Moonlight Wishes In Time

by Bess McBride

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

  Miss Crockwell gave her head a quick shake, russet curls swaying on her shoulders.

  “Never mind,” she murmured. “I’m just mumbling. I feel so tired. I think I’ll just lie down for a few minutes.” She moved toward the bed, and Mrs. White stepped forward to pull back the coverlet.

  “Goodness me, I think you should, miss. You’ll feel much better in the morning after you’ve have some rest. I’ll bring you a cup of tea myself…if I can manage to avoid Mrs. Bailey in the morning.”

  William stared at Miss Crockwell for a moment as she sat down on the edge of the bed. He was aware of a distinct feeling of dismay when she said she would be “gone by morning.” In fact, he rather had the absurd notion that he wanted her to stay for an indefinite period.

  “I will bring the tea, Mrs. White,” he said. “It will not do to have Mrs. Bailey wondering who is staying in the Green Room until I have a chance to devise a story.”

  Mrs. White moved to the door.

  “As you wish, Master William. Good night, miss. Sleep well.”

  “Good night, Miss Crockwell,” William said, feeling as if he had a million questions for the strange young woman from America. He would have to bide his time. “I am just across the hall if you need anything.”

  “Good night,” she said as she seemed to study his person intently. Unused to such steady regard from a woman, his cheeks bronzed. He gave her a tight bow, picked up the candle and held the door open for Mrs. White.

  He turned back with a final glance to see Miss Crockwell raise a hand in farewell—a seemingly final gesture that gave him an uneasy feeling. He felt certain he would not sleep a wink that night.

  Chapter Three

  Mattie pretended exhaustion as she waited for the door to close behind William Sinclair. Once the latch clicked, she jumped up and ran for the candle. Lifting it high with a trembling hand, she surveyed the room.

  Even by the light of only one candle, she could see that the high-ceilinged room was decorated in varying shades of green. The coverlet was white but the walls were painted pale green, and dark green velvet drapes covered the windows. She hustled over to the window and pulled back one of the heavy curtains. The moon rode high in the sky, full, round and familiar in a world suddenly gone mad. She could see little of the grounds, but the lawn seemed extensive. She dropped the curtain and turned around.

  A glance at her watch showed it was almost 1 a.m. her time, the date September 17th. Why then was she standing in the bedroom of a house very obviously several hundred years old? She sank down onto a dark green velvet and gilt love seat in front of a large hearth and set the candle down on a small marble occasional table to her left. The flames of her candle reflected on the large white carved mantle. The love seat, an antique collectors’ treasure in her time, seemed new and was surprisingly comfortable. She had always wondered what one of the “settees” of her novels might feel like.

  A glance over her shoulder at the massive four-poster bed draped with velvet hangings made her shiver. The thing looked forbidding in the dark. What she wouldn’t do to flick on some bright lights and dispel the darkness in some of the corners of the large room. Mattie pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs while she contemplated her predicament.

  What had happened? The last she knew, she was on her balcony babbling at the moon. Then she awakened in the massive kitchen of what appeared to be some sort of historical house…in England. The cook, Mrs. White, a sweet lady who looked and acted as if she were straight out of some Regency novel, had offered her tea and asked her to wait for the “master” to return. “Master” indeed, Mattie smirked.

  Ashton House! Mattie twisted her neck and surveyed the shadowed room once again. When asked, Mrs. White had given her to understand that she was at a place called Ashton House. So odd that it should be named after the hero in her favorite book—the handsome and charismatic Lord William Ashton.

  And then—as if things couldn’t get any more surreal—the man of her dreams, the hero of her book, whose face was plastered across its cover, had walked into the kitchen. And she’d fainted dead away.

  Was she caught in the midst of some strange dream? It seemed nothing like the dreams she’d been having for weeks—those delightful encounters where she, gowned in lovely silks, floated about beneath a brilliant chandelier in William’s arms as they waltzed across the ballroom floor. The stark reality of this dream—the impotent light of the candle which only added more creepy shadows to the room, the dismay on William’s face when he saw her and the feeling of complete and utter aloneness as she stared at the cold fireplace—were nothing like her dreams.

  She slid down on the settee and rested her head against a tasseled roll pillow. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself back to sleep, back to the sensuous dreams of life and love with William Ashton in England’s Georgian era. That the waltz was still frowned upon as slightly “vulgar,” and William could, in reality, have little to do with her since she was “in the trades” troubled her not one little bit. That was the beauty of dreams. One could adjust them as needed. She had apparently just made some odd adjustments in this one.

  Her eyelids twitched, unwilling to remain closed, and she opened her eyes and sat up. She rose restlessly and crossed over to the window once again, pulling open the curtains to gaze at the moon.

  “Hey, buddy, is this a dream?” Mattie asked aloud. She thought she could really see the face of the man in the moon. “Because this is not quite what I had in mind. The edges are a little rough. I’m supposed to be happy and in the arms of a man who loves me.”

  Mattie swallowed hard. The harder she stared at the moon, the less romantically mystical it appeared and the more it looked like a round sphere of cold rock made bright by the sun.

  “This isn’t a dream, is it?” she whispered as she clutched the velvet curtains in a death grip. “I’m really in someone’s house somewhere in England in I-don’t-even-know-what-year-it-is, aren’t I?”

  The moon didn’t so much as blink in response, and Mattie loosed her grip on the curtains and turned away, wiping perspiration from her upper lip though the room was cool. She felt slightly nauseous.

  What was she going to do now, she wondered with rising panic. How long would this last? Could she get back if she wanted? How? Tap her heels three times? She looked down at her slippers. They would make no tapping noise. They weren’t even red, she thought idiotically.

  Mattie looked toward the door. She heard no sound in the hallway. Maybe she could slip out and at least explore the house while she was here. If she woke up the next morning in her own bed, she would regret losing the chance to look around. And if she had truly traveled back in time, there was no telling how long she would be here. She thought she’d better make good use of the time and reconnoiter the area.

  She crossed the room and pressed her ear against the door. Only the noise of her rapid, shallow breathing broke the silence. She pushed on the door handle, hoping she hadn’t been locked in. Mattie hadn’t missed the looks of concern that had passed between William Sinclair and Mrs. White. They thought she was crazy and didn’t quite know what to do with her. She considered herself lucky she hadn’t been turned over to some sort of authorities by now, or at least chained below stairs in the dungeon.

  Despite her anxiety, Mattie managed a weak grin at the vision.

  She eased open the door, no small feat as it appeared to be made of thick, solid wood, nothing like the hollow metal doors in her apartment. She stuck her head into the dark hallway. No one stood guard at her door. No one patrolled the hallways, wondering if she were going to make good an escape or murder the family in their beds.

  Mattie shook her head. These people were too trusting by far. There was no way she would ever let a stranger stay in her apartment. No way. They probably should have locked her up in a dungeon.

  The hallway was dark, too dark to see anything, and Mattie dashed back to grab the cand
le. She returned to the door and stuck her head and the candle out into the hallway.

  As William had promised, his door was open a crack. Surely enough time had passed that he must be asleep. She slid out from behind the door and stepped into the hallway, her trusty slippers quiet on the thick carpet.

  Mattie hesitated. If William were going to come dashing out of the bedroom to tackle her, he would do it now. She would be ready.

  Silence. Apparently, the handsome Mr. Sinclair was asleep. Mattie turned to the left toward the stairs and moved down the hallway, holding the candle high and wondering how she could avoid burning off her eyebrows with the silly thing.

  She reached the top of the staircase and paused. Still quiet. No servants arising before dawn to light fires and scrub stone floors. Or was that Cinderella?

  Mattie rested a hand on the smooth surface of the wooden railing and moved down the large staircase. The hall below seemed vast and dark, but little by little, the light from her candle broke through the shadows, revealing a large entryway with doors leading off in every direction. She reached the bottom step and contemplated her next move as her fingers absently roamed over the delicately carved wooden finial of the staircase in the shape of an acorn.

  The flickering light of her candle reflected off the highly polished wood floor. She looked up to see a large chandelier hung over the entryway. When fully lit, it promised to be stunning, as the crystal teardrops would cast a radiant glow around the room.

  “Miss Crockwell, do you require something? May I be of assistance?”

  Mattie jumped and whirled around, barely hanging onto her candleholder. Close behind her on the staircase stood William Sinclair, still dressed in shirt, waistcoat, trousers and shoes, but with loosened cravat. He had shed his coat. He rested a hand on the banister while he watched her carefully.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to see the house.” She wasn’t really sorry and didn’t really attempt to hide it.

  “Can you not sleep?” He stepped down onto the floor and took the candle from her, holding it aloft.

  Mattie shoved her hands in her pockets and kept a wary eye on him. He really looked exactly like the artist’s rendering of the hero on the cover of her book. The resemblance was uncanny. But she hadn’t anticipated the sparkle in his eyes from the flickering candle.

  “No, not really. I don’t know if I should,” she muttered.

  He gave a short laugh.

  “You do not know if you should? I am uncertain as to your meaning, Miss Crockwell.”

  He didn’t wait for a response.

  “Please allow me to escort you to the study. Since neither of us can sleep, we might have a small refreshment and discuss what is to be done with you.” He gave her a short bow and nodded in the direction of a door at the end of the entryway.

  Mattie shuffled toward it. William reached around her to open the door, and she stepped in. He followed her inside and shut the door quietly behind them. She moved to the middle of the room and turned around to watch him light the candles in several candelabras above the massive wooden mantle over the fireplace. The room sprang to life. Dark wood paneling gleamed with a high polish. Shelves filled with books covered three of the walls. Colorful landscape paintings adorned the open spaces between. Luxurious furniture dotted the room—a dark blue sofa and several gilt-edged chairs centered on the hearth flanked by gleaming wooden tables of mahogany. William led her toward the fireplace, settling her on the sofa before moving away to a sideboard.

  “May I pour something for you? Some Madeira, perhaps?”

  Mattie recognized the name of the drink from her books. She had no idea what it really was. Wine? Whiskey? She nodded, noting that he opened up another glass bottle and poured something different for himself.

  “What are you having?” She craned her neck to see what he was doing, surprising herself that she could talk to him in any rational fashion at all. He was the embodiment of the man of her fantasies, right down to the clothing. She swore the cover of the book showed William Ashton in the same yellow silk pantaloons.

  “I shall have port, but that would be too strong for you,” William said.

  He returned with two tulip-shaped glasses and handed her one with a generous portion of burgundy liquid before he settled himself in one of the chairs facing both her and the fireplace.

  “Forgive my appearance,” he said in a politely formal tone. “I heard your footsteps and thought it best to hurry after you before you found yourself in the cellar or some other such place.” He took a sip of his drink and gave her a small smile, albeit a wary one. “This is a large house. I was not certain you would find your way easily, nor was I certain of your destination.”

  Mattie sighed inwardly at the curve of his lips. A dimple in his chin fascinated her, its boyish vulnerability belying his conservative tone. Could the man be any more handsome? Thick, dark hair curled around the sides of his ears, an errant lock falling across his forehead. Mattie bit her lips together to suppress an idiotic grin. Had she just thought “an errant lock”? She forcibly prevented herself from rolling her eyes as she found herself slipping into the language of her historical romance novels.

  “I’m not sure where I was going. Just exploring.” She took a tentative sip of the Madeira. Never having been much of a drinker, she sputtered at the strong alcoholic taste of the drink. It seemed to burn its way down her esophagus to her stomach.

  William leaned forward, his brow knotted in concern.

  “Miss Crockwell, are you all right? May I offer you something else?” He reached for her glass, but she pulled away.

  “Oh, no. This is fine. I just don’t drink very much. It’s actually not too bad,” she murmured as she took another, still smaller sip of the potent fruity wine. “Oh, yes, that’s better,” she said with an appreciative nod.

  She looked up to see William staring at her with a bemused expression. The burning in her stomach had evolved into a warm sensation, and she pulled her legs up under her robe and relaxed against the back of the couch, suddenly feeling quite at one with the world. She swirled the rich liquid in her glass and sipped again. It was definitely getting better and better.

  “Was it something I said?” she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow as he continued to stare.

  He gave a start.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re staring at me, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Mattie thought his cheeks bronzed, but who could tell in a room lit only by the romantic flicker of candles?

  “Forgive me. I know it is rude, but I am not quite sure what to think about you, Miss Crockwell.” He relaxed into his chair, but Mattie noticed an unsteadiness to his hand as he raised his glass to his mouth.

  Her lips twitched. The poor man, she thought. He had no idea what to do with her, did he? She took pity on him.

  “How can I help, Mr. Sinclair?” she asked.

  “You could begin by telling me how you came to be here, Miss Crockwell,” he said.

  Mattie shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel.

  “I really don’t know. You’ll think I’m crazy—which I know you do already—but one minute, I was on my balcony chatting with the moon…and the next thing I know, I woke up in your kitchen.”

  “Is it a habit where you come from to…em…chat with the moon?” His lips twitched despite the fact that he continued to regard her as a scientist might observe a specimen in a laboratory.

  “Sometimes,” she said with a self-conscious smile.

  He dropped his eyes to his glass and studied it for a moment as he twirled the liquid.

  “I must confess to doing exactly that when I found you, Miss Crockwell.” His expression, when he looked at her, seemed uncertain.

  “What’s that?”

  “Em…engaging in a conversation with the moon. Wishing on the moon, one could say,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders and a faint smile.

  “Really!” Mattie took a rather large swallow of her wine, enjoying
the warmth in her throat. She felt quite cozy in the library at the moment, seated across from a gorgeous man who had the longest legs she’d ever seen, and who happened to also make wishes on the moon.

  “And what were you wishing for, Mr. Sinclair, may I ask?” Mattie asked, surprising herself again with her newfound boldness. Good gravy! Was she flirting? Shy, quiet Mattie? Who was lost in some sort of time warp?

  William rose abruptly.

  “May I refill your glass?”

  “Oh, yes, please. It’s lovely. Very fruity.” Mattie was faintly aware that her body had relaxed into a lounging position on the settee, one arm draped over the back, her legs extended down the length.

  William returned with her glass and resumed his seat. He tossed back another swallow, and Mattie followed suit.

  “And so, you were saying?” Mattie prompted, an imp egging her on.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “About wishing on the moon? What could a handsome man like you, with obvious wealth”—she waved an airy hand about the room—“and comfort possibly need to wish for?”

  A flicker of candlelight revealed a definite bronze tinge to his cheeks. He crossed and re-crossed his legs.

  “Many things, Miss Crockwell,” he prevaricated. “What was it that you wished for?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual things.” Mattie knew he’d given her the slip, but her brain wasn’t working well enough to seize the moment.

  “Yes? The usual things? Such as?”

  Mattie took another swallow of the pungent wine.

  “Life, love, a handsome man in a cravat and yellow silk trousers—that sort of thing.”

  He coughed, and Mattie thought he looked a bit startled. Had she said something she shouldn’t have, she wondered? What had she said?

  “I see,” he murmured with a slight smile.

  “Yes, I knew you would,” she mumbled as she took another gulp and slipped a little farther down on the settee. She wasn’t sure what he saw at the moment, but that was okay.

  Through hazy eyes, she watched as William jumped up to retrieve the glass that dangled precariously from her limp fingers. She wouldn’t have dropped it, she thought.