Moonlight Wishes In Time

by Bess McBride

  “Miss Crockwell, are you unwell?” He set her glass aside and bent to examine her with concern.

  Mattie, feeling a complete lack of inhibition at the moment, reached for the ends of his cravat and pulled him towards her.

  “I think I’m drunk, Mr. Sinclair. Kiss me now before I pass out.”

  Mattie felt him attempt to pull away, but she didn’t seem to care at the moment.

  “Madam! Miss Crockwell, please. This is most unseemly. I cannot take advantage.”

  “Resistance is futile, Mr. Sinclair.” She grinned at the hackneyed line, but it seemed so appropriate for the moment.

  Mattie wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her. To keep his balance, he went down on one knee at the edge of the settee. As his warm lips touched hers, Mattie sighed with the gloriousness of the kiss. Stars exploded, and she knew no more.

  ****

  Mattie opened her eyes to a faint gray light peeping into the room from around the edges of the heavy velvet drapes. She gasped and bolted upright, pushing aside the heavy coverlet. She looked down at her pajamas—a white cotton camisole and her favorite pink baggy flannel bottoms with a pattern of red and purple hearts. Where was her robe? A glance down the length of the bed showed it was draped across the foot. She turned to look at the pillow next to hers. Her last memory had been of kissing William. Well, mauling him, really. The pillow next to hers was plump. There was no sign anyone had slept on it the night before…or so she dearly hoped.

  A stab of pain assaulted her head, and she pressed her palms to the sides of her skull. She hadn’t had a hangover since her college days, more than five years ago. What had possessed her to drink so much? On an empty stomach? She certainly didn’t remember much after grabbing William’s cravat and kissing him.

  At the memory, Mattie slid back down onto the pillow, wishing she could ease the ache in her head, and even more desperate to erase the memory of forcing William to kiss her.

  There seemed to be little doubt. She was not in a dream. The sun had every intention of rising, the night had passed, and with it every idea that she might still be asleep. She was still in the nineteenth century. Somehow, someway, she had wished herself into her romance novel, and she had no idea how to get back.

  A nearby movement startled her, and she froze for a moment. Oh, please, not rats, she begged. Was something scurrying across the floor of the bedroom?

  She turned slowly toward the source of the brief noise. One long, masculine leg draped over the arm of a gilt-edged chair near the bed, while the other stretched out along the floor in front of its owner.

  William! He slept in a chair near the door, and very uncomfortably from the looks of it.

  Mattie rose up on one elbow and tried to make out his face in the dim light. A shadow covered the lower half of his face, extending from the fascinating, thick sideburns that grew down below his ear lobe. The dark waves of his hair lay in casual disarray, completely different from the carefully coiffed curls of the night before. One arm stretched above his head, ruffles at the end of his sleeve, the other hand dangled over the arm of the chair.

  He moved to adjust himself in the chair, once again making the slight noise Mattie had heard, and then he opened his eyes. His gaze seemed unfocused for a moment as he looked at her. He blinked several times, ran a hand across his eyes, and peered at her again.

  Mattie offered him a tentative smile.

  William’s eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet.

  “Madam…Miss Crockwell. Forgive me! I did not plan to fall asleep. I thought merely to rest here for a moment to see that all was well with you.”

  Mattie sat up in bed and watched with fascination as he ran a hand through his wavy hair and scanned the room with something like horror on his face.

  “I sincerely beg your pardon. I shall leave at once, and no one the wiser. Forgive me for placing you in this untenable position.”

  Mattie opened her mouth to speak, but William swung around and strode to the door. Before he left, he turned around.

  “Rest assured, Miss Crockwell, that nothing untoward occurred in this chamber last night. You have my word. I shall return shortly with a cup of tea for you, and then we must discuss what is to be done.”

  He slipped out the door quietly, leaving Mattie with her mouth hanging open, empty words of reassurance on her lips.

  With a sigh, she slipped out of bed. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she grabbed the nearest bedpost to steady herself.

  Hangover! How could she possibly have a hangover in her first few hours in the nineteenth century?

  Mattie staggered over to the curtains to pull them wide. An early-morning mist covered the lawn in front of the house, and she could see little except that she appeared to be on the second floor of a rather massive house, judging from the leaded pane windows that began at her waist and ran up to the high ceilings. She turned away to study the room once again, aware of a nagging urge. Which way to the bathroom? Would it be down the hall? She fervently hoped not. William would not be happy if she were discovered by family and servants wandering around in her pajamas.

  A door on the opposite side of the room caught her eye and she made her way around the bed, enjoying the luxurious, silky feel of the Oriental carpet beneath her toes. She eased the door open and peeked inside. Though the small room was dark, she could make out a metal tub of some sort, a dresser with a large basin and bowl, and another container on the floor. A chamber pot!

  She slammed the door shut and gritted her teeth. No! She had absolutely no intention of going in a chamber pot. None! She swung away and tossed herself into the chair where William had slept, hoping her needs would simply pass.

  Mattie crossed her legs and studied the room once again, keeping an alert ear out for William’s return. Now that the curtains were open and gray light filled the room, she could see that the impression of green she’d received the night before was accurate. Everything in the room seemed to be green, from the patterned wallpaper of pale moss green down to the silk cushion of the chair on which she sat. Only the large white-painted mantle and the gleaming surfaces of various pieces of antique wooden and marble-topped furniture broke the atmosphere of green. Well, she thought with a shake of her head, antique only to her. The pieces were probably new to the owners.

  Mattie noted an exquisite dressing table nestled against the wall near the fireplace, and was in the process of getting up to investigate it when a light tap sounded on her door, followed by the entrance of William, balancing a silver tea service.

  Mattie jumped up to take the tray from him while he turned to close the door. She staggered under its weight and tottered over to the table beside the sofa. Setting it down with a clank, she turned to look at William, neatly dressed in boots, form-fitting beige slacks, a fresh neck cloth, a burgundy vest and another one of those wonderful coats with long, flowing tails, this one a dark blue that accented his broad shoulders and narrowed to his waist.

  William paused for a moment with his head turned toward the door, as if listening intently for any sounds from the hallway. Apparently reassured, he turned and looked at her. His eyes widened, and he dropped his gaze to the floor as he made his way to the bed to grab her robe. He handed it to her and turned around.

  “If you please, Miss Crockwell.”

  With a grin, Mattie slipped the robe over her arms and tied the sash in the front.

  “Better, Mr. Sinclair?”

  He turned and kept his eyes on her face.

  “Yes, much better, Miss Crockwell.” He inclined his head and indicated she should sit on the settee. “Will you take some tea? Mrs. White laid out some food.”

  “I’d love some tea. My head is killing me!” Mattie sank down onto the sofa and poured two cups from a lovely porcelain rose-patterned set, noting with pleasure several pieces of toasted bread and a small saucer of butter.

  “Killing you?” William murmured. “So severe as that?” He took a seat on a nearby chair and regarded
her gravely.

  “No, that’s just an expression,” she sighed as she handed him a cup of tea. “It feels that bad. I’ll never drink again, I swear.”

  “The fault is mine, Miss Crockwell. I apologize for offering you such a strong beverage last night. I should have seen you are not accustomed to drink.” He drank some tea and studied her over the cup.

  “Not really,” she murmured with a smile. She picked up her own saucer of tea and took a sip from the delicate cup. The comforting, hot liquid slid down her throat with ease, and she relaxed. William sent several glances her way, and she thought she ought to say something…anything.

  Mattie dropped her eyes and took a breath.

  “Mr. Sinclair. I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I really can’t believe that I…um…” She really didn’t want to finish the sentence.

  William held up a hand and shook his head quickly. He looked away toward the empty fireplace.

  “Think no more about it. You were not yourself.”

  “Well, I would never have…uh…grabbed you when I was sober, but after a drink or two, there’s no telling what I’m capable of.” She played it off with a grin, but a quirk of one of William’s dark eyebrows startled her.

  “I’m kidding,” she said hastily.

  “Kidding? Do you mean to say you jest, Miss Crockwell?”

  She nodded and hoped he didn’t see her lips twitching. The man hardly seemed to have a funny bone in his body. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember the hero in her book having a sense of humor either. It just never came up.

  “Yes, Mr. Sinclair. Jest, joke.”

  “I see.” He took another sip of tea.

  Mattie, giving in to the rumblings in her stomach, set her cup down, snagged a piece of toast and bit into it. Still warm from the oven, the bread seemed to melt in her mouth, even without butter.

  “This is delicious,” she breathed.

  “Mrs. White will be pleased to hear it,” William murmured.

  She munched on the toast and wondered if there was something else she should say. She knew he must want answers…explanations.

  William set his cup down on the table and leaned back. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers as he studied her with a frown between his eyes.

  Uh oh, Mattie thought. Time for the talk. She swallowed the last piece of toast and waited.

  “Miss Crockwell.” He paused, as if unsure what to say.

  “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Can you… Can you tell me now how you came to be here?” He nodded toward the window. “On the lawn…in the middle of the night? Have you recollected anything more specific of the events which brought you here?”

  Mattie clasped her hands in her lap and squeezed. What if he decided she was crazy? What would he do? Send for the authorities to take her away? Commit her to an institution? She was fairly certain people had few rights in the nineteenth century, and she doubted they would tolerate any notions of traveling through time—however much she doubted the event herself.

  “Well, the thing is…” She hesitated and looked up to meet his eyes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  He shook his head as if to dispute her, but she nodded firmly.

  “No, Mr. Sinclair. You will. Just like I would think you were insane if this happened to you and you showed up at my door.” Mattie jumped up restlessly, desperate to come up with something more plausible than the truth, but nothing came to mind.

  William stood when she did and clasped his hands behind his back. She dropped back down on the settee, unsure her shaking legs would hold her while she talked, and William retook his seat.

  “How may I make this easier for you, Miss Crockwell? You seem to be in a great deal of distress. I give you my promise I will not think you insane. Will that suffice?” A lift at the corner of his lips caught her eye. An almost imperceptible half-smile. Could she trust him?

  “I’d rather you promise that you won’t have someone take me away to an asylum. I would find it more reassuring if you promise to let me go, even if you think I’m insane.”

  William stared hard at her, and she pressed her lips together to signify she wouldn’t talk without his assurances.

  A slight shake of his head set her heart hammering.

  “I do not think I can blindly assure you of the latter, Miss Crockwell, until we have discussed the matter. If you had a safe place to be, I believe you would already be there. If I let you go”—he frowned—“a ridiculous notion indeed, as I do not detain you in any way, where would you go?”

  “So, you are saying I am free to go…if I need to.”

  “Come now, Miss Crockwell.” He leaned forward, one elbow on his knee. “You are speaking in circles, and I am thoroughly confused. If there is some safe place to which I can convey you, let me know at once, and we can depart for it before the rest of the house awakens.”

  Mattie didn’t feel in the least reassured.

  “Did you ever have a favorite book? One you read over and over because you couldn’t get enough of it?”

  William’s expression suggested he already thought she was insane.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, never mind. That wasn’t a good way to start. Let’s see…”

  “Miss Crockwell.” William pulled his watch from his vest pocket and consulted it. “We do not have much time to sort this matter out. My mother and sister will soon rise, and there is nothing which occurs in this house that they do not soon ferret out. I wish to…ah…return you to your lodgings if you would but be so kind as to direct me.”

  Mattie threw a harried look toward the door, somehow expecting the Georgian ladies to pop in at any moment.

  “Okay, okay, I’m trying. No, I don’t have any lodgings nearby. I’m not from England. I’m from the United States. I don’t exactly know how I got here. As I told you last night, the last thing I remember is stepping out on my balcony at home in Seattle and wishing on the moon. I wished for…” Mattie bit her lip and shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. But what I wished for seems to sort of have come true. That is, not quite, but a little bit. Though not quite what I thought.”

  She raised her eyes from her clenched white knuckles to steal a glance at his face.

  William sat back in his chair and clenched his own hands together, staring at her with an expression of unease. The situation looked grim for her.

  “I’m not crazy, Mr. Sinclair. I’m not. I don’t know what happened. When I get up in the morning—if I’m not already awake—I’m supposed to go to work at the bank. It’s Thursday morning, September 17th.” When she told him the current year, she winced as his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.

  He stared down at her for a moment, and she tried to meet his eyes steadily.

  “Surely, you jest once again, Miss Crockwell.”

  She shook her head.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and swung away, to begin pacing in front of the hearth.

  “So, you would have me believe that you have”—he paused and faced her for a moment with an incredulous look on his face—“come from the future?”

  Chapter Four

  Mattie winced. Did he have to make it sound so much like science fiction?

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  William stared at her again for a long moment before he resumed his pacing once again.

  “And how do you believe you came to be in this time?” he asked in a carefully measured voice.

  Mattie shrugged. “I don’t know. I have this favorite book, and I was reading it, and then I couldn’t sleep, and so I went outside. The moon…” She gestured skyward.

  He stilled and turned to look at her once again, a crease between his brows.

  “Yes, the moon. You mentioned that before. And what time was that exactly?”

  “Around ten thirty at night my time. I don’t know what time that would be here.” She shook her head with the ghost of a smile on her
face. “Or even what year this is, frankly.”

  A corner of William’s lips tilted.

  “The year is 1825, Miss Crockwell.”

  Mattie nodded, unsurprised. She had suspected from the cut of his clothing that she’d landed somewhere in the Georgian or the Regency era. In fact, she was in the exact year in which her book was set.

  “I imagined as much, Mr. Sinclair.”

  William turned toward the fireplace, bracing one arm against the mantle and the other behind his back as he stared down into the hearth. Mattie watched his stiff back as if she could divine his thoughts from the rigidity of his spine. He certainly didn’t appear relaxed in any way.

  She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, beginning a gentle rocking of which she was barely aware. The heretofore romantic idea of traveling through time to meet the man of her dreams seemed suddenly a very foolish idea—one fraught with dire implications. Visions of ending her days in a cold stone building chained to the wall while she ranted that she worked in a bank and really didn’t belong there after all presented themselves as frightening possibilities.

  She watched William’s shoulders rise as if he took a deep breath. His back seemed to visibly relax, and he dropped his head. He turned to face her, keeping both hands behind him. While his eyes traveled over her childish posture, he made no mention of it.

  “I believe something untoward has occurred here, Miss Crockwell, though I do not know what. I must allow that I too wished on the moon, at exactly the same time as you—though, as with you, my desires were not met in quite the way that I had envisioned. But it is this fact that leads me to believe that between us, you and I have brought about some strange phenomenon which I cannot begin to comprehend.” He regarded her gravely. “The question is…what is to be done now, and how can we return you to your time?”

  Mattie breathed a sigh of relief, images of a dark, foreboding insane asylum drifting away.

  “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  William echoed her sigh as he took his seat once again, gazing at the hearth in an unfocused fashion.