Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  To fix one spark of beauty’s heavenly ray?

  Lord Byron, The Bride of Abydos, Canto I

  Three hours later, Isabelle felt as if she’d been extruded through a straw and left to quiver in the open air before the fire. They were on the rug by the hearth, and Lord Montagu sat very still, very quiet, and very subdued. It had taken a while to explain, but eventually, gradually, he started to, if not quite believe, at least seem to give her the benefit of the doubt. That small concession allowed her to think of examples and lines of reasoning to further her case.

  But now he stared. In complete silence. No protests, no questions, just... silence.

  Would he cart her off to Bedlam? She had no more arguments to make. She stared back at him, willing him to understand, to believe. If he didn’t... Her breath hitched.

  His eyes tracked to her nose, to her lips, to the rest of her. She shifted under his silent, penetrating gaze, a shiver going through her. His eyes returned to hers, and an element of wonder flickered within. Was it possible? Did he believe her? A bubble of hope peeked out from where it had taken cover in her heart.

  “I am, I-I am at a loss for words.” His roughened voice cut through the space between them. “I-I believe you,” the last stated as if caught by surprise. “Difficult as it is to believe, to explain, I believe you.” He took her hands in his, warm and comforting. Accepting.

  A lightness swept through her. She went limp. Multiple emotions crowded her, clogging her throat. She swallowed hard and blinked several times. He believed.

  “Now, things I found puzzling about you make sense,” he continued. “It is as if—as if the world shifted slightly, and those puzzling things about you I found so mysterious, suddenly fell into place and became clear.” He looked her up and down again, eyes wide.

  Isabelle cleared her throat. “Now you understand my predicament. I need to return to my own time. I don’t belong here. This isn’t—it isn’t my reality.” She flinched at her words; surely they hurt him.

  Pain flared in his eyes. Pain she had caused.

  “Please understand, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I care about you. A lot. But, oh God. It’s... it’s not meant to be. We’re from different times.” A ragged sigh escaped her. How could she make him understand? “Things you take for granted are seriously out of date for me.”

  His eyes shuttered, an emotional barrier erected. Oh, man. Now she had really hurt him. She held on to his retreating hands, gripping them harder.

  “In other words, Miss Rochon, I am out of date. I am not modern, in your sense of the word.” He chuckled. “This is humbling, indeed. I always considered myself a forward thinker. And now to hear I—I am not forward thinking enough. That times have changed so significantly I have been left behind?”

  “But, you are very enlightened, especially for your time.”

  He pulled his hands and she gripped tighter. “Please do not humor me, Miss Rochon.”

  “Please. Call me Isabelle.” She took a shuddering breath. She had to make him understand. She owed him the truth. “I, oh, this is so very hard for me, too! Don’t you understand? I finally find someone I can truly care about, and I can’t have him.”

  He went achingly still for a long moment. “Miss... Isabelle...”

  “Yes, I’m referring to you. Despite how I made things sound, there are things in my time that have totally disappeared. Men in my time... well, let’s just say I haven’t met anyone like you. Someone with integrity. Chivalry is mostly dead, too. And the way you make me feel.”

  “And you wish to return?”

  Her throat thickened. Tears welled in her eyes. “I have to, don’t you see?”

  “No, Isabelle, I don’t.” His thumb rubbed the top of her hand in small circles.

  “My life is back there. My friends, my house, my career... Though, I’ve probably been fired by now.”

  “You have a profession?” He sounded incredulous, of course.

  “Yes, one of the many things that’s different. Women have jobs, though we still don’t get paid as well as men. We can own property. Pretty much do what we want. In fact, I’ve lived alone, in my own apartment, since I went to graduate school.” She smiled at the look on his face. “Shocking, I know. Here, I can’t even go into an inn and order food without the owner thinking I’m a prostitute. Or open a bank account.”

  He took a deep breath. She could see him struggling to understand, to be open. “What was your profession? Or, what is your profession. This is so confusing.”

  Isabelle winced. “Tell me about it. I’m a museum curator in America, in a city called Atlanta, which hasn’t even been founded yet, though that happens in a couple years. Anyway, I came here for an internship at the British Museum. I specialize in early Southern history, the American South. That’s why I couldn’t commit to stay longer than two weeks—I’m up for a permanent job there. The interviews start next week. Plus, I have to prepare a paper for a conference in Prague, and it isn’t finished.”

  He looked a little dazed. Poor guy. It was a lot to take in. Every part of her felt weary, heavy. “Lord Montagu—”

  “Phineas. Please, call me Phineas.”

  “Phineas, that’s why I can’t stay.”

  “Surely you could leave your job.” His eyes shifted, his hazel eye darkening. “You cannot, can you,” the last word pronounced with no inflection, as if he knew.

  “I—I can’t.” She inhaled deeply to hold back her tears. And to gather her nerve. “I made the mistake once before of giving up my life for another. I stupidly thought I was in love.”

  She pulled her hand from his and stood, the memories overwhelming her. She grabbed the fire poker and stirred the embers. Poke. Poke.

  “I was young. Stupid.” Poke. “After graduate school, I returned to my home town, where I landed a great position at the local history museum. Plenty of room for advancement, and opportunities during the summers to go on archaeological digs. It was during one of those digs where I met this guy. Billy. We hit it off instantly. We were crazy about each other. Only, he was on leave from the University of Georgia’s Archaeology Department.”

  Phineas stood and poured them brandies from the sideboard. “You do not have to discuss this if it pains you, Isabelle.” He handed her a glass.

  She took a careful sip, letting the smooth liquor warm her throat and give her courage. “No, you deserve to understand why I can’t stay. Anyway, that fall we continued our relationship, though the distance was hard. I got a job at the Atlanta History Museum solely so I could be closer to him. I moved away from my family, and the town I loved, for this guy. For love. All was wonderful—too wonderful, it turned out. I—I caught him in bed with one of his graduate students. My parents and sister visited shortly after to console me.”

  Isabelle gave the fire another fierce poke. She had to hold it together. She shunted the memories into a cold corner.

  “On their way back to Mobile, they were killed in a traffic accident. That was only two years ago.” The ache was still there. She faced him and steeled herself to look into his eyes. She saw sympathy in them. She whirled and faced the fire. “I moved to London to make a new life for myself. To find myself.” Because she’d somehow lost herself in that relationship, and then had become truly lost with her family’s deaths.

  Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she leaned against him. They watched the embers pulse. She would also never forget the careless words of her mother, the summer before college started. She’d advised Isabelle to not rush into a relationship, to wait until she was sure—and in the next breath confessed how she’d always wanted to be an archaeologist, but didn’t because she’d married.

  God, she was tired.

  She turned in his arms. “I know this is a bit overwhelming. Probably as overwhelming as it was for me when I first came here. Remember how I was the night we met?” At his nod, she continued, “I think we should go to bed. Not together!” she added when she saw his eyes light up. “I think it would b
e best if we rested and faced things in the morning.”

  Phineas arose early the next morning and went down to the breakfast room. He was resolved to learn how he could help her. Truthfully, he had hardly slept, so characterizing his early rising as “waking up” was an overstatement, a slight misconstruction of the truth, really. His mind had churned the short rest of the night with the revelations from Isabelle, mixed with his own troubled emotions. That she slumbered down the hall, so close, and likely similarly distressed, did not ease matters.

  While he thrashed in his bed, he tried to comprehend how he had come to accept her story’s veracity, for it certainly qualified as a Banbury tale if he had ever heard one. But as he listened, he recollected that singular piece in the gossip column. He shook his head. Part of his mind must have been cataloging, storing evidence all along, so when she unfolded her story, he more readily accepted it, and saw, felt, it was right.

  Given the evidence, it was the only explanation that made sense. It illumined so much. By the time night reached its end, he lay there wondering what the future held, pondering the questions he longed to ask. And, by God, what strength and bravery she possessed, dealing with such circumstances. But then, the remembrance of her stating her desire, her need, to return had caused his stomach not a little trouble.

  Now, in the breakfast room, he forced himself to eat the toast, the kippers, the other dishes arrayed on the sideboard. Since the tension in his stomach had only grown, each swallow felt as if it were a tiny, inadequate palliative to the gaping void within, while conversely, it felt as if it would overwhelm him, break him, choke him.

  “Good morning, Lord Montagu.”

  So, she had reverted to calling him that, eh?

  He stood, bowed, and kissed her hand in greeting. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin under her eyes, a sadness lurked within them, evidence of her equally sleepless night.

  His chest tightened. By God, he would not be the source of any more pain for her, if he could help it. While she selected food from the sideboard, he signaled the butler and footman to leave. When they departed, he opened the door to ensure they lingered not. He closed it firmly and locked it. It would not be prudent to be overheard or interrupted.

  Holding out her chair for her, he strove to make his voice sound calm. “How can I be of service, Miss Rochon?”

  She glanced at him as she settled in her seat. “Actually, you’ve already been helping me, though you didn’t know it. I believe I need that silver case to return. It’s the only explanation I can think of. I had found it, and a journal belonging to a lady named Elizabeth, when I was restoring the house I bought, this house. I got caught up in the lady’s journal and wanted to research her for a paper. The case I loved and couldn’t resist using at that ball.”

  His mother’s name was Elizabeth, but it was a common enough name. “You explained the circumstances of the ball last night. However, what is this business about this being your house? We never did discuss that.”

  Isabelle set her utensils carefully down. “This will also be difficult to accept, but I came here yesterday because it’s the one I own in my own time. This is my house in the future.”

  A horrible thought occurred to him and turned the breakfast in his gut sour. “Good heavens. You are not my—my descendant, are you?”

  Isabelle laughed. “No. I don’t know what happened with your family. I had only started researching the owners. When I moved to England, I saw this for sale on one of my touristy jaunts. I felt this incredible pull and fell in love with it. You’ve heard all my other crazy stories, so I might as well tell you this—the house spoke to me.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Not literally! I’m not that nuts. I just mean, I felt in my gut this was meant to be mine. So, I bought it and started renovating it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I had been contemplating the idea of selling this place to buy an estate more fitting our family’s newly acquired title. My father was a country squire, and this was the home I grew up in. Perhaps I was meant to sell it.”

  “No, don’t.” Isabelle turned delightfully pink. “I’m sorry, you should do what you need to do. I have no claim, you should do as you wish. Anyway, it was in this house I found the case and journal. Which somehow led me to this time. And to you. As silly as it seems, it’s the only thing I can fix on—I had held it and wished to be back in time.”

  He sat across from her. “Now I understand your desire for its retrieval. I will redouble my efforts when we return to London. Is there anything else I can do?” He struggled to keep his voice neutral.

  “Yes, though it might be difficult. I have written letters to my friend Katy Tolson, to let her know what happened. I have this crazy idea, but it’s worth trying—it will explain my absence and hopefully save my job.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “I do not understand, how do you plan to get them to your friend in the future?”

  So, these must be the letters Chandler mentioned. He had not probed her secrets, for he had wished to keep his own.

  “It will take some smooth talking and a willingness to look a little crazy on your part, but can you go to Barclay’s in London—my friend banks there in the future—and ask them to place the letters in a safety deposit box in trust to my friend until a certain date?”

  “You are right, they will believe me daft.”

  “Hmm. Has the practice of spiritualism started yet, séances and stuff? You could say you received a message from The Other Side.”

  He picked up his fork and skewered a kipper. “Never heard of such a thing. Are you telling me that is possible in the future?”

  “No, well, there are people who say they do. Who knows? But there will be a big movement sweeping through England toward the end of the century, and it will be a big fad.” She shrugged. “Thought we could use it as an excuse.”

  Her idea of depositing the letters until a certain date was a good one, but how to convince the bank to honor such a strange request?

  “Worry not. Entrust me with the letters. I am confident I can arrange matters at the bank in such a way they will follow your instructions exactly.” One thing always solved difficulties: money. However, he was certain she would not be comfortable with him expending any on her behalf.

  “Oh, thank you!” She gave him a bright smile and some of her tension seemed to leave her. “If it’s not asking too much, I’d also love a tour. You have no idea what it’s like to see this house as it is now. In my day, it’s in bad shape. That’s why I was able to get it so cheap. I was in the middle of restoring it, but there had been changes, additions, and I had to make wild guesses on the original configuration. To be able to see it as it once was, would be simply wonderful.”

  Seeing her smile, even only a little, left Phineas in little doubt as to his next move. “And so you shall.” He tried his best to smile in return.

  That evening, Ada and Isabelle worked their way through the crush of bodies at the Edgerton ball. Isabelle had filled Ada in on recent events, including the fact Lord Montagu now knew her secret. She omitted the not quite so little matter of their having had sex, but she told her everything else. So Ada could better understand her predicament, she did confess her growing feelings for Lord Montagu.

  What had happened to him, though? He’d said he’d be here. In fact, during their long carriage ride back to London, he had said this was the last house he needed to search. While he hadn’t confessed all he was up to, she trusted him enough not to pry further. But his absence worried her.

  Had he already arrived and begun snooping? What if someone caught him? A chill streaked up her spine. If something happened to him—

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fare thee well! and if forever,

  Still forever, fare thee well

  Lord Byron, Fare Thee Well, 1816

  Phineas rummaged through the mahogany desk dominating Lord Edgerton’s study. Not surprisingly, the unlocked d
rawers had elicited nothing out of the ordinary.

  His entire focus now centered on the one drawer left, enticingly locked.

  Phineas retrieved his set of picks enclosed in a worn, leather pouch, and rolled it open. He studied his foe. Thankfully, it was a simple two-pin lock. He slid out a small, hooked pick and a standard torque wrench from his array of tools. He inserted the pick and closed his eyes, the better to concentrate and visualize the position of the pins. The tip of his tongue darted back and forth at the edge of his lips while he worked the pick.

  The final pin clicked into place a few minutes later, and Phineas smiled. He tugged on the handle, the rasp of wood against wood like the sigh of a lover giving up her secrets. The drawer’s interior revealed a leather-bound journal as the sole occupant. Surely this would contain the evidence he sought. He withdrew it and closed the drawer.

  The usual satisfaction he felt at such a moment was absent. Instead, it was his interactions with Isabelle that fired his blood now. And she could not be his.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. Cursing silently, he stashed the journal inside his coat and glanced around the room. Behind a curtain would have to suffice. He picked up his candle, licked his thumb and forefinger, and snuffed it. He stepped onto the broad windowsill, letting the heavy brocade curtain swing back and hide him from view.

  Had he left everything in its former place? He had closed the drawer, but there had been no way to relock it. Uncertainty gripped him, but it was too late to check. He was reasonably certain his candle’s glow had been too feeble to show under the door. He steadied his breathing and strained to hear, careful to keep his body from touching the curtain.

  The door opened and quick footsteps approached the desk and his hiding place.

  Another pair of footsteps entered, but more slowly. The soft glow of a candle showed through the curtain.

  “Well, Edgerton, what was so urgent you had to drag me from Miss Dalton’s delectable form? I nearly have her won over, you know. By God, this had better be important.”