Whew. She shifted on the couch. “Yes, sir, er, my lord, it’s—it is a family piece, and so of value to me.” Man, trying to speak without contractions was difficult. She plastered on a polite smile.
“Then I shall make the necessary arrangements. Please, do not concern yourself with the expense. It will be my pleasure to assist, I assure you.” One of his blunt fingers slowly rubbed the rim of the top hat he held in his lap. He stood abruptly and bowed. “I trust I shall see you at Lady Huxton’s ball tonight?”
Isabelle’s gaze flashed to Ada in panic.
But Ada nodded gracefully at her cousin. “You shall.”
“In the meantime,” he continued, “if I should have need to contact you about your stolen item, Miss Rochon, I can call on you at...”
Again, Isabelle looked in panic to Ada. Not knowing what to do, or what was proper, was so nerve-racking. She didn’t dare glance at Mrs. Somerville. Or Lord Montagu.
“Miss Byron and Miss Rochon will be my guests until Monday, my lord. You may call on them here,” replied Mrs. Somerville.
Isabelle gawked at her. That was nice.
“Very good.” She heard his booted feet move closer. “Miss Byron, pray forgive me for this liberty, but I brought this for you.” Isabelle snapped her attention to the pair. He held out the box and bowed. “It is a replacement for the coat you lost last night.”
What in the—? Ada lost hers too?
Ada stared at the box she now held. “But, I―”
Lord Montagu’s head turned slightly toward Isabelle, his gaze snagging hers.
“Oh, yes,” Ada replied, glancing at Isabelle. “Thank you, cousin. This is kind of you. It is most appreciated.”
He bowed. “Until tonight, ladies.” He donned his hat, gave an assessing glance at Isabelle, and stepped to the door.
The other two women had already stood and curtseyed, and Isabelle rushed to do the same before he left. What must he think of her ineptitude?
With a last nod, he swept from the room.
Isabelle waited until the front door closed downstairs, her legs doing a little shaky-shaky. She turned to Ada. “What do we do? I don’t have an invitation to this ball. And what am I to wear? And Mrs. Somerville, I can’t impose on you until Monday.” Oops, she’d used contractions.
Mrs. Somerville responded first. “Nonsense. I will not hear another word of protest. Lady Byron will be arriving then to collect Miss Byron, and I imagine that will give you ample time to sort out your situation.”
Before Isabelle could respond, Ada jumped in. “Thank you, Mrs. Somerville. This is very gracious of you. I will send a note to my mother by this afternoon’s post to see if she may return with me.”
Ada turned to Isabelle. “Do not concern yourself with this. We will call on Lady Huxton this afternoon and leave my card with her if she is not receiving. She is a good friend of mother’s, and I am sure when she meets you, she will extend an invitation. Besides, she is hosting a ball and will be eager to fill her rooms to bursting.” She stood and walked to Isabelle. “As for clothes, we are nearly the same build, and Mrs. Somerville’s abigail can make any necessary adjustments. This will be delightful!”
Isabelle struggled with the irony of her situation—naturally, as a historian, she’d fantasized about visiting earlier times. What historian would not? But to live there? Really? As a woman, she was glad she hadn’t been born then; statistically, she would’ve been a poor servant with no protection or means for a better life.
No, thank you.
No, only a visit for a week or two, as a way to observe another culture. Watch history being made. Take notes. That kind of thing. Well, now her wish had been granted. She prayed it was only a visit. A short one.
She mustered a smile for Ada. “Yeah. Delightful.”
“Oh, what am I to do?” Ada flung herself back on the carriage seat. Her head jerked up, her gaze darting to the maid riding with them. She stood and knocked on the trap door. “Take us to Regent’s Park.”
Their visit to Lady Huxton had been a success, but with a cost: she’d mentioned she was in the middle of writing Ada’s mother, and how had she phrased it? Oh yes, ‘now I can give her a full report of how delighted I am with her American cousin.’
Isabelle took a deep breath, trying to unravel the knot of tension that had grown to epic proportions in her stomach. How the heck were they going to finesse this?
Ada interrupted her thoughts. “That was incredibly kind of Lord Montagu. We should have privacy upon our return to open and admire his gift. And your altered dress should be ready.”
“I didn’t know you lost your coat, too.”
Ada’s eyes lit from within. “Indeed, I did not. The gift was not for me, but rather for you.”
All the molecules in her body did a wait-what? “Me? But, I don’t understand. He gave it to you.”
“So I could give it to you. It would have been highly improper for a single gentleman to present a lady with a gift, when she is neither a relation nor his betrothed.”
He gave me a coat? What a sweetie! “Good Lord, I have so much to learn.”
He gave me a coat! Okay, can’t read anything into it. No doubt he thought it his gentlemanly duty or something. Yes. That was all.
Soon they were walking down a gravel lane in the park, the saturated light of late afternoon infusing the manicured shrubs and fussy flowers. Nice, but... Give me a wonderfully woolly herb garden and crumbling, vine-choked stone walls. Since the weather had turned warmer a month ago, she’d been working on the old herb garden at her house, splitting her free time between restoration work and gardening. Man, she missed her house. Having cereal at the small iron table in the garden... Hopefully the new plants she’d bought would survive while she was gone. That woolly garden had been such a balm to her soul, helping her to stitch herself together after her family’s death.
When the maid was at a safe distance behind, Isabelle spoke. “I’ve gotten you into a mess, haven’t I?”
Ada leaned in, hooking her arm around Isabelle’s. “I only need to write to my mother, straightaway. I had intended to, but now it is imperative. I have to let my mother know what is happening before she hears about it from Lady Huxton.”
“What do we tell her?”
Their feet crunched over the gravel for several more steps. She responded, “We will tell her the truth.”
Isabelle stopped. “What?”
Chapter Seven
And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but
The truth in masquerade.
Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XI
Isabelle’s pulse hit a slick patch and skidded. No way could she trust someone else with the truth. Was Ada nuts?
“At least, that is what my mother will think,” Ada continued. “We shall profess to be taking her into our confidence and make her agree on the distant cousin story as a screen.”
Isabelle’s pulse returned to normal. Pretty clever. She resumed walking, Ada keeping pace. “What will we tell your mother is the real story, then?” Isabelle glanced behind to make sure the maid remained out of earshot.
“We shall tell her you are an American escaping the clutches of a cruel pirate you met on the high seas while traveling here, who means to kidnap and ravish you, and you need to keep your identity hidden.”
“Ah, no.”
They passed a mother and daughter with maid in tow. Ada nodded to them.
Ada stopped and tugged on her arm, eyes alight. “I have it. You were locked in a castle tower by a Scottish laird, who―”
“—No, Ada.” Isabelle chuckled.
“Stranded on the moors with an ancestral ghost tormenting you?”
Isabelle shook her head. Someone read a lot of the popular novels.
They finally settled on a story containing elements of the truth. Isabelle was an American who’d traveled here (true) to live with her uncle’s family in Surrey (false), her own family having died (true). She had since learned her uncle was trying to tr
ap her into marrying his son to get her fortune. (Hadn’t Isabelle read that in several Regency romances?) So, she’d escaped to London with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Luckily, Ada’s mother didn’t know they’d met at the ball, or any of the circumstances surrounding her late night arrival at Mrs. Somerville’s.
Decision made, they turned back for the carriage. As soon as the maid was behind them again, they resumed talking.
“When I first met you, you knew of my father. People remember him? He was rather famous here, but people still know him in the future?” Ada’s voice had a mixture of curiosity and vulnerability.
“Yes, Lord Byron is still well known.”
“And Ada Byron Something? Were you referring to me? You said she was the first something or other, but it made no sense.”
“Yes, I was referring to you.”
Ada gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “I am famous as well?”
“Well, no. You’re in our history books, but not everyone’s heard of you.”
Ada stopped, her brow furrowed. “What do... did... do I do?”
How much should she reveal? She definitely didn’t want to alter history. Had she already? Besides the possibility of spawning an alternate timeline, another time travel theory posited time ran on a loop, meaning in Isabelle’s own history, she’d already been here and done whatever she was about to do now, so no problem with timelines getting messed up—she’d already messed them up. Well, time may be a closed system, but it didn’t mean she should blurt future events willy-nilly. Especially not Ada’s. What if she were wrong? What if she was spinning an alternate reality right now, and anything she said or did shaped the future?
“I’m sorry, Ada, I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.” At Ada’s crestfallen look, she continued, her tone soft, “I think it’s something you need to discover on your own. I will say, pursuing your passion in mathematics is the path meant for you.”
Luckily, Ada seemed contented with her answer. “Can you tell me about my father?”
“What do you mean?”
“What was his character? No one tells me anything.” Ada’s lips thinned, her steps a little more abrupt. “All I know is he was famous but did something terribly wicked.”
“You mean your mother never told you about him?”
Ada gave an unladylike snort. “She would be the last person to tell me. Moreover, she has instructed all others I know to keep me in ignorance.”
The famous phrase ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know’ popped into her head. Not much for a daughter to go on.
Ada whispered, “Please.”
“I don’t know much. I’m sorry.”
“Please tell me whatever you recollect.”
“All I remember is he was a famous poet. I think, I’m sorry, I hope this doesn’t upset you, but I got the impression he was quite the lady’s man.”
Ada leaned in closer, head tilted. “Lady’s man?”
“Erm... you know, what you would call a rake.”
Ada turned white and blinked. She nodded. “Go on.”
“That’s all I remember.”
“Was he handsome?”
“You’ve never seen a portrait of him?”
Ada blew out a short puff of air. “No. Growing up, I remember a spot on the wall covered in green fabric at my grandparents’ house, but I was never able to reach it as a child. I wondered if my father’s portrait lay behind. My beloved grandmother passed away when I was seven, and it was put away.”
“Well, I do remember he was considered very handsome. That’s all I know about him, though. I wish now I’d studied more of this era since I find myself here.”
It amazed her how well Ada was adapting to the Crazy Ass situation. Her youth, combined with her unusual upbringing, made her more open-minded than most. Besides, she probably saw it as a game, a pet project. Isabelle glanced around. No one near. She reached into her skirt pocket. “Do you want to see something cool, Ada?” Isabelle pulled out her phone; she hadn’t trusted to leave it where maids could find it. Dang, battery at ten percent.
“Cool?”
Isabelle glanced up. “Oh, sorry. Bad habit of mine. It means ‘interesting’ in this case, but, uh, it can also mean you approve of something.”
“Cool.”
Isabelle chuckled. “Yes.” She pulled up the photo she’d taken at the ball last night. Had it only been last night?
Ada gasped, her hand fluttering in front of her mouth. She leaned in closer. “That is my portrait!” She touched the screen with a hesitant finger.
“Yes. I probably startled you when I took it.”
“But, how?”
Isabelle tucked the phone away. Wouldn’t do to have it visible for too long. “Soon, the ability will exist for people to instantly capture images.” Isabelle went on to explain photography.
“So many remarkable things are accomplished in the future. May I inquire more fully about it?”
“Of course, ask away.” Isabelle smiled in encouragement. But then the implications set in. “Well, to a point.”
“Have you solved hunger? Cured all diseases? Do people still fight wars? And kill each other? I loved Mr. Irving’s Rip Van Winkle. I wish I could go forward in time and witness how much things have changed,” she finished, her tone more contemplative.
They talked more about the future, and Isabelle answered as best she could, trying to find words common to both eras and to keep the answers very general.
“Ada, I hate to change the subject, but there are a couple of things I need to talk to you about.”
“Certainly. I hope I can help.”
“Well, one thing is, I have no clue how I got here or how to get back. Obviously, I won’t make it in time for work in the morning as I’d hoped. And the only thing keeping me sane is believing I’ll figure it out soon.” She toyed with her reticule, rotating it in short spurts. She took a deep breath. “But I’m worried.” Her voice hitched. “Very worried. If I can’t figure this out, I’m stuck here, and I don’t know what to do, where to stay―”
“I thought we had established your lodgings. You are to reside with me, as my companion.”
“That’s a cover story, our, uh, ‘blind.’”
“But I am in earnest. You shall remain with me.”
“I can’t impose on you forever, Ada.”
“Something will transpire to your benefit. I am sure of it.”
She liked Ada’s optimism. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. But in the meantime, in case I’m here for longer than a few days, I’ve got another problem. My eyesight’s weak—I’ll need glasses soon.”
Ada frowned. “You appear to see quite well without them.”
Isabelle explained about contact lenses and how she could go only another week at the most without removing them.
“You have spectacles in your eyes?”
“Well, not in them, but on the surface, yes.”
Ada edged closer and studied one of Isabelle’s eyes. Isabelle tried not to blink and stared straight ahead.
“Remarkable,” her tone incredulous. “I believe I see the edge of what appears to be a clear skin over your eye. You are able to wear those and not spectacles?”
“Yes, but not much longer. They have to be taken out regularly and cleaned, and after a while, replaced. But I don’t have any cleaning solution with me. So, I think I should get fitted for glasses—spectacles—as soon as possible.”
“Certainly, we shall visit a spectacle seller tomorrow when we visit my modiste.”
‘Spectacle seller’ didn’t sound too scientific. She’d have to deal with it then.
Back at the Somervilles’, Ada started a letter to her mother at her escritoire in the sitting room. Isabelle took a chair by the fire and tucked her feet under her. She stared into the pinkish glow of the burning coal, the volcanic smell tickling her nose. So different from a log fire—instead of crackles and pops and bright, showy flames, this was a steady glow with a r
hythmic ticking noise.
The present from Lord Montagu called to her. She bounced a leg up and down. No, she must wait. Ada hadn’t said anything.
Ada set down her pen. “There, that should do it.” She rang for a footman to post it immediately.
“Now, let us see what kind of coat my cousin gave you.” Ada smiled and swished to her room. She returned and placed the box in Isabelle’s lap.
Isabelle gripped the twine and gave it a tug, anticipation coursing through her. She lifted the lid. Nestled inside lay what appeared to be a chocolate-brown cape. “Oh, it’s beautiful.” She shook it out.
“A mantelet. Quite practical of him.”
Isabelle fingered the light fabric. Muslin? The edges were embroidered in a floral pattern of the same color. “When would it be appropriate to wear?”
“Any time during the day, I should think.” She slapped her thighs. “Now to get dressed for the ball.”
“Wait,” Isabelle said, “there are other things I need to ask you about—have toothbrushes been invented yet?”
“Indeed.” Ada left and returned with an object she placed proudly in Isabelle’s hand. “You may use my spare. We shall purchase one for you when we visit the shops. And here is some tooth powder.”
Isabelle grasped the toothbrush and fingered the handle. An intricately carved bone handle—she peered closer—carved with an image of Poseidon? Seeing something so modern rendered in an old-style way gave her a jolt. She ran a thumb over the rough fibers. “What’s the brush part made of?”
“Hog bristles.”
Okay, she hadn’t heard that. She tried not to show any distaste. Hey, at least they had toothbrushes. But, apparently, no toothpaste yet. Man, she’d hated tooth powder ever since she’d run out of toothpaste and had to use her great aunt’s supply during a visit.
She set these in her lap. “Thank you.” So many things she’d taken for granted were different. She’d already had to use a chamber pot and a clump of dry wool when she’d had to go to the bathroom. It explained the practicality of the slit in her ‘drawers.’
Thank God she had a confidante as well as a roof over her head. So far, Mrs. Somerville had remained understanding. “Is Mrs. Somerville a widow?”
Must Love Breeches Page 6
