Moonlight Wishes In Time

by Bess McBride

“Do not be long, William.” She nodded in Mattie’s direction. “Miss Crockwell.”

  William moved forward to pull the door open for his mother. Sylvie reached up to give him a quick peck on his cheek before following her mother out.

  Mattie sank back onto the couch with weak knees, feeling as if she’d somehow survived an ordeal by fire. William returned to his seat to perch on the edge of it.

  “Quickly, Miss Crockwell, let us compare notes and fabricate a story such that will satisfy all concerned. You are Matilda Crockwell…of…”

  “Nebraska?” she offered.

  “I still do not know where this Nuhbrasska is. Could it be in New York? Virginia? The Carolinas?”

  Mattie shook her head, wishing she’d paid more attention in history classes. When did Nebraska become a state, a territory?

  “Forget Nebraska,” she said hastily. “I don’t live there anymore. You’ve heard of Seattle, right?”

  He shook his head. “No, I am afraid I have not.”

  Mattie felt another rise of panic. Who hadn’t heard of Seattle? Hadn’t it been there forever?

  “In the west?”

  “Do you mean in the new Columbia country? With Indians?” He straightened and eyed her with something akin to awe.

  “What? Indians! Well, sure, there are plenty of tribes, but…” Mattie thought fast. Did he think she was traipsing around in the forest picking roots and hiding from shooting arrows? Good gravy!

  “Okay, never mind. So, what cities have you heard of? I’m sure I can pretend to be from one of those.”

  “New York?” he offered.

  “Okay, the Big Apple…New York it is. I’ve never been there, but at the rate we’re going, no one else you know will have been there either.” She nodded with satisfaction.

  “I am afraid I do not understand your reference to an apple, but what you suppose is most likely true. I do not imagine that any of our acquaintance whom you might have occasion to meet during the next thirty days will have been to New York.”

  “Good.” Mattie breathed a sigh of relief. One shouldn’t travel through time if one didn’t know one’s history—that was for sure.

  “Miss Matilda Crockwell of the Crockwells of New York City. Very good. And you are related to us through my late father’s aunt’s brother through marriage. Does that sound a complicated enough relationship?” A rare smile lit his face.

  Mattie found herself chuckling. “That sounds just fine. I won’t worry about having to explain it.”

  William stood, impossibly tall.

  “Very well, then. I am sure Mother has sent for Mary, and Sylvie will be waiting anxiously to help you select a garment for today. I will see you again shortly at breakfast.”

  “More breakfast?” Mattie murmured.

  William bowed. “Certainly. What I brought you was simply a small refreshment.” He turned to move away, and Mattie watched his lean, fluid movements, so well emphasized by the snug fit of his trousers.

  William paused with his hand on the door.

  “There can be no further occasion for you and I to be alone as we are now, Miss Crockwell…in your bedchamber. As a result of the unusual circumstances of your… em…arrival, it has been necessary to make some allowances, but propriety dictates that as an unmarried woman, you must be chaperoned when in the company of an unmarried man.”

  Mattie swallowed hard.

  “But what if I need to talk to you…about…” She raised her hands as if to encompass the room, the situation, her “arrival” in his time.

  “I will watch you closely, Miss Crockwell. Should you have need of me, I will make myself available to you. You have only to signal me with your expressive hazel eyes, and I will be instantly at your side.”

  He pulled open the door and left the room, closing it silently behind him. Mattie stared at the closed door with a gaping jaw and a desire to run to the nearest mirror and study her “expressive hazel eyes.”

  Chapter Six

  Within moments, a light tap on the door heralded the return of Sylvie with Mary. Mary carried an armful of garments, which she laid out on the bed. She dipped a small curtsey in Mattie’s direction upon hearing that Mattie was a “distant cousin” from America.

  “I think this frock would do very nicely for today, don’t you, Mary?”

  Sylvie held up an eggshell-white dress of some sort of muslin. Bright red ribbons decorated the small puff sleeves and ran across an empire waist. Mattie stared at the lovely gown with a growing sense of unease. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Just her underwear, pajamas and her robe. Could she possibly get by for thirty days without a bra or a change of underwear? She thought not.

  “Um…Sylvie, I don’t have any…uh…fresh underwear.”

  Mary’s eyes widened, and she turned away hastily to sort through the garments on the bed.

  Sylvie took it in stride. “I suspected not. Certainly, I never sleep in my unmentionables, so I have brought some of my own for you to use.” She held up several odd-looking bits of cotton and lace, including something that looked suspiciously like bloomers. Mattie winced. Surely, the fabulously dressed cover model on her favorite paperback never sported bloomers under her silk gowns, did she?

  “Shall we help you dress?” Sylvie handed the underclothing to Mary and reached for the sash of the robe. Mattie forced herself to submit, wondering how long it would take before she ran screaming from the house. What was she going to do?

  “What a soft dressing gown,” Sylvie murmured as she pulled it from Mattie’s shoulders. “It is most luxurious. How lucky you are. I do not think we have a garment such as this.” She cast a quick glance toward Mary. “Here in England, that is.” Sylvie laid the robe down carefully on the chair beside the bed and turned to survey Mattie.

  Though her eyes flickered uncertainly toward Mattie’s pajamas for a moment, she only murmured.

  “May I call you Matilda? As we are cousins?”

  “Mattie. People usually call me Mattie.”

  Sylvie beamed, golden curls bobbing at the side of her face.

  “Mattie, then. Is this what women wear to bed in America? How utterly charming.”

  Mattie regarded her pink nylon pajamas, unable to imagine Sylvie in such casual clothes. The girl was born to wear dresses—in more ways than one.

  “They’re called pajamas. A lot of women wear them to bed. Others wear nightgowns. And others—” Mattie brought a halt to her chatter, aware that Mary, standing by with the undergarments, seemed to be listening intently though she kept her face averted. Sylvie was an unmarried young woman in 1825. It wasn’t likely she would ever sleep in the nude, so there was no point in bringing it up.

  “Puh-ja-muhs,” Sylvie repeated slowly. Mattie smiled in response. “I should like to have a pair. Perhaps we could have the dressmaker make a pattern from yours.”

  Sylvie reached for the top button, and Mattie decided she’d had enough.

  “Sylvie… Mary… I’m not used to…that is…I’m awfully shy. Do you mind if I try to dress myself?”

  “But Mattie, it is not possible to dress oneself without assistance. There are ribbons to tie and laces to tighten. It always requires two people.”

  Mattie eyed the various dangling bits of material hanging from the clothing in Mary’s arms.

  “Well, let me try at least. I could call you if I get into a bind.”

  Sylvie’s sparkling laugh caught Mattie by surprise.

  “You will no doubt get yourself into a bind, but I will honor your wishes. Mary and I will await you in my room, which is the next door to the right.”

  Mattie nodded gratefully and took the undergarments from Mary, who eyed her curiously before she followed Sylvie from the room.

  With a sigh of relief, Mattie dropped the garments on the bed and slid out of her pajamas, folding them neatly and hiding them under one of the pillows— just on the off chance someone might decide to take them. If nothing else, she was determined to keep one thing from her “real” life t
o help keep her grounded through the coming days or weeks.

  She picked up the top garment and held what appeared to be some sort of linen shift with short sleeves up to the light from the window. A slip? Not a nightgown?

  Mattie slid the shift over her head and allowed it to settle on her shoulders. The material felt unexpectedly soft against her skin. She found a drawstring at the front just above her breasts and pulled it tight. The shift fell to just above her ankles.

  The next item in the pile was another white garment with straps at the shoulders, laces at the back and an inflexible front. It appeared to be some sort of corset, and Mattie’s eyes widened. Surely, she didn’t have to wear a corset, did she? And if she did, should she have put it on first?

  With a sigh, she undid the lacing at her neck and pulled the shift back over her head. She grabbed up the corset-like garment and slipped it over her shoulders with the lacing in the front. Something seemed wrong. Mattie closed her eyes and thought back for a moment to the books she’d read. Images of some hapless maid pulling the strings of a corset at the back of some long-suffering gentlewoman came to mind. It must have been a movie she once saw. She pulled it off and put it back on, laces to the back. Some sort of long, restrictive, unbendable ruler-like affair ran down the middle of the front of the corset, and the silly thing only came to just below her breasts, pushing them up in an unnaturally perky position.

  Mattie grimaced, fairly sure she wasn’t going to be wearing the bizarre contraption. She didn’t really have to, did she? Would anyone even know? She gave the garment one last valiant try as she reached awkwardly for the laces at the back and pulled. As if taking on a life of its own, the corset stiffened and forced her body upright into a ramrod-straight position from which she was unable to bend forward, a necessary task if she were going to tie the darn thing.

  At a complete loss, Mattie sidled over to the full-length mirror near the dressing table and gazed at her reflection. Her body seemed taller, her posture considerably improved, but her breasts appeared particularly prominent—pushed up as they were by the rim of the corset and separated by the long, rigid piece of wood which ran down the middle of the garment. She knew without a doubt she wasn’t going to be able to wear the contraption.

  She loosened the ties in the back and wriggled back out of the thing. She slid the shift back over her head and tried to remember the names of the garments. Shem… Shemmy… Chemise! That was it! A chemise. And the corset was called a stay. She remembered a line from her book. She loosened her stays. Hah! Well, stays or not, she wasn’t wearing the darn thing.

  She picked up what she’d thought of as pantaloons and held them aloft, noting with narrowed eyes that the middle seam was missing. It seemed as if the two legs of the garment were separate objects, to be tied around the waist and leave one’s personal areas open to the breeze.

  Not going to work! Mattie tossed them down and thanked her lucky stars for her cotton panties. She would just have to wash them out every night.

  A tap at the door caught her attention.

  “Mattie! Are you in a bind yet?” A gurgle of laughter came from the other side of the door. “I did not like to leave you so long, fearing you would be quite unable to cope with your stays without assistance. May Mary and I enter?”

  “Come in,” Mattie murmured. She watched as Sylvie sailed in, her hair now neatly groomed—no doubt by Mary. Sylvie stopped abruptly, her blue eyes wide.

  “But Mattie! You have only just donned your chemise! What have you been doing since we left?”

  With a quick look in Mary’s direction, Mattie shrugged and waved a helpless hand toward the clothing on the bed.

  “Trying to figure out which garment goes where. I thought I could figure it out, but I can’t. And there are just some things I can’t wear.”

  At this, Sylvie turned to Mary.

  “Mary, thank you. I will help Miss Crockwell dress this morning.”

  Mary bobbed a quick curtsey and left the room while Sylvie bustled forward.

  “Which of the garments are troubling you, Mattie? Is it the stays? I cannot imagine trying to lace them without Mary’s help.” She picked up the delicate-looking, though surprisingly unyielding corset.

  “I can’t wear that thing, Sylvie. Please say I don’t have to wear it.”

  Sylvie turned surprised eyes on Mattie and then slid a thoughtful gaze to the stays. “Our mothers used to wear true corsets—with stiff, brutal whalebones throughout designed to enhance tiny waists. We are so fortunate not to have to wear such old-fashioned clothing.” She eyed Mattie curiously. “Do you not wear stays at all in your time? No undergarment to mold the feminine figure to advantage?”

  Mattie shook her head, then paused. “Well, there are girdles and body shapers. I think my mother used to wear a girdle every day.” She shivered. “I can’t imagine wearing anything that confining.”

  Sylvie dropped the stays onto the bed.

  “Then you shall not wear them during your visit with us. I do not want you to be unhappy.”

  Mattie nodded gratefully and gazed down at the assortment of clothing on the bed.

  “So, what do I put on next?”

  “Have you put on your stockings yet?” Sylvie grabbed up two long, white, opaque stockings that appeared to be made of silk. Mattie grimaced. They were exquisite, but she was reluctant to wear them, too. Still, she had to make some concessions to the era. Who knew during the long nights of dreaming about meeting a man from the Georgian period that she’d be so resistant to wearing the clothing?

  As if on cue, a tap sounded on the door, followed by William’s voice.

  “Sylvie? Miss Crockwell? Breakfast is waiting.”

  “We will be down presently, William. Beauty cannot be rushed,” Sylvie murmured with a broad smile that Mattie suspected would not translate through the door. She sat down and pulled the stockings up, attaching them to a garter belt that Sylvie found among the pile on the bed.

  Another petticoat on top of her chemise, and at last, the gown. Sylvie turned her around to tie the red ribbons in back while Mattie lowered her head and stared in dismay at her chest. Way too much of her cleavage showed, and she really couldn’t leave the room looking like a…well, with her breasts exposed.

  “Sylvie! I can’t… Do you have…? Isn’t there something to cover…?”

  Sylvie turned Mattie around to face her once again and dropped her eyes to Mattie’s hands, which covered her extensive cleavage. She smiled sympathetically.

  “I understand your reservations, Mattie. I will admit to some anxious moments when fashion decreed we must lower our necklines. Here is a fichu you may wish to wear during the day.” She draped a length of white gauze around Mattie’s shoulders and tucked the ends inside the neckline of the dress. “But you will have to learn to tolerate baring your…shoulders when we have a dinner party or a dance. You would seem such a fuddy-duddy if you were to wear a fichu for evening.”

  Sylvie laughed and pulled Mattie toward the mirror.

  “Now, your hair. I do not possess Mary’s gift with hair, but I think I can fashion it well enough to make you presentable for breakfast. No adult lady wears her hair down outside of the bedroom.”

  Mattie admired the opaque nature of the fichu covering her cleavage while Sylvie attempted to dress her hair. She hoped claw clips would come soon to this era, rendering hairdressing a feat any child could perform. Mattie kept her eyes innocently wide and fought back a grin as Sylvie struggled with a mass of curly hair in one hand and a red ribbon in the other. But Sylvie prevailed at last and pronounced herself satisfied with her performance as a lady’s maid.

  “Thank you so much for all your help, Sylvie. I can see I couldn’t have done this without you,” Mattie murmured, thankful she didn’t at least have to wear a feather headdress or some other such foolishness.

  “I am delighted to know that if ever my brother should banish me from the house and my mother turn her back on me, I can make a suitable living as a
lady’s maid,” Sylvie said with a laugh as she headed for the door. “Come. I am famished for my breakfast. Remember now, the servants will be curious about your…late-night arrival, and will listen to every word you utter, so it would be in all of our best interests if you were to…em…speak as little as possible for the moment.”

  “Mum’s the word.” Mattie smiled. Sylvie, her hand on the door, turned with a curious expression, but a renewed knocking on the door startled her. She swung the door open.

  “William. Patience, please. We are ready.” She pulled the door wide and signaled for Mattie to precede her. Mattie felt the carpet under her feet, and realized she had no shoes. Sylvie tsked.

  “Why do we wear so many clothes?” Sylvie fussed. “I am certain I brought a pair of slippers for you. Where have they got to?” She turned to search through the pile of clothing.

  Mattie, standing at the door, turned to look at William with an uncertain smile. William stared at her, his eyes widened, a disconcerting light in them. Frantically, she dropped her eyes to her chest to reassure herself nothing showed. The fichu did its job.

  “Miss Crockwell. I hardly recognized you,” William murmured with a faint smile.

  Mattie’s cheeks flamed, and she averted her face to see Sylvie rush toward her with a pair of white slippers, which resembled those of a ballerina. Mattie slipped them on awkwardly, fully aware William continued to watch her. Fortunately, she and Sylvie appeared to have the same shoe size.

  “At last,” Sylvie sighed as she moved through the doorway and into the hall. “Lend us your arm, William.”

  William extended his arm, and Sylvie slipped her hand beneath it.

  “Mattie? Will you take William’s arm?” she urged. Mattie stepped forward and reluctantly slipped her hand beneath William’s left arm. They moved down the hall toward the stairs, Mattie feeling like a complete bumbling fool lost in a Jane Austen movie. Her dreams had not addressed Mattie’s innate feelings of inadequacy but had apparently glossed over her character flaws in favor of some image of a competent, beautiful woman—the “voluptuous redhead with masses of flowing curls, impossibly long dark eyelashes, and a graceful swan neck,” who had “luxuriated in the capable embrace of Lord Ashton” from her book.