“I do not see how it is any business of yours.”
“Still. It intrigues me. From our conversation last night, you are obviously an intelligent and sensible girl, and it makes me wonder why you are saddling yourself with a man of his reputation.”
What an ass. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. His reputation is not—” She closed her lips, incensed he’d riled her.
“Is not what, Miss Rochon?”
“Is not your business. Good evening, sir.”
His eyes narrowed and his forehead creased, but he stepped to the side with a bow.
Whew. She placed her hand on the door latch.
“Oh, Miss Byron, Miss Rochon, you came.” Mr. Podbury hurried to them and looked at Isabelle longer than she liked. Drat.
Please don’t ask us how we liked it.
“What did you think of my lecture? It is so difficult to distill into a single talk all the variants of a subject, one despairs whether one made any sense at all.”
“We enjoyed it tremendously,” Ada replied.
Mr. Podbury beamed, his cheeks pushing his glasses up a fraction. “Oh, I say, well then. Excellent. Good to hear, good to hear.” He rocked on his heels and looked at them both expectantly.
“Yes, very enlightening,” Isabelle added.
Mr. Podbury stopped rocking and faced her, his hands twisting. “Miss Rochon, I shall tell you I am not fooled by the taradiddle you fobbed off on me yesterday. I am quite determined to know the truth. You cannot know what this means to me.” He looked at the other lecture attendees milling around. He pulled Isabelle to the side.
“You cannot fool me. I know you have traveled back in time. Meeting you has given new breath to my investigations. You are my muse! To know it is possible... You can have no idea.” He stared off for a while, his eyes glazed and distant. They came back into focus and he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I have made several more breakthroughs since I saw you last.”
“Erm, Mr. Podbury―”
“No, I know you will not discuss it. You do not trust me, that is obvious, and to be expected. However, I hope to earn that trust in time. You are unconvinced, as yet, that I have the ability. In short, I would like to propose that you allow me to conduct some tests on you. If I am able to do so, it will help my research exponentially.”
“In what ways?”
“So you admit? You are willing?”
“I am admitting no such thing. You have me intrigued, is all.” Isabelle shot Ada a pleading look, but she was talking to elderly Mr. Mendley. So, they’d been attending the same lecture.
“Hmm, yes, well, I feel confident that if I am able to conduct these tests, I might fine-tune my calculations.”
“That is all?”
“That is all?” he sputtered, his voice rising. He lowered it. “You do not comprehend. My calculations comprise the formula for harnessing the power of aether and its interactions with stringy holes in space. In short, the ability to travel forward or backward in time.”
Isabelle’s breath caught. Worm holes? Could this eager man be on the verge of such a discovery? Could she risk dismissing perhaps her only chance to return?
He looked around the room again, his gaze darting, almost feverish. “The gentleman who visited after you believes. He was most intrigued.”
Isabelle nodded along. Should she trust this man?
“He inquired after you. Saw a report in some paper.”
Isabelle’s breath hitched. Wait, what? “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” She tried to picture the visitor, but no distinguishing features stood out—he’d just been there, taking up space.
His eyes narrowed and he pulled his shoulders back. His gaze darted to the side briefly. “Of course not.”
Well, that decided it. No way could she risk giving this funny man any power over her. Too dangerous. She’d been lucky Ada believed her.
May 20
Katy—
...I managed to give some excuse the first time I met him, but what if Mr. Podbury can help me? We went to his lecture tonight and he approached me—said he was close to a solution and mentioned a phenomenon that sounded like wormhole theory. Thing is, I feel it’s too risky to trust him. What should I do? I need to get back and so far have drawn a big fat zero in recovering the card case. I mean, what other methods are there for finding a stolen item than what we’re already doing? I now wish I’d read more mystery novels, LOL.
To complicate matters, things have progressed with Lord Montagu—he pushed me back against a wall in the British Museum to kiss me! He makes me feel...
...today, he gave me a present—a newly printed book on Native Americans. How sweet is that?
Chapter Nineteen
But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
Lord Byron, Solitude
The next morning, Isabelle lay in her bed, her bones like spaghetti. No energy. Things were too out of control. It was hard in this lifestyle to find time to herself. She was seriously overdue for that session by the fire in her home in Guildford: book, Pinot Grigio, and dark chocolate.
Was she really stuck in 1834? Things had settled into a routine, the novelty had faded, and reality had made itself known. It was as if she were in a dream from which she would wake, one day, but, with the even stranger feeling that this was her reality now.
Like she’d always been here.
She needed time alone to get her mind straight, and Lord Montagu was unwittingly doing his best to keep it muddled. She’d let her attraction for him go too far. When had he crept under her skin? It was the slow courtship that’d done it—her romance radar seemed more attuned to this era’s pace. In her own time, things moved so quickly that by the time she figured out her own feelings, the guy had already given up and placed her in the friend zone.
But, how did she think this was going to end? She couldn’t stay here.
Ugh. Her sense of self was slipping again. She needed to rebuild her defenses.
Writing to Katy helped her stay centered, kept her from disintegrating. Somewhat. Problem was, it was one-sided. She craved the familiar, to have its solid presence speak to her in a way Katy could not—allow her the peace and space to think.
What was familiar, though?
She fumbled for her glasses. Her longing for the fire, book, and dark chocolate in her home sparked an idea: to seek her house, the one she owned in her own time, walk its grounds and find peace. Perhaps she could ask the current owner for a tour. They sometimes allowed that in the old country houses, even in this time. Maybe she’d be allowed to sit in the garden.
What would it look like in its prime? She’d pictured it as just the size of a country gentleman’s manor, like Mr. Bennet’s. Large by American standards—after all, she’d had to use all of her inheritance as down payment—but typical for a respectable member of the English gentry.
Her house called to her like a beacon of sanity, and the more she thought about it, the more it became essential she go there. And thanks to her fake betrothal to Lord Montagu, she had plenty of spending money to get there and back. And Mrs. Somerville had given her the weekend off.
Isabelle threw back her covers. The trip might take a while, so she didn’t want to lose any time. Ada had plans to attend a lecture on mathematics and make social calls, so Isabelle was able to slip away when Ada left.
Isabelle wrote a quick note, left it on Ada’s dresser, saying she’d decided to make a day trip to Guildford, not to worry, she was used to being on her own, and walked to where she
knew post-chaises could be hired.
Smiling, Isabelle paid the driver and hopped into the chaise. She opened Persuasion and settled in for a nice stretch of reading—just what she needed to distance her mind from her present troubles, relax it, and be fertile enough to think. When the pace of the horses picked up at London’s outskirts, the carriage jounced and swayed a lot more—good thing she wasn’t prone to motion sickness.
Relishing the time alone, Isabelle reached her favorite passage in Persuasion—Captain Wentworth writing the letter to Anne Elliot saying ‘you pierce my soul’—when the carriage slowed. How long had it taken? Her stomach rumbled. Well, I guess that long...
She stepped from the carriage and paused. The dusty, small inn yard teemed with boys running, hitching other horses, crying out orders, or bringing sloshing tankards to folks waiting inside their carriages. It’s like a movie set.
She swallowed hard, paid the driver, and went into the posting inn to see if she could order food. This was the closest stop she knew of to her house. A large common room greeted her, and she paused at the entrance to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dark interior.
Diamond-shaped spears of light highlighted knife-gouged, ale-stained oak plank tables and benches propping up villagers or travelers looking for the basics: food, drink, cheer, gossip. An old, musty, tangy smell draped over all, making Isabelle feel like a new, fresh, foreign entity traversing their territory, despite the cheery fire sparking in the corner. Eyes stayed on her as she sought the proprietor.
“Hello, I was wondering if I could get some bread and cheese?” she asked the guy behind the counter. Now her voice seemed to float through the space, amplifying the effect of her alien physical presence.
The innkeeper stared at her and stepped back a foot or two with his hands on his hips.
Isabelle checked her face and hair with her fingers. Everything in place. What’s his deal?
“This is a respectable establishment, miss.”
“Uh, yes, I can see that. It’s nice.”
He didn’t move a muscle. He stopped staring and looked everywhere else but at her. “Um, about that food?”
He turned red in the face. “We don’t serve the likes of you.”
Isabelle flinched and stepped back. What in the world?
Oh. My. God. He mistook her for a prostitute? She straightened, stepped forward, and pulled out her purse. She plopped several gold coins onto the counter. One rolled to the floor behind the counter, clinking as it spiraled to a stop.
“I assure you, I am quite respectable and able to pay.”
“How respectable can you be, alone as ya are?”
Isabelle sighed. Thank God she lived in the future. Well, she had, and soon would again, if she could figure out how.
“Sir, I just traveled by post from London and am quite tired and hungry. Can I eat, please?” She glared at him and shoved the coins forward on the counter.
He grumbled. But he left and returned with a loaf of almost stale bread and a hunk of cheddar cheese. “You cannot eat it here.”
She scooped them up and went outside. This little village, just east of Guildford, was close enough to walk to her house. It would take about a half hour, but luckily a cool breeze tickled her face and teased the nearby leaves.
She grinned, noting the subtle differences. Except for the signs and the clothing passersby wore, it wasn’t much different. Ahead, a tiny wooden cart approached, pulled by a medium-sized dog with a small boy trotting behind. Well, and except for that, too.
However, when Isabelle reached the outskirts, the semblance ended. Gone were the tidy modern brick homes, as well as the fake Tudor-style ‘strip mall’, and other modern buildings. In their place stood wheat fields and hedgerows. Lots of wheat fields and hedgerows.
She stopped and stared. She pivoted slowly. The sky an impossible blue, she tried to overlay the familiar features onto what her eyes registered now. The road’s curve remained the same, but that was about it.
She could do this. Just paint in the familiar landmarks. She walked in the direction for home and drowned her growing doubts with oodles of positive thinking. The sun was lower in the sky, so perhaps it was mid-afternoon? Yikes. She would not have much time before she’d have to head back. How long had that carriage ride been?
Picking up her pace, she trudged down the dirt lane.
Fifteen minutes later, she cursed her stupidity. And perversely, she refused to sit and eat, though her stomach demanded she do just that. Somehow, the goal of reaching her house eclipsed all else. Only then could she sit, eat, and take stock of her life. Until then, walk.
Another fifteen minutes passed. She’d taken a wrong turn, she was sure, and so she doubled back. Now she climbed a slight hill, and if memory served her right, there would be a huge oak tree on the other side at the bottom of the hill. She reached the top and looked down. She stopped, her heart dropping like a dead weight. A tree stood there, but not the majestic one she remembered. A chuckle erupted from within, almost hysterical—of course it wasn’t as large as she remembered, it still had decades and decades of growth to go through.
She was close. That tree bordered her property and had been a favorite place for her to read when spring arrived. She could finally sit and eat.
Thunder rumbled across the sky. She looked up and behind. Massive thunderclouds loomed right behind her. Incredulous, she looked ahead: still a serene blue.
Dammit!
She ran down the dusty hill, trying not to twist her ankles in the lane’s deep ruts. She reached the tree. Big, wet drops hit her face and the wind nudged her hat. She caught it before it sailed away. With her other hand she gripped her skirt hem, food, and book, and ran faster. Heavy rain drops puckered the water-starved dust on the road and pelted against her. By the time she reached the curve in the lane, the rain hit like ice shards and soaked her skirts until running became dangerous. She stopped to catch her breath, one hand on her knee, the other clutching her food and book to her chest. Water dripped from her chin, nose, and hat brim.
This was just great. Among the monumentally stupid things she’d done, this had to be up there. She peeked up from under her hat brim. There, across an expanse of green lawn, lay her house. She choked on a sob of relief.
Skipping the normal approach, Isabelle climbed over the stone fencing bordering the lane and struck out across the grass.
Phineas rode his horse across the fields bordering his land outside London. A note from his bailiff had begged his presence that day to oversee repair work and to attend to other urgent business he wished to discuss in person. It was just as well. To quit London, if only for one night, had become a necessity. He needed time away. Away from Miss Rochon.
When thunderclouds gathered to the south, Phineas curtailed their meeting. He had too much that required his attention at home to risk weathering the storm here. He ordered his horse, Prometheus, saddled. Donning an oilcloth cape as a precaution, he set out with hopes he would reach home before the storm broke, but had been overly optimistic, clearly.
Now, as he drew near his house, the rain pelted him in earnest. He cursed and urged Prometheus into a gallop. Why had he not let his bailiff call on him instead, as was the custom? He knew why, though. He had seized at the excuse to ride; he had not had the patience to wait on his bailiff. Anything to keep him active and his thoughts away from Miss Rochon.
He cleared a stand of trees and jumped the narrow ditch. Prometheus’s hooves landed with ease, despite the dangerous conditions. In the distance, a lone, slim figure walked across the field. Whoever it was silhouetted against the bleak and angry sky, it was a stranger and a woman. A woman alone. Moreover, from the looks of it, drenched to the bone.
Deuce it, what trouble was this?
While his powerful horse ate up the distance, Phineas kept an eye on the figure. The manner in which the woman walked seemed vaguely familiar, but it made no sense. A knot formed in his gut.
What would she be doing here? Was his
mind so desperate to find traces of her everywhere, in any shapely figure he saw?
Damn and blast. He urged his horse into a quicker pace and made straight for the woman.
It was her.
Carrying a book, a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese, of all things. Furthermore, her waterlogged dress outlined all of her enticing curves under the mantelet he had given her via Miss Byron. Seeing her wearing it here, in the elements, tripped something primal inside his heart.
He reined in his horse, careful not to splash mud on her skirts. Prometheus snorted and sidestepped, wary of her unfamiliar scent. She stopped walking and stared at him with wide eyes, rain drops dripping from her bedraggled hat. Her skin looked pale and clammy, and her body was hunched in, shivering.
“Lord Montagu? What are you doing here?” She pointed the loaf of bread at him, flicking a spray of rain water in his direction to add to his already abundant accumulation. The waterlogged loaf broke in half. “Are you following me?”
“Following you? I labored under the obviously mistaken assumption you were safe with my cousin in London. Safe and dry. What in blazes are you doing in the country?”
“I asked you first. I have a perfectly good reason for being here, and I don’t need to tell you.”
The muscles in his neck and back tightened, his breathing quickened. “Devil you don’t! I am your betrothed, if you have not forgotten. I would like to know why you are wandering about, alone, in a rain storm, on my property. Looking quite disheveled, as well.”
“Pretend betrothed. It’s not as if you really are mine.” She dropped her arm holding the remains of the bread to her side, and her forehead puckered. “Your property?”
Chapter Twenty
Be though the rainbow to the storms of life,
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
Must Love Breeches Page 20
