“But if you were not expecting me—that is, Mr. Fogg—as yet—”
“Don’t be silly,” Annie cut in brightly. “At Christmastime, you will never see a sign at the Simmons Hotel reading No Room at the Inn.”
“You must really like Christmas then, Miss Simmons,” Jason felt compelled to murmur.
“It is my favorite time,” she replied.
While Jason still felt highly confused and unsettled regarding his new surroundings, he managed to hold his own as Annie and her father took him about and introduced him to several of their guests. He met a farmer and his wife from Chiswick, as well as the owner of a nearby jewelry shop, and two elderly spinsters, sisters who shared a room at the hotel. When Jason learned that one of the spinsters was named “Media,” he felt a chill grip him as he recalled Annie Simmons’s “ghost” mentioning the same name two nights ago.
Although from their bemused expressions, it seemed the guests found both Jason’s sudden appearance and his attire to be peculiar, all graciously made no comment to indicate that they found the newly arrived guest the least bit out of place here. Within minutes, Jason had a cup of warm wassail in one hand, a plate heaped with fruitcake and gingerbread cookies in the other. Annie had drifted off to visit with a couple of the women, and Jason hung about a small circle of men, which included Annie’s father, and listened intently to their conversation.
“I hear Disraeli presented his new budget to the House of Commons today,” the shop owner was saying.
“And an inspired proposition ’tis,” said the farmer, “reducing the taxes that have so long burdened those of us who work the land.”
“Ah, but with the increasing taxes on houses, innkeepers such as myself are bound to suffer,” put in Oscar Simmons.
The shop owner turned to Jason. “What is your tax situation like in America, Mr. Burke?” He laughed. “Or are all of you too rich from mining gold out in your California to care?”
Jason smiled thinly. “Taxes do seem to be an eternal blight for us all.”
“Aye,” added another. “And I do wonder if the earl of Derby’s regime will even survive the four weeks needed to see the year of our Lord 1853.”
1853. This announcement of the coming New Year set Jason reeling. Feeling desperate to regain his equilibrium, he moved away from the group and headed toward the front window. What he saw as he moved aside the velvet drapery and glanced down at the street hardly comforted him.
Unfamiliar, ancient-looking three- and four-story houses lined the street, while on the corners, elegant gaslights spilled out their radiance. He noted that his car—indeed all the cars!—had disappeared. Gone was the asphalt street, replaced by time-worn cobblestones. As Jason watched, fascinated, a horse-drawn carriage rattled past, driven by a coachman who wore a heavy cloak and a top hat. Then, on the sidewalk, he observed a bedraggled woman in a long dress lumber by, pushing a flower cart.
So he had been thrust back in time to early December of 1852! His sense of amazement was overwhelming. And, if this were true, then—good heavens!—he had arrived at a juncture only a few weeks before Annie Simmons would die!
Jason was still reeling with this knowledge as he heard a lyrical voice murmur, “Mr. Burke, are you all right?”
He turned to see Annie Simmons standing beside him. He studied her delicately drawn face—the youthful skin, large, bright eyes, wide mouth, and charming dimples. A sudden anguish rent him. Oh, God, he thought, staring at her, she was so real, so lovely—
And in so much peril!
Jason managed a tremulous smile. “I suppose I’m feeling just a bit disoriented.”
“When did you arrive here in London?”
“Only tonight.”
She snapped her fingers. “And we didn’t even ask about your luggage.”
Jason coughed awkwardly. “It’s a long story, but I’m afraid that I don’t have any.”
Annie was gazing at Jason in perplexity when a man stepped up to join them. He was blond, blue-eyed, tall, slender, and quite handsome.
“Annie, dear, you are ignoring me,” he murmured. He glanced sharply at Jason. “Do I sense competition here?”
“Oh, Stephen, don’t be silly,” Annie scolded the gentleman. “This is our new guest, Mr. Jason Burke, a newspaperman from America. I’m only trying to help him gather his bearings a bit.” To Jason, she added, “Mr. Burke, this is a very special friend of mine, Stephen Prescott.”
“How do you do?” Jason asked, shaking hands with Stephen.
“So you’re a newspaperman—and an American.” Stephen studied Jason’s attire cynically. “Perhaps that is the reason for your rather eccentric garb?”
Before Jason could reply, Annie’s father called out from near the piano, “You young people, come over here and join us! Miss Mary is going to play some carols, and let’s all gather round the piano and sing.”
Jason, Annie, and Stephen dutifully gathered with the others, singing several Yule hymns—“Deck the Halls,” “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and “I Saw Three Ships.” Watching Annie stand so close to Stephen, and observing the smug, self-satisfied grin on Prescott’s face as he stood with his arm possessively at Annie’s waist, Jason felt a strange sense of foreboding and powerlessness wash over him.
After the songs were completed, Oscar Simmons held up a hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began proudly, “I have an announcement to make.” He smiled at Annie and Stephen. “It is my honor to inform you that my beautiful daughter Annie will shortly marry Mr. Stephen Prescott.”
As a cheer went up from the guests, Annie and Stephen smiled happily. Jason felt a chill grip his very soul. He knew now that he had been thrust back in time to a period when Annie Simmons was still alive, albeit she might have only a few weeks left to live! Was he too late?
For Jason had the strong feeling that he had just met the very man who would be responsible for Annie Simmons’s death! And yet there she stood, holding Stephen’s hand, the very image of the blissful bride—totally oblivious to the disaster hurtling toward her!
Now, the guests swarmed around Annie and Stephen, offering congratulations and hugs. Jason walked over and dutifully extended to both Annie and Stephen his best wishes. Annie responded with a shy smile, Stephen with an indifferent handshake.
In the meantime, Oscar Simmons was making his rounds, handing out glasses of Madeira for a toast. Jason retreated toward a corner, where he could hear the farmer and the shop owner conversing quietly nearby.
“Looks like our dear Miss Annie has found herself a good match,” he heard the farmer say.
“Oh, I’m not so sure,” replied the shop owner. “When young Prescott came into my shop recently to buy Annie a brooch, he brought along a chap from his club who was giving him the very mischief over his plan to keep on his mistress after the wedding.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” said the farmer. “Prescott plans to philander following the nuptials? Do you suppose we should warn Annie or Oscar?”
“Nay, leave it be,” advised the shop owner. “As our Mr. Bulwer-Lytton says, ‘Boys will be boys.’ Besides, it is not as if young Prescott’s attitude toward wedded bliss is that unusual, now is it?”
As the two men chuckled behind him, Jason felt staggered by their disclosures. He again stared helplessly at Annie, who now kissed her father’s cheek as he handed her a glass of wine, while Stephen looked on approvingly. Again, he remembered her chilling words from the present, “I died on these steps on Christmas Eve in 1852, when I learned that my true love had deserted me.”
Jason had been back in time for less than an hour, yet he already knew not only who would betray Annie Simmons—but also how and why.
CHAPTER FOUR
“If you’ll just follow me, sir, the room is down here.”
Two hours later, while Annie Simmons’s father was downstairs bidding the remaining guests goodnight, Jason Burke was following Annie down the third-story corridor of the hotel. She strolled a few feet ahead of him, hold
ing high a taper to light their way. With the long shadows spilling about them, their sojourn down the darkened hallway bore a spooky resemblance to Jason’s “ghost tour” with Annie’s spirit two nights ago—and almost a century and a half away! The very thought staggered him.
Not that he wasn’t already reeling from his evident journey through time. He felt half-afraid that if he pinched himself, the entire fantastical world to which he had been whisked might simply disappear.
He wondered if Annie remembered taking him on the “ghost tour” two nights ago—and so far away! But, of course, she wouldn’t, because he had returned to a period in time before she’d even become a ghost. That realization seemed mind-boggling. Was it then his mission to save her from the catastrophe that would all-too-soon spur her tormented spirit to haunt the Simmons Hotel for so many decades to come? If, indeed, he were even allowed to stay here that long?
Annie creaked open a door. “Ah, here we are.”
Jason followed her inside a small, plain room that was furnished with little more than a narrow bed and a nondescript dresser. A couple of oil paintings of English pastoral scenes, as well as airy curtains at the window, lent a feeling of warmth.
Annie gestured toward the grate, where kindling had been laid out. “You can light a fire if you wish. I’m sorry we haven’t a finer room available tonight.”
“Don’t apologize. This will do just fine.”
Annie laughed, revealing her charming dimples. “You are very easy to please.”
Jason couldn’t resist winking at her. “But then, you please me so easily, Miss Simmons.”
Jason could have sworn he watched her struggle to hide a guilty smile as she turned away to the dresser, using her taper to light the oil lamp. “We use this room for the occasional overflow of guests, when all our second-floor rooms are occupied.” She turned to him. “You say you have no luggage?”
Jason suddenly felt very awkward, and shifted from foot to foot. “Actually, I have arrived not only without luggage, but also without appropriate funds to pay you for this room.”
Although she appeared taken aback, she quickly protested, “Oh, please, you must not concern yourself about paying for the room just yet. But it does distress me that your employer, Mr. Fogg, did not adequately provide for you.”
Jason grinned sheepishly as he improvised an explanation. “I must confess that I was not entirely truthful downstairs. Indeed, Mr. Finias Fogg may yet show up here.”
“What do you mean?”
In a low, conspiratorial tone, he confided, “You see, I am not an actual employee of the newspaper in America. I’m what you might call a stringer. I’ve done assignments for the Manhattan Chronicle before, and I was simply hoping to sell them some articles on Christmas here in Great Britain.”
“Oh, I see.” Annie grew thoughtful, frowning as she placed a finger alongside her jaw. “Then perhaps—”
“Yes?”
“I do not mean to be presumptuous, but—”
“Please, feel free to speak.”
“Would it be helpful if you could find employment here?”
“Indeed,” Jason concurred with a dry laugh.
“You see, my father is good friends with a Mr. Spencer, who owns a local newspaper,” she continued with some excitement. “Perhaps we could speak with him on your behalf—”
Jason held up a hand. “You are very kind, but I do feel that you’ve already done enough for me. Besides, even my staying here must be an imposition.”
“Not at all. We want you to feel at home.” She paused to study his formal black suit, then grinned almost impishly. “As for your clothing…I must say that styles seem to differ greatly in America these days.”
“So they do,” Jason concurred dryly.
“Across the hallway is a storage room where we keep items left behind by various guests. You’re welcome to take anything you need, Mr. Burke.” Again, she looked him over, her expression pensive. “As a matter of fact, a few months back, one of our boarders, a Mr. Haggarty, passed away of the fever, and he was about your size. I was going to include his things in the Christmas baskets my church is making up for the poor—but please feel free to claim anything you want first.”
“You are far too generous.”
“I’m just glad you can put the things to good use.” She smiled rather shyly. “Well, is there anything else?”
A kiss, Jason thought suddenly, noting how adorable she looked, standing there and gazing at him so expectantly. Yes, a kiss would do just fine.
To her, he said reluctantly, “No, I have everything I need.”
Appearing satisfied, she swept away toward the doorway, smiling at him over her shoulder. “Well, then, good night, Mr. Burke.”
Watching her leave, Jason was rent by sudden anguish. He felt compelled to touch her again. He quickly closed the distance between them, took her free hand, and kissed it. “Good night, Miss Simmons. And thank you for all your kindnesses.”
She blushed then, a look of delight spreading across her angelic face that almost had Jason pulling her into his arms—especially as he felt her fingers trembling in his.
Then, gently, she extricated her hand from his. “Good night, Mr. Burke.”
Annie Simmons flashed Jason a happy smile as she left.
Jason lit the fire and, as the room warmed up, strode over to the window and gazed out. He studied a skyline that was curiously the same, yet vastly different from the world he had left behind. All modern structures were conspicuously absent. In the distance, he could spot the Belfry Tower of Westminster Abbey, the gothic spires of Parliament, the trees of St. James Park, and the solid outline of Buckingham Palace. Close by on the gaslit street, he watched smoke curl from tall chimneys, and observed another carriage clattering down the cobblestones. A fine powder of snow was beginning to flutter over the rooftops, and the glass of the windowpane felt cold against his fingertips.
Annie’s hand had felt warm in his—so warm, he thought. Her flesh had felt so soft against his lips. The memory brought a stab of longing to his heart. Again he hungered to kiss that wide, sweet mouth that had smiled at him tonight with such joy, with such innocence. Annie—his enchanting, untouched 19th century lady. Though he had been with her only briefly, he already knew that she was like no one he had ever met before—a total departure from the worldly-wise girls he had dated back in the present. She was so young, so fresh, so beautiful.
So fragile. Remembering her with Stephen, he frowned darkly. Again, he wondered what he could do to stop the insidious catastrophe that might soon smash Annie’s tender young heart to pieces—and end her very life! Protecting that precious life was much more important than his own budding feelings for her.
A weary sigh escaped him. Somehow, he must help Annie—but now, especially after last night’s writing marathon, he knew he needed rest. He had definitely brought every bit of his exhaustion with him here to the 19th century.
Moving away from the window, he unbuttoned his jacket and automatically pulled out his wallet. In amazement, he stared at the leather billfold. Flipping it open, he examined his ID, credit cards, and traveler’s checks. Everything was still there, intact. The contradiction of this reality astounded him. He was obviously now living in the year 1852—and yet he held in his hand proof that he had actually come from over 140 years in the future!
He laughed ironically. A lot of good these items would do him here now! He chuckled at the prospect of trying to cash one of his pound sterling traveler’s checks, or of going to a restaurant and pulling out one of his credit cards. If he told anyone here where he had actually come from, he would likely be labeled a lunatic and carted off to Bedlam. He took his wallet, along with his wristwatch and keys, and placed the items at the back of the top bureau drawer.
Wondering what he might wear to bed, he took the oil lamp and crossed the hallway to the storage room Annie had mentioned. He sniffed at the unpleasant, dank air. Broken or worn furniture, as well as threadbare or patche
d linens, were stacked about.
Near the window, he examined two dusty, musty-smelling chests—one held women’s clothing, the other held men’s. Jason smiled at the sense of Victorian propriety that extended even to segregating old clothing in the storage room.
Turning to the collection of men’s attire, Jason pulled out the items one by one. He could only shake his head at the curious contents—felt bowler hats, quaint men’s coats with shawl collars, silk brocade vests with braided lapels, finely pleated linen shirts, white silk cravats, walking sticks, and boots. Concentrating on the least worn of the items, Jason selected a brown suit and hat, a white shirt, black cravat, a pair of boots, and a nightshirt. He took the items back to his room.
In bed, with the lamp extinguished, Jason found sleep elusive. His woolen nightshirt felt scratchy and the softness of the feather tick made him feel strangely adrift compared with the firm mattress he was accustomed to in the present.
He turned, punched down his pillow, stared at the dying fire, and wondered what tomorrow would bring. All his instincts told him that he had come here to 19th century London for a reason. Again, he remembered the rhyme on his invitation—“Through this portal take your leave; You’ll come back on Christmas Eve.”
He knew he had arrived here in early December 1852. Could it be that his time here would be limited, that he would be thrust back to the present on Christmas Eve—hopefully, after he had accomplished his purpose? Had he indeed been sent here as some sort of guardian angel or troubleshooter meant to save Annie Simmons from disaster?
He considered his flight through time from another perspective. Could it be that he had been sent here to learn something, just as Scrooge had experienced a spiritual awakening when he had taken his mystical journey with “the ghost of Christmas past”?
Then he groaned as he again remembered the feel of Annie’s baby-soft flesh against his mouth. One thing he knew for a certainty—his first objective while he was here would be to remove Miss Annie Simmons from the clutches of Mr. Steven Prescott.
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