“Are you lost, Miss Blythe?” It was one of the young, pale-blue suit guys. The one who had helped Rosemary bring me back to the house. He was passing through the lower foyer and spotted me. “Do you need assistance in finding your room?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” I tried smiling at him, hoping he wouldn’t guess what I was up to. How I was plotting to break into Hartley’s library and ransack all his reading material. “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”
This seemed to surprise him. He looked to his left and his right before he said in a conspiratorial voice, “It’s Tommy, miss.”
I held out my hand, and after a momentary hesitation he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Tommy. I’m Emma. Thanks for looking out for me.”
Another shocked expression, but I did notice his chest lifting. “Of course, Miss Blythe. Should you require anything, I will be happy to assist you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. And I, uh, I’ll just be going back to my room.” I hurried back as quickly as I could. Since the library was currently off-limits, my next step was to search the closet. Maybe the piece of paper had fallen in there. But despite looking everywhere—lifting every box, going over every corner and edge in that area—I had to admit the paper was probably still sitting in the twenty-first century.
I searched my room half-heartedly, but I knew it wouldn’t be there. Nothing in my life was ever that easy.
So I was staying here, for the time being. I had to hide my future stuff. It had been a a little over a hundred years since the Salem witch trials, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I took my dress off, making sure to undo the sash this time, and wiggled my way out of it. I quickly took off my shirt and my jeans, pulling my phone out of the front pocket. I glanced at the screen. No bars. No surprise that cell service sucked in 1816. I turned the phone off, wanting to conserve its power. I put it back into my jeans pocket. I also took off my watch and put that in my pocket as well. I looked at my underwear. I had no idea what they wore here. But better to have nothing than a strange bra and panties that would freak them out. I took those off, too, and shoved everything into the drawer next to the bed. Given how many people I’d seen in this house already, I’d have to find a more secure location later. This would do for now.
I got the dress back on, and not a moment too soon. There was a scratching noise that sounded a bit like a rat gnawing on a wall, and as I started working myself up into a frenzy over that idea, someone called out, “Miss Blythe?” and my bedroom door opened. I jumped, my pulse frantically thumping away.
Putting my hand over my heart, I said, “Rosemary. You scared me.”
“My apologies, miss. The dressmaker’s arrived. She’s downstairs in the drawing room.”
Seeing my opportunity I asked, “Quick question—is there somewhere that I can keep my personal things safe?”
She pushed her shoulders back, giving me a bewildered look. “No one in this house is a thief.”
“Oh!” I hadn’t realized how that might come across. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m just a private person.” There was no way to explain that I had to keep my electronics and factory-produced clothing away from anyone who might be tempted to snoop. And I so wouldn’t put it past the housekeeper.
She seemed slightly mollified. “I believe your desk has some locked drawers. I will have to get the key from Mrs. Farnsworth.” She must have noticed my raised eyebrows. “She keeps all the house keys on a ring on her belt.”
Good to know. For when I planned on stealing the library key later. First I’d have to figure out a way to get her to unlock the door for me so that I knew which one to take.
“I will ask her while you’re having your fitting. Although I’m not certain she’ll like it.” She glanced up at me in surprise, as if she hadn’t intended to say the last part out loud.
And I couldn’t tell her that I knew from experience that Mrs. Farnsworth didn’t like anything.
With a tentative plan in place and a means of protecting myself from immediate discovery, I breathed a sigh of relief as I followed Rosemary downstairs to find a smiling, happy middle-aged woman standing in the middle of a small army. The drawing room itself made me stop and stare before I entered. I didn’t know what you would call this decorating style, but the room was both comforting and ridiculously expensive looking. Someone had kept the theme I’d seen in the servants’ uniforms by using shades of pale blue and silver, with a sparkly, massive chandelier hanging in the center, some Grecian sculptures, and antique furniture that looked like it would break if I sat on it. Although, I didn’t know if they were actually antiques. They could have bought everything last week. It could be “modern” furniture.
It was all very confusing.
“I am Madame Descoteaux. Lord Hartley retained me to outfit you.” Her hair must have been a more vibrant color when she was younger, but now it was a very pale brown. I wondered if she dyed it. Did they have hair dye?
“Hey. I’m Emma. Are you Irish?” I asked. She had an Irish accent and didn’t sound even a little French, despite the name.
“All the best mantua-makers are French,” she said with a laugh. “Even if they aren’t.”
“French is in?” I asked, and then at her confused expression corrected myself. “Or what’s popular?”
“Oui,” she replied with a wink. She directed me to stand on a platform, and then her henchmen descended on me like a swarm of locusts. There was the guy who made the shoes, and I heard words like “kid slippers” and “half boots” as he traced my feet on paper. Other people were taking measurements and holding papers against me as they made patterns.
If I were in a movie, this would have been the montage scene as they poked and prodded me, debating among themselves what materials and fabrics to use in order to make me fabulous enough for the high school quarterback.
“Your dress, although currently fashionable, seems old somehow,” Madame remarked. She had no idea. It had been sitting in a box for two hundred years. She barely lifted my skirt and gasped. Her wide eyes let me know that I had shocked her with my bare legs. I didn’t think she had seen anything she shouldn’t, but apparently I was missing something down there.
Before I could say anything, she stood up and touched my waist, and more shock. “Where is your corset? We’ve been measuring you with the idea that you were wearing one.”
“It’s the American style,” I told her with a shrug, praying she’d buy it. She started barking orders about changing the measurements and getting corsets and petticoats and chemises and wrappers and night rails and lots of other words I didn’t recognize.
This was when Rosemary returned, key in hand. She had a quick conference with Madame Descoteaux, and as the Madame’s entourage left, Rosemary informed me that they would send over some things they had on hand, adding material to the bottoms to make them long enough.
We went back to my room, and she gave me the key. I asked her why Mrs. Farnsworth had it, and it led to a whole discussion of who was who in the household and the servants’ hierarchy. Stephens was the butler, and he and Mrs. Farnsworth were at the top of the food chain.
She also didn’t understand why I didn’t know anything about how the system worked. “I didn’t have any . . .” Her mouth had dropped open when I said I didn’t have any servants, so I hastily tried to fix it. “I meant, we didn’t have many servants. Nothing like this.”
“You should see Rosewood. The country estate. They have even more servants there. I’m only a housemaid myself, but I’ve ambitions to be a lady’s maid, which is why Mrs. Farnsworth allowed me to assist you. I’ve been practicing coiffures on the other girls, and I’m hoping that if I please you during your stay, you’ll give me a letter of reference before you go.”
“Sure,” I agreed. I didn’t know what that meant, but I assumed eventually I would figure it out. “As long as you tell me one more thing. How does the bathroom situation work?”
CHAPTER FIVE
THINGS I’M GOING TO INV
ENT IF I GET STUCK IN 1816
Toilet paper
Rosemary didn’t know what a bathroom was, and we were both red-faced by the time I managed to make myself understood. She explained the toilet to me (calling it a Bramah) in the “water closet” I’d used next to my room, bragging about how few households had such a thing.
“What about showering?” I asked.
“Showering?”
Right. No showers. “Um, getting clean. Bathing?”
“We can bring a bath up for you, if you’d like.” She went on to explain that it would involve a bathtub being hauled up to my room, with servants bringing up hot water to pour into it. It gave a whole new meaning to “running water.” And it sounded like a lot of work.
“How often do people do that? Order baths?”
“It depends on the person, I suppose. Lord Hartley bathes fairly often.”
Now that was a mental image I did not need. I actually shook my head, telling it to get out.
She showed me where I could perform something she called “ablutions,” and there was a bowl of water, a pitcher, washcloths, and what I could only assume was soap. “You can wash yourself here every morning,” she said. I looked over the other things on the table and hoped that there were 1816 equivalents for toothpaste and deodorant.
Rosemary promised to return, and I was eager to investigate, so I said I’d see her later. But after I finished guessing what each ancient hygiene product was used for, I was bored. I was tempted to pull out my phone and play a game but didn’t want to waste the battery.
How on earth was I supposed to entertain myself?
There was some heavy paper on the desk situated near the door, what looked like a quill, and a bottle of what turned out to be ink. I decided to try and figure out how to use it, which resulted in little writing but so many massive blots that my paper looked like a Rorschach test.
When Rosemary came back, I was so glad to see another person I had to refrain from hugging her. She brought in several packages and offered to help me change. “I don’t have anything on. Underneath,” I explained. I didn’t need her passing out from the shock. Hartley and Matt had been freaked out by my bare feet. I was worried a naked body might make someone go into hysterics.
After assuring me that she’d be fine, I got my dress off, and she quickly slipped on some kind of undergarment that was like a really long slip. She held up a bustier. Corset, I corrected myself. She called them stays. I stepped into it, and then the torture began.
She strapped me into that thing, restricting my rib cage. “I can’t breathe,” I complained when she indicated that she had finished.
“Perfect, then,” she pronounced.
I put my hand over my stomach. “How do you sit down in one of these?” I tried to sit on the bed and had to do it very carefully. It was super uncomfortable.
“You act as if you’ve never worn one,” she said in a teasing tone.
“I haven’t,” I admitted, before I could catch myself. More shocked face. I really had to be more careful about what I said to people here. “We’re very liberal in America. I come from a super blue state.”
Rosemary, who probably had no idea what I was talking about but was polite enough not to ask, instructed me to stand so that she could finish helping me dress. That led to more layers of clothes but no actual underwear. I didn’t know how to ask about that. I guessed I was just supposed to go commando. She put on a pale pink “day dress,” as she called it, and had me sit down so that she could style my hair.
After what seemed like hours, I was finally allowed to get a look at myself. Even if my corset was a torture device that had obviously been designed by a man, my boobs looked fantastic. And I could get used to this high-waist-on-dresses thing. It hid all of my flaws. I didn’t normally wear my hair up, but I liked how it looked. “You did a really good job,” I said.
Then I got to put on a pair of shoes that were too small. They were the biggest size the shoemaker had, and he would send over more when he had my shoes finished. But these reminded me of ballet flats, and I was glad that finally somebody understood that tall women did not necessarily want to be even taller by wearing heels.
“Now what?” I asked.
She seemed confused by my question. “What do you mean, miss?”
“Now what do I do since I’m all dressed up?”
She continued to look baffled. “What do you do at home?”
There was no way for me to explain what I normally did at home without getting carted off to the loony bin. “Things are very different here. What do you think I should do for the next three days?”
* * *
What I did was explore the mansion, except for the one room I most wanted access to. I even went so far as to ask Mrs. Farnsworth if I could go into the library to find some books to read, but she frostily refused, saying that it was Lord Hartley’s private study and that I could wait for his return.
A return I was both looking forward to and dreading. I wanted to see him and all his sexiness again, but what if he had figured out that I was not who he thought I was?
The first night I slept in the closet in the old dress, hopeful that I might wake up back in my own time. Rosemary found me there and asked in a confused voice, “Wouldn’t you prefer the bed, miss?”
I did prefer the bed, and what I loved most about sleeping was that I got to take the stupid corset off. At least part of my day was spent ensuring that my red blood cells got enough oxygen. Usually it took me a while to get used to sleeping in a new place. Despite spending my entire life waking up in one foster home and going to sleep in another, I’d never developed that cope-with-strange-new-environments gene. When I’d first moved to London, it had taken me almost two weeks to not freak out every time I woke up.
But despite my bizarre situation, it didn’t happen here. Weirdly enough, I felt at home almost immediately and slept like a baby every night.
Which gave me a lot of energy that I had no way to burn off. I wasn’t allowed to go outside by myself, and the backyard wasn’t very big. I knew my way around the house, so I started dedicating part of my day to meeting the staff and had a fun time learning their names and their responsibilities. Nobody seemed too keen on having a conversation with me, keeping their eyes averted and looking like all they wanted to do was get back to their work. Rosemary spent as much time with me as she could entertaining me. I learned that she was the youngest of five girls, all of whom had gone into “service,” as she called it. She was from the country, and while the rest had settled for being housemaids or kitchen maids, she had higher aspirations. I could get behind a girl with ambition. I decided to do whatever I could to help her.
All my new clothes and shoes arrived, and it was like Christmas. There were packages everywhere and all sorts of things to try on. I had my own mini–fashion show, which was a lot more boring than it sounds, especially since I had no one to show it off to.
Both baths and meals were brought to me in my room. The shampoo and soap were weird, as was the food. Fortunately, I had a pretty adventurous palate and tried everything. Some of it was better than others. I felt bad for the extra effort they had to go through to feed me and told Rosemary that I could just join the servants in the kitchen when they ate. Her scandalized expression told me that I’d again made a mistake. “Or this is fine,” I tacked on as quickly as I could.
I’d never realized how dependent I’d been on my electronics to constantly amuse me. I always had something to read, watch, or listen to every minute of every day. Having to be without that felt a little like withdrawal. And I just didn’t know what to do with myself.
Fortunately, my circumstances were about to change. As I sat in my room, still trying to figure out how I was supposed to write with a feather, I heard that scratching on my door that I now knew was one of the servants. I didn’t know why they didn’t just knock, but I’d become accustomed to it.
I opened the door. “Hey, Roger. What’s going on?”
&
nbsp; The footman smiled at me. “Lord Hartley wishes to see you.”
My heart actually leaped into my throat, lodging there. I could see that my hands were trembling. Whether that was from apprehension or excitement, I wasn’t sure. “Okay.” I stepped out into the hallway, but I didn’t see him. “Where is he?”
“He is downstairs in the library, miss.” Roger stood there expectantly. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Then why didn’t he come up here to see me?”
Roger blinked a few times, confused. “You are to go to him. I can escort you, if you’d like.”
“No escorting necessary. I know where it is. Thanks, though.”
“My pleasure, Miss Blythe.” With a nod and slight bow, Roger walked off in the opposite direction. I headed downstairs faster than I’d meant to. Part of me wanted to make Hartley wait, seeing as how he’d made me wait three whole days to see him again.
But the other part of me was desperate to see him again. To drink in his ridiculous gorgeousness. So far, despite his grouchiness, he had been my favorite part of traveling through time.
When I stepped into the hallway, Stephens was there, carrying a tray. I nearly collided with him but jumped back just in time. So did he. Which caused him to throw a shoulder into a nearby pillar. Before either one of us could react, the vase sitting on top of it wobbled dangerously back and forth and then tumbled to the floor.
Where it shattered into a million pieces.
Some of his perfectly combed silver hair fell onto his forehead, and the look of fear and heartbreak was unmistakable on Stephens’s lined face. He was totally devastated. Was he worried about being fired? Was the vase special?
Hartley came out into the hall. I had only a second to admire him before he asked in a low, dangerous tone, “What the devil is going on?”
“You’re back,” I said pathetically.
Hartley gave me a look that let me know I’d really stated the obvious. “Just as I said I would be. I am a man of my word. And I beg your pardon, but what happened to the vase?”
Once Upon a Time Travel Page 5
