Once Upon a Time Travel

by Sariah Wilson

  She got what I asked for, and even though I could tell she wanted to chat about that evening’s festivities, I shooed her out of the room. The razor was much longer than I thought it would be. It was like shaving my legs with a machete. I took off my shoes and stockings, throwing them on the bed. I put some towels down on the floor and sat. Using the soap, I scrubbed my right leg until I had a nice lather, like I did back home when I ran out of shaving cream.

  “Steady,” I mumbled to myself, carefully dragging the razor across the top of my calf. The first pass was done, and I could see skin again. Hallelujah!

  It had also been a lot easier than I’d thought. Why hadn’t I done this months ago? I fell into the steady rhythm of soaping up my legs, running the blade along the length, and then rinsing it off.

  Which allowed my brain to drift off to its favorite activity. Thinking about Hartley. What would he say when he showed up? He would show up, right? Would he finally admit that he loved me? Kiss me into oblivion again? Propose for real?

  As I imagined him professing his undying devotion, I pushed a little too hard on the razor as I rounded my knee. Burning, searing pain made me gasp, and I must have hit a vein because blood started spurting and—

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

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

  Aspirin and vitamins

  “Emma darling, do wake up.” It took me a minute to realize that it was Charles who spoke to me.

  And that I was in bed.

  And there were a bunch of people in my bedroom.

  “What happened?” I asked, struggling to sit up, but my head felt woozy, and I lay back down.

  “You cut yourself and lost a great deal of blood,” Charles explained from where she sat on my right side, holding my hand and patting it. “The doctor wants you to rest until you feel yourself again.”

  It came back to me—the razor, cutting myself, the blood. My good old vasovagal response had made me pass out. Wonderful. Hartley must have found that particularly attractive. Me with one hairy leg and the other bleeding.

  If he’d been the one to find me. Had he shown up last night?

  My eyes darted around the room. Charles, Rosemary, James, a couple of the footmen, Stephens, and a man I guessed was the doctor, packing up his medical bag. He said something to James, and then Stephens escorted him out.

  No Hartley. “Where’s Hartley?”

  James looked at me uneasily, as if he didn’t know what to say. “He left before dawn this morning. To go to Rosewood. Our family estate.”

  My chest suddenly felt too tight, my throat thick. Why wasn’t he here? Did he not care?

  “What happened to you last night?” Charles asked, and I wondered if she was trying to change the subject.

  It took me a second to realize that I was almost crying, and I took a couple of deep breaths to calm down before I answered. “I was shaving my legs, and I cut myself and fainted. Then I woke up here.”

  Charles asked the remaining servants to leave, and once the room was cleared, she turned back to me. “Hartley found you lying in pool of blood. He called for help, lifted you onto the bed, used his cravat to bind your wound, and waited for the doctor. Once the doctor had inspected you and declared that your wound should heal easily with little risk of infection, Hartley . . .” Her voice trailed off, as if she were uncertain what to say next. Which was so unlike her.

  “He fled like a bloody overgrown coward in the middle of the night,” James offered, his derision obvious, with arms folded as he leaned against the doorframe to my room. “Beg your pardon.”

  “One can hardly blame him,” his aunt retorted. “He discovered Miss Amesbury in a similar state. I’m sure it was quite a horrible shock.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. I pressed both of my hands against my head, wishing the pounding would go away. My heart hurt to think about how he must have had horrible flashbacks or some kind of PTSD when he saw me, how it must have reminded him of her.

  But even so, he had taken care of me and made sure I would be all right. He hadn’t frozen or run away. He acted. He protected. He cared.

  So very Hartley.

  “I have to go to him. I have to show him that I’m okay. Er, that I’m fine.” I tried to sit up again, and this time it was easier. “I’m going to need some red meat and lots of water.” I wished they had aspirin, but I had to get some iron and fluids in me, and that would have to be good enough. I wasn’t going to let him suffer or worry.

  Because despite me almost bleeding myself out, Hartley had come. He was the one who found me. He’d taken that chance and had come to speak with me. That meant something.

  Now I had to find out what. No more hoping, no more waiting. It was time Hartley and I had a serious talk.

  James nodded and rang for Rosemary.

  “When can I leave?” I asked Charles. Even though I wasn’t back up to full strength, I knew this headache would eventually fade, and in the meantime I would deal with it.

  “We can go within the hour. We will have to pack and have the carriage made ready, but we will do our best to make haste.”

  “We?”

  “Darling girl, I would never let you travel the roads of England alone. Highwaymen and ruffians around every corner,” she sniffed.

  “And I am determined to see this experiment through to its logical outcome,” James added, having given my maid her instructions.

  “I think we should give chase. What say you?” Charles asked.

  “I say let’s do this thing.” At their blank expressions I added, “I say yes. Let’s give chase.”

  Everything happened quickly. James and Charles left to get their stuff (or, more accurately, have their servants get their stuff), and Rosemary had me fed and watered and in a new gown, packing lots of things to take with me to Rosewood. I offered to help, but she’d looked insulted and insisted I lie in bed and heal.

  I spent the time practicing what I would say to Hartley. Should I just tell him that I loved him? Let him take the lead? Because even if I’d given him some kind of nightmarish flashback, if he didn’t care about me, he wouldn’t have run away.

  Right?

  Then we were in the carriage and on our way out of the city and into the country. James was across from us reading a book, and Charles was next to me, a reassuring and comforting presence. My headache faded with each turn of the wheel, and nervousness mixed with anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.

  Because this was it. One way or the other, I was going to find out how he felt about me, and this would end.

  It was reassuring I wasn’t rushing into the breach alone. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Charles patted my hand. “Dearest girl, you didn’t think I’d miss the third act, did you?”

  * * *

  Word had come that a carriage with the Hartley family crest approached, and Hartley had ridden his favorite stallion, Neptune, to the top of a hill, watching it come.

  It was indeed his carriage, and he knew that Emma was in it.

  Which immediately made him think of the previous night. It had been the worst moment of his entire life.

  James had approached him, saying that Miss Blythe wished to speak to him. That it was extremely important and she would wait for him in her room.

  The impropriety of the request immediately struck Hartley, along with the heated memories of what had happened the last time they’d been alone in a bedroom together.

  He’d actually debated with himself. Because every instinct and emotion in him insistently urged him to go. To see her and to tell her all the things that he had been thinking about. How he didn’t really want her to marry James. How he didn’t want her to give James heirs.

  How when they danced he finally admitted to himself that he had fallen madly in love with her.

  There could be no question. No further denials. Hartley loved Emma, and he wanted her for his wife. He wanted children with her, a future with her.

  He knew what he wo
uld be asking of her if he offered marriage. What she would give up. A world full of marvels and magical-like objects that he couldn’t even imagine. He had nothing to offset her loss other than his love.

  He had hoped it would be enough.

  Anxious to declare himself, Hartley decided to set aside propriety and his own code of honor to seek her out in a place he wasn’t supposed to be. He could only hope that James would understand, since he’d already all but promised Emma to his brother. That this lapse could be forgiven.

  He had knocked on her door. Knocked again. Called out her name. Wondered if he had misheard his brother and even now she waited somewhere else in the house. He heard the howling of his sister’s cat from inside the room, and he opened the door, and the sight of her lifeless body nearly knocked him to his knees.

  Emma. Blood. Blood everywhere.

  He had rushed to her, expecting to find her dead, pain and fear threatening to drown him. He cradled her with shaking arms against his chest. Another punishment for forgetting himself and everything he said he stood for. He cried out in relief when he felt her breath against his neck, warm and strong and alive.

  Carrying her to the bed, he unwound his cravat and found the injury. It had already stopped bleeding, but he still applied the white cloth to her leg. He rang the servant’s bell, and when her abigail arrived, he gave her instructions to have a doctor fetched and his aunt found and brought up.

  Hartley knelt at the side of Emma’s bed, begging God not to take her from him. That he would trade his life for hers. Promising that he would stay away from her and behave as an honorable gentleman where she was concerned as long as the Lord would allow her to live.

  The next few minutes were utter chaos as servants rushed in and out of the room. Charles arrived and put her arms around Hartley’s shoulders, but he couldn’t hear what she said. Somehow, he had done this. He didn’t deserve to feel reassured.

  After an eternity, a doctor arrived and inspected Emma. He declared her to be fine, just in need of rest. The wound did not seem too deep and did not require stitching. He did not think it would become infected.

  Relief flooded through Hartley. She would live.

  Which meant that he had to now keep his word to the Almighty. He would let her go and keep his feelings to himself.

  He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t be near her and not tell her the truth. Even now, when she couldn’t hear him, he could barely keep the words contained. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. That he loved her so much he was willing to walk away.

  Finding his valet in his bedroom, Hartley had him quickly pack and a horse made ready. He told Stephens where he was going and rode hard for Rosewood.

  The distance was necessary.

  Because his love would get her killed.

  And while he understood that he was being entirely illogical, some part of him believed it and refused to listen to reason.

  He had spent the day riding with his steward, looking over the estate he had always loved. One of the stableboys had ridden out to tell him about the carriage, and they had gone to this hill to survey the road and saw the truth of it.

  “Shall we ride out to meet them, my lord?” the steward had asked.

  “No,” Hartley nearly choked on the word. “We still have much to go over.”

  And he had much to avoid.

  * * *

  Hartley hadn’t come home last night. He had been gone the entire day we arrived and sent word he was staying at a nearby inn. I was tempted to find it and confront him. My maid had spent hours getting me ready for dinner, and he hadn’t even showed.

  I had also expected to meet his younger sister Julia, but she was away visiting friends because she didn’t know we were coming. Which was disappointing as I had wanted to find out what she was like.

  Charles started muttering under her breath about how she wished she could turn Hartley into a toad so his outside would match his insides.

  To distract me, James offered to take me out shooting. Bows and arrows. “So I can get my Katniss Everdeen on?” I asked, and he had looked predictably confused. I didn’t bother to explain.

  We went outside to the gardens, away from the massive mansion the Portwoods called home, and one of the servants had set up some targets for us to practice with. James explained stance to me, how to hold my arms, how I should breathe when I let go, and how to aim.

  None of it mattered. I wasn’t distracted. I wanted Hartley and missed him so much that I physically ached.

  “Let out your breath, and release.”

  I let the arrow go, but it completely missed the target and instead hit an old run-down church, somehow breaking a windowpane. “Oh! Sorry!”

  “That’s quite all right. That church hasn’t been fired upon in over three hundred years. I’m sure it doesn’t mind.” James then shot his arrow, hitting the target dead center. “Besides, it means I definitely win. And I have to uphold my appalling lack of sportsmanship somehow.”

  He made me laugh. And I hadn’t laughed at all in the last couple of days.

  Then, of course, I immediately thought of Hartley, and my stomach twisted itself up into knots. “Why do you think he’s staying away?”

  James shrugged one shoulder before shooting his second arrow, hitting almost the same spot as the first. “Because I was right and my experiment is proceeding exactly according to plan.”

  “Your plan was for him to avoid me and break my heart?”

  At that James put the bow down and turned, taking both of my hands in his. “I am sorry for the pain you are suffering. My brother has much to confront within himself before he can admit the truth. As the Bard said, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’” He softly squeezed my hands and then let go. “Now let’s practice actually hitting the target before someone up at the house thinks they’re being invaded and calls out the guard.”

  I laughed again and tried to remove Hartley from my thoughts.

  It wasn’t working.

  About an hour later, Charles joined us. “Hartley will be home for supper this evening. But we will not be. I’ve made plans for you and I to call on some neighbors.”

  My heart had initially jumped for joy and now flattened out in despair. “But why? I want to see him.”

  “That’s precisely why. He has left you to twist in the wind for the last two days, keeping himself from you. Now we will give him a taste of his own medicine and see how he likes it.”

  “Excellent idea,” James agreed. “You should let him miss you, and maybe he will stop being so obstinate.”

  I was the lone dissenting voice, but I didn’t stand a chance against the steamroller that was Charles. Before I knew it, my clothes had been changed, my hair done, and we were on our way to visit people I didn’t care about and didn’t want to meet.

  All I kept thinking about was the moment when I would see him again and what I would say.

  And what I hoped he would say back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

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

  Uber

  Hartley had not anticipated seeing Emma with James. He watched them practicing archery together—the way his brother used any excuse to touch Emma as he helped her shoot, how James had made her laugh—and it was all Hartley could do to not demand satisfaction when James held her hands.

  He’d had to give Emma up. He should want her to be with James, who was a good man and would give her a good life. It was written all over his brother’s face that he cared for her, and he had to assume that Emma felt the same. It was still what made the most sense. It would keep James away from Amelia Godwin, and it would keep Emma safe and protected.

  What a fool he’d been. Again, he had nearly given up everything that mattered to him for a woman who did not love him as he loved her.

  The only choice left was to keep his anger and hurt to himself. Encourage James and Emma to wed and to be happy, to follow the plan that he himself had spent a great deal of
time and money on.

  Despite preparing himself for seeing her at supper, both she and Charles had gone to visit neighbors, leaving him to dine alone with James.

  Seething, Hartley had nothing to say to his brother that wouldn’t end in fisticuffs. James kept up a stream of nonsense, something about a botanist from London that Hartley easily ignored. Supper ended, and a bottle of port was brought out. James had a glass poured, but Hartley waved the footman off.

  “Are we going to discuss it?” James asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “What have we to discuss?”

  His brother arched an eyebrow at him. “Your feelings for Miss Blythe.”

  It was as if James had punched him in the gut; he felt short of breath, his stomach tight and nauseous. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of. My heart has always belonged to another.”

  That made James roll his eyes. “If Libby had loved you, and that point is debatable, but if she did . . . wouldn’t she want you to be happy? Find another love? When you didn’t return quick enough she did just that. Moved on with her life with someone else.”

  “Don’t.” The word was clipped, a warning.

  “What? Tell the truth? You have been entrapped by Miss Amesbury for far too long. It’s as if she’d taken you with her when she died. And since I’ve returned home, I am seeing the man you used to be. My brother. And the reason for that is Miss Blythe.” James leaned forward, putting his drink down. “Why can’t you admit you love her?”

  “Because I don’t!” Hartley roared the words back, slamming both of his hands on the table, causing James’s glass to rattle. “I don’t love Emma! I will not marry her!” Whether he said these words for his brother’s benefit or for his own, he did not know.

  “I know you, and I know that’s not true. And I know that your intentions toward her are honorable—”

  He cut James off. “You speak to me of honor? Honor is all I have left! I was dishonorable in my behavior with Libby. If I’d been stronger, if I hadn’t set aside my honor and morals, if I had refused her, she would still be alive.”