Once Upon a Time Travel

by Sariah Wilson

  Or maybe I was delusional, and it was all in my head.

  “Did I tell you that I had a letter from James today?”

  Definitely delusional. That one sentence shattered all my white-picket-fence dreams. “Oh?”

  “He hopes to return home a week from today.”

  Was it my imagination, or did Hartley not seem as excited as I thought he would be?

  It was like somebody had hung a countdown clock on the wall. T minus seven days and James would be here. And Hartley would probably go back to being distant, and we wouldn’t sit together and laugh and brush our fingers and legs against each other while we played.

  My shoulders curled in as I realized this was all going to end.

  The worst part? I hadn’t even looked for my way home for the last three days.

  That had to change.

  The next morning, I was just not up to seeing people. I feigned a headache, and Charles went to make calls without me. Hartley planned to go riding, and I decided it was my chance to do something with that lock to the library so that I would always have access. Charles could have gotten me in, but she had seemed a lot less invested in searching lately.

  But I couldn’t afford to keep being complacent. James had been this far-off, nebulous thing I didn’t have to worry about that had now become an actual threat. He would be back. I had a deadline.

  I waited around in the foyer until Jamie let Hartley know that the groom had his horse outside. Hartley nodded to me on his way out, and I said, “May the horse be with you.”

  He didn’t get it.

  Once the house was quiet again, I took the two sharp knives I’d swiped from breakfast and went to work on the lock. Because they were pointy, I was definitely doing something, but I couldn’t tell what.

  It wasn’t working. I needed help. Could they pick locks in this century? Even if they did, I had no idea where to buy the right tools or hire the right criminal. It wasn’t like I could go shopping online for them.

  After half an hour with no success, I had to stop when there was the soft, timid sound of the brass knocker. Worried about being caught, I ran upstairs and closed my bedroom door just as the front door was answered.

  Kicking off my shoes and taking off my stockings, I let out a sigh of relief. I only briefly wondered who was at the front door as I stashed my knives next to the desk key. The only thing I did know was that the caller wasn’t for me. Nobody ever came to see me.

  I had just replaced the floorboard when there was a scratching at my door. I found Mrs. Farnsworth standing on the other side, smirking at me.

  Uh-oh. That couldn’t be good.

  I did get some small amount of enjoyment from knowing it probably made her nuts that Stephens had brought me my bedroom key and I could keep her locked out. No more entering and attempted breaking for her. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, Miss Blythe. There is a Miss Emily Blythe here to see Lord Hartley.”

  Of all the possible things I had imagined she might say, that one didn’t even chart.

  The real Emily Blythe had finally shown up. She was here. Like it wasn’t bad enough James was on his way. Now Emily Blythe was downstairs, waiting for Hartley. I felt sick to my stomach, and my lungs constricted so tight I couldn’t breathe. For a second I just froze. Totally froze. Unable to move, unable to think.

  My entire lie was about to be blown to kingdom come. I had to get out in front of this. Fix it.

  Keep Hartley and Mrs. Farnsworth from finding out the truth.

  Because if they did, I was totally done for. I ran downstairs in my bare feet. I didn’t care about decorum or manners or any of it. I cared only about protecting my secret.

  Running into the drawing room, I saw a small, pretty brunette with a tired-looking bonnet and raggedy gloves on. “Miss Blythe?” I asked, out of breath. She stood up when I spoke, putting her hand against her chest.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Emma. Could you come with me, please? I think we need to talk. In private. Up in my room.” Away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. I smiled, hoping that I was conveying that I wasn’t actually a crazy person and she could trust me.

  I knew what I was asking was strange, but to my great relief she listened and followed me. I passed Mrs. Farnsworth on the stairs, refusing to meet her stare. If the woman had been smarter and more devious, she would have questioned Emily instead of coming up to my room to gloat. The housekeeper didn’t try to interfere or ask any questions, but this wasn’t over.

  But for now, it was all about containment.

  I said a quick prayer that Hartley’s horse would get whatever the horse equivalent of a flat tire was. The very last thing I needed was him coming home.

  And discovering that I was a complete liar.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THINGS I’M GOING TO INVENT IF I GET STUCK IN 1816

  Family therapy, geared toward dads who sell their daughters (!)

  Ushering Emily into my room, I closed and locked the door shut behind me. I dragged the chair from my desk and put it on the opposite side of the room, away from the door. “Please, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Emily had huge, wary, light-brown eyes. She looked like a fragile porcelain doll. It wasn’t just her outerwear that was ragged. So was her dress. It looked like times had been tough. I remembered that the Blythes had agreed to this arranged marriage because of the money. I rang the bell for Rosemary as hard as I could.

  I sat down on my bed, across from her. What should I even say to her? “We’ve been expecting you for a while.” That seemed safe-ish.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice shaking. “I should have come weeks ago. I made a poor decision. And now I’m afraid that I need help.”

  It was jarring to hear another American accent, although it wasn’t exactly like mine. “Anything. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

  Tears filled her eyes, making them brighter. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t. I leaned forward, putting my hand on top of hers. “It’s okay. You can say whatever you need to say. Where have you been?”

  Gathering her strength, calming herself down, she took in a shaky breath. “I boarded the ship to England, as my father wanted, although it broke my heart. Back in Boston I was in love with Joseph. Joseph Anderson.” Her eyes took on a dreamy quality. “But he was an apprentice blacksmith, and my father did not approve of the match.”

  Did any parents in this century keep their opinions to themselves? If their kids were happy, what did they care who married who?

  Or whom. Whatever.

  Emily looked uncomfortable. I remembered these people weren’t really the sharing-of-emotions type. “Anything you say to me, I will never repeat it. I promise you. Please let me know what happened and how I can help. So your father didn’t let you marry the man you wanted to marry.”

  Another sigh. “And my heart was broken. Everything was made worse by my chaperone taking ill on the voyage, unable to leave her room. She . . . she died.”

  That was terrible. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Which left me alone, when I should not have been alone. And I met someone. A sailor on the ship named Ian Clifford. British.” More unshed tears, and her voice had gone soft and then hard. “He was so charming. So . . . amiable and kind. He made me forget. Everything. Everyone.”

  I certainly got that. The one time Hartley had drunkenly kissed me, the entire world had gone away, and he was the only thing in it.

  “He wanted us to marry. Had the captain of the ship do it. I was impetuous and foolish, but it all seemed so . . . romantic.” She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dotted her eyes with it. I got the impression she was the type who cried a lot. “Mr. Clifford became . . . different after we wed. Lord Hartley had given my father an allowance to purchase me new clothes, and Mr. Clifford thought I was wealthy.” She let out a sad-sounding, broken bark of laughter. “When he discovered that I was as poor as he, he was furious.”

/>   “Did he hurt you?” I asked. Even if it meant my lie was uncovered, I didn’t care. If this Clifford guy hit Emily, I was going to have Hartley hunt him down and shoot him.

  “Not in the way you are thinking, but I discovered that words can be painful. He left me in his home with his mother, where I became like a servant to her. I have been waiting and waiting for him to return, hoping that things might improve, but when he came back from his latest voyage, I discovered that he was a terrible drunk and that he and his mother had been selling off all my clothing. I had nothing left and no way to leave. I decided to swallow my pride and come here. I am sorry to ask for it, but I need help. I want to go back to America. Back to Mr. Anderson, if he will still have me. I don’t want to be a countess. I just want to be happy.”

  In that moment it had nothing to do with me. It was about saving this woman from a terrible life and an even worse marriage. Rosemary had said something about selling old clothes to make money. I had a closet full of them. Emily could have them all. “Then that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to give you the money to go back to America.”

  The scratch at the door let me know that Rosemary had finally arrived. I opened the door just a crack and told her I didn’t care how it happened, but she had to send the footmen to track down Charles and bring her back. I didn’t know how long it would take to sell all my stuff, but between me, Rosemary, and Charles, I knew we would figure it out.

  When I had again locked my door, Emily asked, “But what will I tell my father? How will I face everyone? How will I tell Mr. Anderson that I am not . . . not . . . innocent?” I could hear how painful that last word was for her to say, as her face turned a bright red.

  “That’s easy enough.” And it really was. There was no Internet here. No phones. No way for anyone to verify truths or lies. “You married James Portwood, just as your father and Lord Hartley wanted you to. But he died. Of . . .” What did they die of here? “Influenza. Or Ebola. It doesn’t matter. So you decided to go back to your family in America to mourn your loss. Who could blame you for that?”

  She nodded, looking thoughtful. “That could work. But what if my father writes to Lord Hartley? I am certain he will.”

  “I will bribe every footman in this house if I have to. That letter will never reach Hartley. I’ll make sure of it. I give you my word.”

  Emily got up out of her chair, coming over to grab both of my hands. “I know we’ve only just met, and I cannot thank you enough for your charity and kindness toward me.”

  Part of me felt guilty, because said charity and kindness had selfish motivations. I really did want to help her, though. I invited her to sit down next to me on the bed, and we planned her next move until Charles arrived.

  Charles took the chair Emily had been sitting in, back ramrod straight as we told her the whole story. I explained that I wanted to sell my dresses to finance Emily’s trip back home.

  “You will do nothing of the sort. I will buy her ticket, find a suitable, healthy chaperone to escort her, and buy her some decent clothes. No one will believe her story if she turns up in rags.”

  Relief, acute and painful, filled every part of me. Emily was sobbing, and I could feel the tears welling up in my own eyes, and a large lump settled in my throat. “Thank you.” I could barely get the words out.

  “We must not waste time. This must all be taken care of immediately before the servants catch wind of it. Who knows?”

  “Just Mrs. Farnsworth. I didn’t tell Rosemary any details. I just asked her to find you as soon as possible.”

  “That would be easy enough to explain to your maid.” In her all-black dress, Charles looked like an avenging angel. “But it sounds as if the housekeeper may present a problem. I shall take care of that as well.”

  I had never wanted to hug someone so much in my entire life. Charles told Emily to lie down and rest and had me accompany her into the hallway. When the door was shut, leaving us alone, I gave in to my impulse.

  “I know you guys don’t really do this here, but I’m sorry. I have to hug you.” And I did. She was warm and comforting and it was what I imagined it would be like to hug my own mom, if she had lived.

  Her hands patted me awkwardly on the back. It had made her uncomfortable, but she could suck it up for a few more seconds.

  Finally releasing her, I smiled. “That was almost thunderstorm bad.”

  She knit her eyebrows in confusion, not understanding me.

  “This whole Emily thing was almost worse than a raging thunderstorm.” It was the most scared I’d felt in a very long time.

  “You will leave everything to me, and I will take care of it all. Find your maid, explain that you were having feminine troubles and wanted to speak with me. I will have Danvers arrange for my personal coach, and Miss Emily Blythe will be on the next boat home to America.”

  I hoped she appreciated the restraint it took to not hug her again. I’d had no idea what I was doing. And I’d been about to involve Rosemary. Who I thought I could trust, but what if I couldn’t? What if she’d told just one person? Even inadvertently? It would have ruined everything.

  But I knew Charles would do exactly as she said. And I had nothing more to worry about.

  Until Mrs. Farnsworth came down the hallway, a victorious sneer marring her features. “Mrs. Meriweather, did you need me to send one of the footmen to fetch Lord Hartley?”

  “Whatever for?” Charles asked, peering down her nose at the housekeeper.

  For a moment Mrs. Farnsworth looked confused. “For the current situation.”

  “Situation?” Charles repeated, sounding even more grand and snooty. “Miss Blythe has had a visitor from America call on her. Are you speaking of that situation? Why would that merit the earl’s attention?”

  The housekeeper’s hard veneer cracked, and she didn’t look quite so sure of herself. “The young woman who arrived, she said she was Miss Emily Blythe.”

  “I’m afraid you are quite mistaken. She said she was looking for Miss Emma Blythe, guest of Lord Hartley.” From her tone, Charles was just daring Mrs. Farnsworth to disagree with her.

  Which we all knew she wouldn’t.

  And the lie was good enough and close enough to the truth that now Mrs. Farnsworth would probably be questioning what she had actually heard. And she would never dare contradict Charles.

  Charles was a freaking genius. And a really, really good liar.

  With a bob of her head and a slight curtsy, Mrs. Farnsworth excused herself.

  “I really want to hug you again.”

  At that, Charles finally smiled. “Keep that girl in your room until I return, and do not let anyone in to talk to her. Not even Hartley.”

  “Like Hartley would ever go in my room.” Much as I might have personally enjoyed it, he had that whole honor/chivalry thing going on.

  But for some reason that made her pause. “Has anything happened between you and Hartley? Has he compromised you in any way?”

  Compromised me? I considered joking that I’d been totally compromised, even if I still wasn’t sure what that meant, but she was serious and scary enough that I didn’t want to joke. Or tell her that we’d kissed. And danced. “Nothing’s happened. We’re just friends.” At least by my century’s standards, anyway. So it wasn’t technically a lie. Just misinformation.

  Misinformation or not, I was getting tired of all the lies.

  She left, and I watched over a sleeping Emily in my room, not answering the door whenever a servant came to check on me.

  About an hour later, Charles returned with some servants from her home and left with Emily. Emily held my hands again, wishing me every happiness in the world. I told her to have a good life.

  And then she was gone.

  Which meant I was safe.

  I didn’t know what I would have done without the richest woman in England backing me. I tried telling myself that I had done the right thing. Not just for me, but for Emily. Professor Blythe had his money, Emi
ly had her way back home. Everybody had been taken care of.

  Everybody except for Hartley.

  He still expected a bride for his brother. And I’d just had Charles put her on a boat for America.

  Some part of me thought I should come clean and just tell him the truth.

  But what if he didn’t understand? What if he thought I should be tossed out? He didn’t know that magic was real and his sisters were witches.

  He wouldn’t believe me.

  What if he did?

  I told the voice to shut up. And I got angry. Which made no sense. I didn’t know who I was angry at.

  Another part of me worried that this had all been too easy and would eventually catch up with me.

  Matters weren’t helped when Hartley returned home about twenty minutes after Charles left. I had worked myself into a self-justified frenzy, which he couldn’t have known when he requested to see me.

  When I came into the library, ready to pick a fight, just the sight of how handsome he was, how blue his eyes looked, how broad his shoulders were, infuriated me.

  “James wrote again to say that his schedule is proceeding as planned, and he still hopes to return home as expected.”

  The real Emily Blythe had just been here, and it wouldn’t matter to Hartley if I were her or me. I was totally interchangeable with some other random chick and unimportant to him except as a pawn in his schemes. “What if I don’t want to marry your stupid brother? I can say no.”

  Hartley, rightfully so, looked surprised by my tone and words. “I’m afraid you can’t.”

  “Yes, I can. You are not the boss of me.” Fantastic. My irrational anger and fear had reduced me to playground arguments.

  Then he didn’t even respond. Like I wasn’t worth listening to or acknowledging. Which literally made me see red and made my limbs start to shake with fury. I grabbed a gold-and-white vase next to me. “Is this expensive or sentimental?”

  “Not particularly either, why?”

  He had his answer in pieces all over the floor when I threw it at him and missed. My aim was terrible. I should practice more.