2. They were in a house with at least one domestic servant.
3. Ada used words modern Brits would never use.
Isabelle sat up and rested her back against the headboard. Her vision swirled, and she bit down a new wave of nausea. She concentrated on staring at the embroidered flowers on her coverlet, willing them to stop moving. Oh, man, did she have a concussion? She closed her eyes, breathed several times through her nose, and opened her eyes. The flowers had stopped moving. She looked down and noticed:
4. That she wore a granny nightgown.
Okay, stay calm. It was her imagination playing tricks.
The clatter of wheels over cobblestones and the pounding of horses’ hooves drifted through the window again. A high-pitched voice outside chanted: “Buy my matches, my nice, small, pointed matches. Do you want any matches, maids? Buy my matches, my nice, small, pointed matches.”
Isabelle squeezed her eyes closed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath.
“Are you feeling poorly? Do you wish for a little food?” Ada asked.
“No, I’m not hungry, thanks.” Isabelle’s stomach rumbled.
Ada’s eyebrows quirked up.
“Okay, I am.” She rubbed her stomach. “Sorry, just suffering from the shocks of last night, thank you.” She needed time to think, was all.
Her phone! If this was a big joke concocted by her co-workers, her phone would squelch it—they would have taken it to keep her guessing.
“Wait, before you go. My purse. Do you know where it is?”
Ada stopped at the door. “Purse? I did not see a bag of coins. Do you mean your reticule?”
Another term no one used anymore. “Yes, thank you.”
“I set it over here.” Ada headed to a Sheraton mahogany bureau with a white porcelain bowl and pitcher on top and returned with the purse. She set it on the nightstand. “It is an unusual reticule. You were fortunate the footpad did not snatch it as well. Most likely, he saw only the flash of silver on your other arm and took the opportunity that presented itself. I shall return with a tray, and you will feel much better after a dish of hot tea.”
Ada left, and Isabelle pulled her purse into her lap. Hands shaking, she reached in and grabbed her phone.
It is here.
Then the reenactor theory was probably out. Still, she ached to connect to the outside world, to dive into the stream and see what text and email messages she might have, to see if anyone wrote on her profile. Man, even to see the regular inanities posted on her newsfeed. She pressed the space key and the menu lit up. No red asterisks adorned any of her message icons.
“Well, poop.” She scrolled to the newsfeed, but it didn’t refresh. Nothing new posted since last night. She thumbed over to her social-networking feed. Nothing. She glanced at her signal strength—a red circle in the upper-right corner.
No signal.
All right, no reason to panic. Sometimes, it was rare, but sometimes, reception sucked in certain parts of London. Why hadn’t she switched carriers earlier? So, how to proceed from here?
Talk to Ada like normal and risk having the girl think her batty?
Wait, I am batty to even be thinking what I am. If it’s true, I’ve managed to travel back in time, and that’s impossible.
“Meaning―”
Meaning—she was batty.
Maybe a fellow party goer had slipped her a drug last night.
Or, she’d met some passionate reenactors who loved antiques, had a sick sense of humor, an overactive imagination, and too much time on their hands?
No. Pretend everything was normal.
On cue, Ada returned with a tray and set it on Isabelle’s bed. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread curled into Isabelle’s nose. Her stomach rumbled. Jam occupied little bowls along with heaping plates of toast, hot bread, eggs, and a steaming pot of tea. Isabelle spread jam on a slice of toast and took a bite.
Mmmm, apricot. She nibbled and sipped her tea, using the time to think what her next step should be.
“Ada, thank you for taking care of me. I’m so sorry if I’ve been a lot of trouble. I’ll make it up to you.” She took a deep breath. Into the breach. “I need to get in touch with my friend Katy. Can I use your phone?” Innocent expression, bland smile. Breath held.
For most of Isabelle’s short speech, Ada made gestures of acceptance, nodding. On the last word, she cocked her head and frowned.
Isabelle’s stomach twisted. She set down the thick slice of bread.
“Phone?” Ada asked.
All right, nothing for it, girl, but brazen this out, come what may.
“Yes.” Isabelle concentrated on stirring her tea with a little silver spoon, though she’d not put in any cream or sugar. Stir, stir, stir. “I need to call her.” Stir, stir, stir. “Let her know I’m okay.”
“Oh, no trouble at all. I shall have Devin bring around the carriage later, and we can call on her.”
Isabelle swallowed. Back to the joke theory? No. That didn’t pan out or make sense. Back to severe head injury, and she imagined all this? Still a strong possibility.
She massaged the lump behind her head and winced. She felt awake. She stroked the bedspread, her fingertips tracing each embroidered stitch. No dream she’d ever had was this vivid. Okay, Severe Head Injury/Am Imagining This theory downgraded to a weak possibility.
That left—what?
She’d traveled back in time? Her mind flinched.
Wacky reenactors? Even fanatics never took it this far. Deep breath. “Ada, I’m a little woozy from the head injury. What’s the date?”
“The 10th of May.”
Okay, so it was the next day. “And the—uh—the year?” She screwed her eyes shut.
Silence.
Isabelle opened her eyes. Enough of her desperation must have found its way to Ada, because the latter cocked her head to the side and said, “1834.”
Isabelle shuddered and dropped her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth. She wrestled with the wave of panic threatening to engulf her.
Either she was crazy, or she’d traveled back in time. If the former—not good. If the latter, well, it would probably cause her to become the former.
“What is in your lap?” Ada asked.
Confused, Isabelle opened her eyes and followed Ada’s gaze to the phone. The insanity of her situation burbled up, like an instant and silly-giddy high, and she answered in an overly light tone: “Oh, this? It’s my phone!” She added a smile she feared looked scary.
Keep it together, girl.
Isabelle witnessed the inner struggle in Ada’s eyes: the desire to believe Isabelle sane, the worry she wasn’t, and the ingrained need to be polite.
How to proceed? Embrace the time travel theory? Isabelle also wanted to believe herself sane.
So. She had to convince Ada to help her, because—realization dawned to pierce through her with its cold reality—she had no friends, no money, no home, no clothes! And it wasn’t as if she could waltz out in her tattered ball gown and snag a job waiting tables.
Don’t panic.
Isabelle set down her tray of food and folded her hands. “Ada, I’m going to tell you my situation, and I need you to be open to what I’m going to say. Open to the possibilities. I need you, period.” Isabelle’s hands balled into fists, gathering in the folds of the bedspread. She relaxed her fingers and felt the sweaty heat warm the fabric. “I’m scared and unsure what to do. Do you understand?” She held her breath.
“Oh, yes. I knew when I first made your acquaintance you were different and had a story. Most of the time I find your speech difficult, but I am intrigued by the possibilities of your words.”
Their conversations last night would spark curiosity in an active mind like Ada’s. Words and their implications might allow her to bring Ada around.
Ada must have interpreted Isabelle’s silence as reluctance, because she spoke again in a rush. “I am different, too. I am passionate about numbers and mathematics, and
the mysterious workings of the world. I attend lectures to expand my mind...” She trailed off, gaze averted. Had her good breeding kicked in and stopped her from boasting?
Isabelle stared at her phone. Should she do this? Was the phone the best way to illustrate?
Yes. Get Ada’s attention first.
Isabelle smiled and held out her phone.
Ada took it in her small, pale hand, holding it at an awkward angle, the round shape of the phone exactly fitting her palm.
“Punch any of the keys,” Isabelle said.
Ada frowned. “Punch?” She rotated the phone, inspecting both sides. She looked up.
“Any of the buttons.”
Ada looked at it again. “I am sorry, Miss Rochon, but I do not see any keys or buttons on this. It seems much too small to have either. And punching them sounds painful.”
Isabelle sighed. Damn the language barrier. Not only did she have a problem with modern Brits, now she had to communicate in a land of nineteenth-century ones. Words had morphed and changed through time, of course, to denote more modern inventions. A ‘key’ to Ada meant only a big metal object to open a door. A ‘button’, a fastener on an article of clothing.
Back up, take this slow.
“See the little letters circling the edge?”
At Ada’s nod, Isabelle continued. “Press any of them.”
Ada did and gasped. She dropped the phone into her lap. Her eyes, now round, gazed up at Isabelle.
Oops, maybe not the best way to have proceeded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Isabelle held out her hand. “Here, let me have it, I’ll explain.”
After getting the phone from Ada, Isabelle sat back and considered her. Was she going to say this out loud to another human being? What if Ada didn’t believe her and they packed her up and carted her off to Bedlam—the real Bedlam—the insane asylum so notorious its name became synonymous with madness? Isabelle closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath.
“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound very strange, very unbelievable. In fact, what scares me most is you won’t believe me and will think I’m crazy.” She snapped her eyes open and captured Ada’s gaze. “I need you to promise you’ll listen, ask any questions you might have, and allow me to prove it by showing you some of how this works.” Isabelle held up her phone.
Still wide-eyed, Ada nodded. “I promise, Miss Rochon.”
Oh, God, how to word this? The next half-hour or so, however long it took, would be crucial. She couldn’t afford to make a mess of this.
“Do you remember how we met last night?”
“Certainly.”
“Have you ever seen me before at any social event you’ve been to?”
“No.”
“Do you know most of the people who attend these events?”
“Yes.” Ada shifted in her chair, edging closer to the bed.
Good, she’s intrigued. “But you do meet new people occasionally, right?” Isabelle asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“And how do you meet them?”
Ada looked at her blankly.
Isabelle helped her along only a little; Ada must be brought to the conclusion by her own reasoning. “Are you introduced to them by someone else?”
“I understand. Yes.” She blushed. “I am sorry, I hope I do not offend, but, yes, new people are introduced by a mutual acquaintance.” She tipped her head a fraction. “Generally, one hears about a new individual before they appear. Particularly someone who came all the way from America.”
“And I quite rudely introduced myself, didn’t I?”
Ada shifted in her seat. The blush remained, deepening.
“It’s okay, I’m not trying to judge you, and don’t worry about offending me. I’m simply trying to explain myself and my situation. The only way to do this is for me to walk through last night and show you how I, uh, vary from the norm. I mean, differ from what you’re used to.” Isabelle prayed Ada understood. She crossed her fingers. “Please be honest and say what’s on your mind.”
“If you insist,” Ada replied. Isabelle could have sworn she saw a mischievous twinkle flit through Ada’s eyes.
“All right, so we’ve established I’m from America. And this is unusual enough you would’ve heard of, say, a diplomat’s relative or daughter arriving in your social circle. I also didn’t conform to etiquette and wait to be introduced to you. Can you remember anything else last night that struck you as unusual?”
“Besides not being able to understand the majority of your speech?” A smile tugged at Ada’s lips.
Isabelle laughed. “Yes, though try to remember our conversation, and ask me about things that puzzled you.”
Ada seemed to enjoy this, as if it were a game.
If only.
“Let me think. Well, if you are certain you wish me to be entirely frank, though this will be difficult. Particularly as the first item will sound as if I am puffing myself up, but it is the truth.”
Isabelle nodded and waited, though it was hard.
Finally, Ada screwed up her courage. “You did not know who I was.” A deep pink blush crept up her neck and face.
“I, uh, sorry, go on,” as it hit Isabelle who she was talking to. Could she truly be—
“You inquired whether Lord Byron was an ancestor.”
“Yes.” Isabelle held her breath.
“Unfortunately, everyone here knows I am his offspring.” Ada paused. “Though, perhaps this is not everyday knowledge in America.” She looked at her hands.
“Ohmigod! You are Ada Byron Lovelace! This is so amazing. Wow! It’s so cool to meet you.” Isabelle stopped herself from bouncing up and down on the bed. Shouldn’t frighten her.
Ada jumped in her seat. “That is also peculiar. Your speech and manner proclaim to know who I am, but you use a family name with which I am unfamiliar—Lovelace.”
Oh, right, Ada wasn’t married yet. And didn’t her future husband gain the name later as a title or something? Instinctively, Isabelle picked up her phone to look up Ada’s bio and laughed, tossing the phone down.
“Sorry, my mistake.” Probably better not to answer Ada’s question. “Any other differences?”
Ada gazed at the ceiling. “You said you had consulted old fashion plates for your gown, but your dress is in the first stare of fashion.”
Oooh, Isabelle had forgotten she’d said that. Good thread to unravel more. “Do you remember what else I said about my dress? Who made it?”
“Yes, your answer struck me as odd.” Ada continued pointing out details she’d noticed, encouraged by Isabelle’s prodding, concluding her list with Isabelle’s behavior on the street.
“Yes, that sums up last night pretty well,” Isabelle said. “I was surprised to see all those things. To see gas lights everywhere instead of only in some of the historic districts. To see period clothes. The thick smell of coal smoke. The absence of things I’m used to seeing on any London street. Plus, the fact there’d been a heavy rainstorm last night, and when I left, the ground and streets looked as if it hadn’t rained in days.” Isabelle closed her eyes and shuddered. She looked at Ada. Would she understand? She rubbed her forehead. Couldn’t her headache die down a little?
Isabelle sighed. “And then, I’m robbed by a street urchin straight from a Dickens novel and wake up here, in a room beautifully decorated with antiques that look brand new.” Oops, probably shouldn’t have mentioned Dickens, since he hasn’t started writing yet. Not novels, anyway.
At the last, Ada gasped. “Antiques! Mrs. Somerville does not have a stick of old, ratty furniture. This is all entirely modern, I assure you.”
Isabelle smiled. It was time. “To you, they are modern. To me, however, they are,” she crossed her fingers again and took a deep breath, “they are from an earlier time. Much earlier.”
Ada frowned.
“What I’m trying to tell you, the reason all this is strange to me, is because it is. I don’t normally see these t
hings in my life.”
“Is America truly so different? I have heard tales, but generally—” and again, Ada blushed, “generally the tales I hear make it sound as if you are, you live, well, more primitively.” Ada took a breath and held it, her face further reddening.
Isabelle picked up her phone and hit the space bar. “Come closer, Ada, let me show you something. You like numbers and are good at math. If I remember my timeline right, you know Charles Babbage already, and he has talked to you about his Analytical Engine?”
Ada’s face drained of color. “Yes, though not many people know. How do you?”
Oh, yeah. He was still working on the Difference Engine right now. “He wants to use the engine to calculate numbers automatically, correct?”
Ada nodded.
“Look closely.” Isabelle scrolled down to her Applications folder and pulled up her calculator.
A sharp intake of breath sounded beside her.
What must this look like to Ada? Magic? They didn’t still hang witches, did they? Isabelle shook her head and demonstrated anyway.
“See these little numbers here? I’m going to add forty-eight plus fifteen hundred and sixteen.” Isabelle punched buttons while she talked. “And the screen here shows the answer.”
Isabelle peeked at Ada to gauge her reaction.
Ada blanched again. She held a trembling hand to her mouth. “How—how—I do not understand.”
Man, she’d just rocked Ada’s world. Probably almost made her mind explode. Hopefully, it was able to take a little more. “I’m sorry, Ada, but the truth is, I’m from the future.”
Chapter Five
The best of prophets of the future is the past.
Lord Byron, Journal, 1821
Isabelle stared at Ada’s crumpled form on the Aubusson rug.
“Oh, shit.”
Chapter Six
The “good old times”—all times when old are good—
Are gone.
Lord Byron, The Age of Bronze, 1823
One of Ada’s arms wouldn’t stay in place—it kept flopping down at an ungraceful angle. Isabelle had pulled her into the chair as best she could and arranged her limbs as naturally as possible, but that one arm wouldn’t cooperate. The whole time, Ada remained unconscious.
Must Love Breeches Page 4
