Moonlight Wishes In Time

by Bess McBride

  As a matter of necessity, and much to Mattie’s relief, they dropped William’s arms when they reached the dining room, since all three would not fit through the doorway at the same time. Sylvie stepped in first, and when Mattie would have hung back, William bowed and extended a graceful hand to indicate that Mattie should follow.

  “Mother,” Sylvie said. “I am sorry we are late to breakfast. I am afraid Miss Crockwell was hesitant to use Mary’s services, and I was a poor substitute.”

  “Why ever not, Miss Crockwell?” Mrs. Sinclair presided at the far end of a long, well-polished mahogany table topped with a large vase of colorful, fresh-cut flowers and several candelabras. Several place settings flanked her. William pulled out a chair to his mother’s left and indicated Mattie should sit.

  Mattie slid into the golden velvet chair, but found the fine sprig muslin of her dress hung up on the material of the seat and bunched to the left side. As William moved to push her chair in, she popped to her feet again and grabbed her skirts to adjust them. The chair struck the back of her knees, and she plopped back down onto the seat ungracefully as William apologized.

  “Forgive me, Miss Crockwell! How clumsy of me.” His cheeks bronzed, and he looked taken aback.

  “Oh, no, sorry, my fault. My dress…” She let her voice trail off as she saw a serving maid holding a platter stop to watch her with curiosity.

  Mrs. Sinclair threw a quick look toward the scullery maid. “Susie, please be so good as to serve now. Thank you.”

  Susie, a small, thin, youngish woman of indeterminate age, blinked and moved forward rapidly to set a tray of hot rolls on the table in front of Mrs. Sinclair.

  “Sorry, mum,” Susie murmured.

  William took a seat next to Mattie, and Sylvie slid effortlessly into the chair on her mother’s right. She threw Mattie a bright smile, and Mattie responded thankfully to the twinkle in Sylvie’s eyes. Surely, someone at some point in the history of time had found their long dress uncomfortably bunched up under their rear ends, hadn’t they? She glanced at Mrs. Sinclair from under her lashes. No, perhaps not. Mrs. Sinclair’s skirts had never bunched up. It wasn’t possible.

  Another serving girl, who appeared to be about eighteen, as plump as Susie was thin, poured tea for the newcomers. Mattie scanned the room, noting a high ceiling with massive olive-green silk drapes framing a set of large windows. The walls were papered in a minute yellow indistinguishable print. A white-mantled fireplace presided at the opposite end of the room from Mrs. Sinclair’s position, and a lovely painting depicting a restful country scene, complete with stream and fields, hung above the mantle. Several gleaming mahogany sideboards flanked the walls on either side of the dining table.

  “Thank you, Emma. Please leave the pot on the table. We will refresh ourselves. You and Susie may leave.”

  Emma bobbed her blonde curls, dipped a curtsy and left the room with Susie in tow.

  “I thought it best the servants leave the room for the present,” Mrs. Sinclair offered.

  Mattie stared at the meager food on the table, consisting of dry toast and hot rolls. Since Mrs. Sinclair sent the girls away, she assumed the food on the table comprised the entirety of breakfast…what one might call a “continental breakfast.” Was this really all folks in the Georgian era ate for breakfast? No wonder everyone was so slim! Mattie, a fan of hot breakfasts with loads of potatoes and pancakes, wondered if she were going to lose weight during her stay in the past.

  Mrs. Sinclair startled her by holding out her hand for Mattie’s plate. Mattie handed it over, and Mrs. Sinclair placed one of every item on the plate.

  “Will you take some orange marmalade, Miss Crockwell?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Mattie took the plate Mrs. Sinclair proffered and waited until William and Sylvie served themselves. She kept an eye on William and followed his lead as he spread marmalade on his roll and bit into it.

  “At the risk of discussing matters best left to the dressing room, please tell me, Miss Crockwell, why you refused Mary’s services. Our gowns are sewn such that the owner is not able to fend for herself. Hence, the need for a lady’s maid.” Mrs. Sinclair quirked an eyebrow in Mattie’s direction.

  “Well, I’ve never…that is…I’m not used to…” Her cup rattled as she set it down. “I hated gym in high school,” Mattie murmured with an apologetic shrug. She reached for a piece of toast and bit into it, hoping Mrs. Sinclair wouldn’t pursue the matter, hoping William had ignored the entire conversation. But neither of those wishes was realized.

  “Jim? High school?” Mrs. Sinclair repeated. “I am afraid I do not understand your meaning.”

  “Mother, I think these are references to things in her present life. I do not think Jim is a man’s name, is that correct, Miss Crockwell?”

  With a look of gratitude toward William, Mattie shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. A gym is a…an athletic facility where one exercises or performs sports? One often bathes there after exercising?” She raised hopeful eyebrows in William’s direction. Could he interpret for her? Surely, they could find some common language in a span of less than two hundred years, couldn’t they?

  “Ah, sports! Yes, of course…” William coughed behind his ruffled sleeve. “Though I was not aware women…em…participated in such activities.”

  Mattie grimaced. Her excuses seemed feeble and best left to the conflicted memories of high school. Besides, no one understood her anyway, and the conversation had the potential of evolving into discussions of football, soccer, NASCAR racing and the Olympics.

  “It’s not important,” Mattie said. She turned to Mrs. Sinclair. “I apologize for refusing Mary’s help, and I’m more than happy to ask for her assistance in dressing in the future.”

  “Very sensible,” Mrs. Sinclair murmured.

  “Mattie,” Sylvie interjected. “Can you tell us about your time? Already you have used words we have never heard of…this Jim and athletic facility. It must be so fascinating!”

  “I don’t know how to explain it all, Sylvie,” Mattie said. “I’m afraid much of it would seem shocking to you in your time, much as some of your customs might seem shocking to people during the seventeenth century. These necklines, for instance.” She studiously avoided looking at William.

  “You are correct, Miss Crockwell. Some of your customs will seem shocking to us, including discussion of…necklines…in mixed company.” Mrs. Sinclair directed a look in William’s direction.

  “Nonsense, Mother,” William said with a broad smile. “I have not lived with two women most of my life to suddenly become affronted or offended by discussions of women’s clothing.” He turned to Mattie, whose cheeks continued to burn.

  “Miss Crockwell, please do not hesitate to speak your mind when we are in private as you would in your own time. It is refreshing.” He smiled ruefully. “In public, however, Sylvie and my mother must be your best guides. There are many, many social niceties which must be observed in this day and age, all of which I consider particularly oppressive. Would that I could visit your age to experience some enlightenment.” He sighed and sipped his tea.

  “William!” Mrs. Sinclair protested. “You present a grim picture for Miss Crockwell indeed. Our customs, which you disparage, serve a valuable purpose and provide a guide for proper living. Without them, we would simply live as barbarians.”

  “I fear I must agree with William, Mother. I am certain every society boasts strictures they must obey, but I find ours rather onerous as well.” Sylvie chimed in with a decided opinion.

  “Goodness gracious, my children! Will you both abandon me now in favor of another world in which you cannot live?” Mrs. Sinclair directed a disapproving look toward Mattie, who would have crawled under the table if she could.

  “Tell us then, Miss Crockwell. How does your society compare to ours? Mind you, I am not fully convinced of this theory of time travel,” Mrs. Sinclair asked.

  Responding to the challenge in the older woman’s eyes, Mattie stiffened her
spine.

  “I might have an advantage in that I’ve read many books written during this time period, and have some knowledge of the restrictions of the upper class.” Mattie furrowed her brow, wishing she could say something truly profound, but nothing came. She forged ahead. “Our customs are different—especially concerning women. In my time, women have equal rights to men—the right to vote, to own property, to marry and divorce whom they will, to choose to have children or not, to seek gainful employment no matter what their social class.” She wavered at the shock in Mrs. Sinclair’s widened eyes but pressed on. “Children have rights and are protected under the law—from abuse, from their parents if need be, from performing labor. All children must attend school no matter what their income level—at least in the United States…and in England.”

  A little handclap from across the table caught her attention. Sylvie fairly jumped up and down in her seat.

  “Mattie! How delightful! I join you, William, in wishing that I too could visit Mattie’s time. Would it not be fabulous to live such a life of freedom?” Sylvie’s eyes sparkled.

  Mrs. Sinclair directed a narrow-eyed stare at her daughter. “I am afraid that is not possible, Sylvie. Not only do I struggle to accept Miss Crockwell’s concept of traveling through time, I too can hardly believe such a utopia exists. School for all children? As wonderful as that sounds, it hardly seems possible.” She turned back to Mattie. “You say these things will come to England, Miss Crockwell? When?”

  “In about eighty years here in England, I think. It took the United States much longer to insist on mandatory education for all children.” Mattie awed herself, marveling that she was able to come up with this information. Who knew the research for a term paper in an obscure college history class would have lingered in the recesses of her memory?

  “Truly?” Mrs. Sinclair stared at Mattie, her face lightening inexplicably. Mattie nodded.

  “Ah, Miss Crockwell, you may have endeared yourself to my mother,” William said with a grin. “Education of children is one of her pet projects. All the children on the estate attend classes with our former governess, Miss Whipple.”

  “That’s very forward thinking of you, Mrs. Sinclair,” Mattie said.

  “Nonsense, William. Pet project indeed! It is the only sensible thing to do. One cannot have children running about the estate all the day with no direction and no function. The classroom is a pleasant place to while away one’s time while one matures to become a productive adult.” Mrs. Sinclair’s cheeks glowed as she dropped her eyes and picked up her cup of tea.

  A chuckle from William made his mother sniff, and Mattie met Sylvie’s twinkling eyes across the table.

  Mrs. Sinclair set her cup down sharply. “Enough of this chatter. We need to plan. As you know, I have planned a rout tonight. I leave it to you, Sylvie, to ensure that Miss Crockwell has something suitable to wear this evening, and to you, William, to ensure that she is acquainted with our guests and customs.”

  Mattie’s heart raced. A social function? She thought not.

  “I can just stay upstairs, Mrs. Sinclair,” Mattie said. “Please don’t go to any trouble.”

  “You will do no such thing, Miss Crockwell. We cannot have you skulking about above stairs like a wraith in some Gothic novel.” She caught Mattie’s surprised eye. “Yes, I read novels as well.” A slight lift of Mrs. Sinclair’s lips lightened her face, and Mattie thought she could see shades of lighthearted Sylvie in her mother’s expression.

  Mattie took a deep breath. “Thank you. I would be happy to come to the rout tonight,” she acquiesced, unwilling to remove the smile from Mrs. Sinclair’s face.

  Mrs. Sinclair called for the maids, and the Sinclairs and Mattie rose from the table in unison. Mattie, unsure where to go or what to do with herself, opted to return to her room, but Sylvie grabbed her arm.

  “Come, Mattie. Let us take a turn in the garden together. The air is fine, and I long to be out of doors.”

  “Do not tire yourself, girls. I must consult with Mrs. White on the menu for this evening,” Mrs. Sinclair threw over her shoulder as she followed the maids through a door.

  William lingered. “Do you ride, Miss Crockwell?”

  “Ride? Horses?” Mattie asked. “Um…no, I don’t. Well, not since I was a little girl. And only stable horses. I’m sure I wouldn’t remember how.”

  He cocked his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can remedy that during your stay here. This afternoon, we shall endeavor to refresh your memory if that is agreeable with you.”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know.” Mattie looked down at the fine muslin of her gown. “In these dresses? How does one…?”

  “Do not worry, Mattie,” Sylvie intervened. “I will lend you my riding habit. It is in excellent condition since I do not like to ride.” She made a face at her brother. “William will select a gentle mount for you. You will be quite safe. A groom shall escort you to act as chaperone.”

  “It is settled, then. Two o’clock at the stables.” He executed a small bow, turned on his heel and left the room.

  Mattie watched him walk away, wondering how she’d managed to get herself invited on a horseback ride. She bit her lip. This never happened in her Georgian novels. Where was the chaise and four—whatever that looked like? Could the day be shaping up any worse?

  Chapter Seven

  William leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms overhead. An hour-long examination of the books revealed Mr. Jenkins had taken his usual care with the estate records, and all seemed to be in order. His father’s steward continued to serve with excellence. William closed the books and rose, crossing the study to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows which faced the front lawn. A check of his pocket watch indicated it was one o’clock. He longed to be outside, trotting across the fields on Ajax, with the strange creature who was Matilda Crockwell at his side. Impatiently, he turned away from the view and left the library, taking the great staircase two steps at a time up to his room.

  A ring of the bell brought James, his valet, within moments.

  “My riding clothes, James.”

  James, a small, slight man with a well-groomed thatch of sparse gray hair, hurried to the tall mahogany dresser and withdrew several pairs of breeches and a pair of riding boots.

  “Which will you wear today, Master William?” James offered up a dark gray pair of riding breeches and a lighter tan pair.

  William cocked his head and pointed to the dark gray pair. He shed his beige pantaloons and donned the sturdier clothing. James grabbed the boots, bent down on one thin knee and pushed them up over William’s stockinged feet, adjusting the length of his breeches so that they fit seamlessly.

  “The dark blue jacket over the gray waistcoat, I think, Master William?”

  William, somewhat distracted by his upcoming excursion with Miss Crockwell, gave a vague nod.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  James, the smaller of the two, reached up to slide a waistcoat over William’s broad shoulders. He whipped around to the front to button the vest, before picking up a finely tailored cutaway coat to ease onto William’s back.

  William waved James away when he reached for the buttons.

  “That will do. Thank you, James.” William grabbed his pocket watch from the top of the nearby bureau and eyed it for a moment with a sigh. Still only half past one.

  He grabbed his top hat and riding stick from James, nodded and left the room. Taking the stairs two at a time once again, he paused at the landing, listening for the sound of female voices, but heard nothing. Another check of his watch—only one minute had passed since last he checked it.

  William turned to make his way to the stables at the rear of the house when he heard the sound of hooves near the front door. He paused for a moment as John, the footman, hurried to the door.

  “Well met, William!” Thomas Ringwood entered the foyer. “You appear to be dressed for riding. Join me! I am just partaking of the pleasant fall after
noon.”

  William eyed his friend with not a small amount of misgiving. They often rode together, and today should not be any different, but it was. He had already asked Miss Crockwell to join him, and he could not withdraw his invitation. In fact, he had no desire to cancel the outing, and had indeed looked forward to an opportunity of spending more time with her—out of earshot of his mother and Sylvie.

  “Thomas! Good afternoon.” William recollected himself and jumped forward to grasp Thomas’s hand. “Yes, as you see, I was just about to set out. We have a guest staying with us, Miss Matilda Crockwell, and I had already made arrangements to take her on a short ride through the estate. She is an inexperienced rider, and the pace may be too tame for you.”

  Thomas cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “And who might this Miss Crockwell be, William? Am I, as is usual, the last to be informed of some momentous event in the Sinclair household?”

  “I understand your insinuations, Thomas, and no, there is no news of any sort. You begin to sound as hopeful as my mother,” William said with a pointed look. “Miss Crockwell is a distant cousin from America.”

  “America?” Thomas exclaimed. “How delightful! I must meet this Yankee at once. You will invite me to join you and Miss Crockwell, will you not?”

  “If I must, Thomas.” William turned just then at the sound of voices near the top of the stairs. Mattie and Sylvie descended slowly, Mattie becomingly dressed in a royal blue velvet riding habit of Sylvie’s. The top hat crowning her russet curls was a miniature version of his own.

  “Thomas,” Sylvie exclaimed. “I did not know you were riding today.”

  William watched Thomas bow elegantly to the women descending the stairs, his normally tanned face taking on a bronze tinge. When would his sister and his best friend simply give in and declare themselves, he wondered for the hundredth time?

  “Sylvie, how nice to see you,” Thomas murmured as they reached the landing. He took Sylvie’s hand in his and kissed the tips of her fingers lightly.