’s eye. She wondered where he’d gone. Off again, probably. And what was in the envelope?

  “Rosie?”

  Rosie smoothed out her skirts. Her dress wasn’t nearly so nice as Violet’s, who had a lady’s maid’s wardrobe, but it was still kind of charming with its long skirts and lace collar. Had the earl even noticed her?

  “Rosie, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were interested in someone yourself.”

  “But you do know better,” Rosie said.

  “It’s the earl, isn’t it?”

  “No, never,” Rosie said. “He’s far too high above me. Even outside the majestic. If you hadn’t noticed.”

  “He doesn’t care for you—or anyone—at all,” Violet said. “Neither does Trevelton.”

  “No,” Rosie said. “Neither of them.”

  “It’s true,” Violet said, then started crying. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I didn’t think he’d end it so soon. I was so happy this morning.”

  Rosie took Violet’s hand. “Cry all you want. Then you’ll feel better. You’ll see.”

  “I never should’ve taken this job,” Violet said, then started crying even harder.

  Rosie stayed with her until she stopped crying, but she had to leave. She had chores to do, unlike Violet, who could afford the luxury of doing nothing, since Lady Patience had gone out that morning and wouldn’t be back for at least another hour.

  “I think there’s bad blood between them,” Violet, still sniffling, said. “Trevelton and Saybrook, I mean. I’ve suspected it ever since the earl showed up.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Just a feeling, but I have no proof.”

  Neither Rosie no
r Violet suspected that the proof was about to be made evident. Or suspected Violet’s role in what was to happen.

  Violet started crying again. “He didn’t say anything, Rosie. But I just knew. And I was so happy this morning.”

  “You’ll be happy again,” Rosie said as she closed the door behind her. Much happier now that the smirking dandy was out of her life.

  Chapter 37

  Calvert had never been a butler before, had never played a butler before, but he was finding the role both satisfying and blissfully restrictive. Having to keep up a front of being in charge, caring yet stern, having almost too many duties to attend to, and standing up like a military man all the time was just what he’d hoped for.

  This majestic was the antidote to his real life, his former real life, so he stayed focused, stayed in character, and effectively, most of the time, blotted out his past.

  He would, though, have to stop looking at or thinking of Lady Patience like she was anyone other than one of the nonsensical ladies who had so many assets that they could spend months at a time playing around at being some kind of noble someone-or-other in Regency England.

  As though anyone really knew a damn thing about Regency England save for the few fabulas that’d been left over from the twenty-fifth century—and the historical accuracy of a fabula was always in question, no matter how well researched the thing was supposed to’ve been.

  Even the historitor Jewel Allman herself must’ve known that, he thought, although she always acted like she knew about Regency England. As if she’d been there in person, having luncheon with the Prince Regent himself.

  Calvert was sitting in his office. Other than Jewel, he was the only member of the staff who had his own room, and his room, unlike Jewel’s, had a window. He wondered why Jewel had deprived herself of this seeming necessity, but he was also thankful that he could look outside.