She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance

by Greene, F. E.

  His brows furrowed as he scrutinized the copyright date. He peered over one shoulder at the lamp which had returned to full brightness. Then he gave Tori an equally thorough inspection.

  “She didn’t tell me I would travel through time,” he mumbled.

  “What did she tell you?” Tori asked, guessing he meant the gipsy woman.

  “That if I used the pendant to open the door, I would encounter my greatest discovery and endure my worst loss.” His handsome face tensed. “What year is it?”

  “2014. You’re standing in 21st-century London.”

  “Right.” He leaned against the pointless door. “Then I reckon I’d better sit down.”

  Chapter Two

  From his vantage point in the drawing room, Charles watched the woman named after his queen prepare an early breakfast. He sat at a stunted white table atop a backless chair, and everything perplexed him.

  The walls were mint green. The sofa was sky blue. Its pillows and trim matched the brown tables scattered throughout. Lamps channeled more of the unwavering light, and in one corner a black box glowed. Predawn street noises drifted through several open windows, but the morning’s chorus consisted of shrill pips and grinding wheels without the whinny and stink of horses.

  The woman – or was she a lady? – had decided to trust if not believe him. She had ushered him, reluctantly, to the top level of her bookshop which required him to pass through her bedroom. His initial deduction, that she earned her wages by trading favors, still held some water although his brief glance at her bedroom contradicted that theory. The room was too well appointed, too large, and too clean. It lacked the paucity of a whore or the opulence of a mistress.

  The drawing room where he waited was much the same. Both it and the bedroom abutted the kitchen where Miss Smith now stood. She wore a red apron which said KEEP CALM AND READ BOOKS atop her snug pink shirt and patterned bloomers that excessively greeted a cat. She moved with sureness as she cooked – a skill condemned by well-bred women of his century – but Charles wasn’t convinced that Miss Smith was lowborn, let alone a strumpet. Her Christian name hinted at regality.

  Names could be changed, of course.

  The kitchen itself was a grander conundrum. Within it, stark light poured from flat panels affixed to the ceiling. The stove and oven were sleek and stacked, the sink and taps made of similar metals. Above those hung another contraption, braced between the cupboards, whose front opened and closed like a safe. When Miss Smith used it, the safe hummed like bees in a hive.

  Inwardly Charles battled to quell his own panic. So much was unfamiliar – and now uncertain. But he was raised to stay calm no matter the crisis. Be the eye of the storm, so to speak. That Stratford family trait made him unflappable in moments when his colleagues lost their resolve, and he wouldn’t refuse a meal when he was no longer in his own century. If that were actually true.

  He still questioned the evidence, however convincing. Miss Smith bore neither the clothes nor temperament of any woman from his era. She was agile and striking, remarkably so, without affectations or frippery. Her brown hair was shorn just below her shoulders, but the tresses were thick and shiny – an indication of good health. Although slender, she did not appear malnourished. Although lovely, she did not appear vain.

  When she pivoted, Charles realized he was staring. Quickly he dropped his gaze to the table. He thought about apologizing but settled for another sip of tea from an oversized cylindrical cup emblazoned with Shakespearean insults. The drink tasted peculiar but not unpleasant. It reminded him faintly of an oolong blend he preferred at Twinings tea shop on the Strand.

  Did the Strand still exist? Likely the tea shop did not. Nothing would be the same in this time. All reminders without the reality.

  Miss Smith called his name – his Christian name – from the kitchen. “You okay?”

  She hadn’t said much since her agreement to set down the cricket bat and desist with hostilities. Despite their earlier fracas, Charles felt he owed Miss Smith all civility. He didn’t know the appropriate response, however, because he didn’t understand the question.

  She must have seen the puzzlement on his face. “I mean, are you feeling all right? You look like you do this every day.”

  “Let me assure you, Miss Smith, I do not. But that gives me a notion.” Charles retrieved a notebook and a pencil from two of his waistcoat pockets. “May I ask you some questions?”

  “Sure. I can answer while I cook.”

  She seemed completely at ease with their situation, and Charles marveled at her comportment. Not an hour before, he had violated her home, albeit unintentionally. He detected no evidence of a husband or children. Nor did Miss Smith claim them. If she was without both, then they required a chaperone, but he hesitated to suggest it.

  Instead Charles cleared his throat. “Before we commence, I would like to assert that our current situation is impossible.”

  “Agreed.” Miss Smith tossed him a grin over one shoulder. “I don’t believe it either.”

  “Good.” He opened the notebook and licked the tip of his pencil. Then he froze. A seasoned journalist, and he had no idea how to start.

  “Hey.”

  When Charles looked up, and Miss Smith smiled again, other pastimes – some less than proper – sidled into his mind. He had interviewed his share of women. None affected him like this. The chaperone was fast becoming a necessity.

  “Why don’t you tell me how you got here?” she suggested. “Maybe you’ll think of questions as you go.”

  “Wise advice,” he replied. “Thank you, Miss Smith.”

  “It’s Tori, actually. That’s what most people call me. Victoria is so formal. And Miss Smith just sounds weird.”

  He frowned. “You think of yourself as informal?”

  “It’s an informal century,” she assured him. “And see? There’s a question already.”

  “Then I must note the answer.” Informal century, he scratched on the top line. “If this is not a dream, or a fit of madness, then I intend to make the best of it.”

  “So we’ll start with a good breakfast.”

  Miss Smith – Victoria – carried two plates to the table, both heaping with eggs, sausages, and toast. Butter, jams, and a steaming teapot followed. The last items she presented were silver utensils cradled in white paper. Her delivery of it all implied they were on the most intimate of terms.

  Charles shifted uncomfortably atop the unsteady stool. One stood for ladies but not servants. One thanked a hostess but not the housekeeper. Confounded, again, about how to behave, he remained seated. “I’ll watch how you do this.”

  “Don’t,” Victoria advised as she picked up her fork with her right hand. “Americans have tragic table manners according to my British friends. Just go with the flow, and I promise not to judge.”

  Then she winked at him.

  Informal century, Charles reminded himself. Thanking her, he examined his plate and recognized most of its contents.

  “You were going to tell me about how you got here?” She took a huge bite of toast.

  He watched her chew. It was oddly endearing. “You converse whilst you dine?”

  She swallowed, mercifully, before answering. “Oh yeah. Meal time is always social where I’m from. But don’t let your food get cold. Eat first if you want. I don’t mean to be bossy.”

  Charles let himself chuckle at the offer. “I trespass in your shop, and you prepare my breakfast. You may be as bossy as you like, Miss Smith, if you’ll tell me what ‘bossy’ means.”

  When Victoria threw back her head to laugh, Charles almost joined in. It was a giddy relief to let the drape of social graces fall away. In a formal setting, with a new acquaintance, conversation required restraint if not outright caution. But Charles found the unusual drawing room to be strangely soothing, and his hostess was a tempting enigma.

  But she wasn’t the aberration, he reminded himself. He was the fish out of water. He alone occupied the wrong time.r />
  “There’s that face again,” Victoria said. “You start to relax and then –”

  “I remember where I am,” he finished. “And it’s not where I should be.”

  “So let’s get you home,” she answered with a shrug. “You mentioned a pendant. We can start there.”

  “The pendant. Yes.” He paused to take a bite of his meal and found it was delicious. Surprised by its rich flavor, he took another before responding. “A fortnight prior, my editor assigned me a story about the illegal capture of gipsy children for consignment to the workhouses. I ventured out to Notting Hill for sources and evidence.”

  “There are gipsies in Notting Hill?” Victoria blurted.

  “Yes.” Charles paused for additional interjections – which did not come. “With summer approaching, they park their vardos in the fields north and east of Kensington, beyond Portobello Farm. Much of the land is common and underused, although there is a cemetery nearby. There is also a political movement afoot to ban the Romanichals from such campsites, likely spurred by developers wishing to co-opt the pastures for their pleasure homes.” Stopping himself, Charles cleared his throat. “But I digress.”

  “Hey, we’ve all got a soapbox.” Victoria’s tone was cheerful, her expression pleasant. “So you were interviewing gipsies.”

  “After three days of investigation with nothing to show for it, an old Romanichal woman approached me. She looked to be a hundred if a day, and she carried a basket of dried lavender. I thought she wanted me to purchase a bouquet. Instead she handed me a parcel which contained a pendant. This was its wrapping.”

  From another pocket Charles withdrew a square of linen. He offered it to Victoria who spread it across her left palm and studied it while continuing to eat. “This looks like a three-year-old drew it,” she said. “What is it?”

  “A map. I required several more days and assistance from a friend to determine its purpose. The X is the door, as I discovered, and the pendant serves as its key.”

  Victoria flipped the linen over. “She didn’t tell you how to open the door?”

  “No, that discovery relied upon my trial and error. Several weeks’ worth.”

  “So that’s when you started haunting me.” When Charles gave her a quizzical look – one he beginning to perfect – Victoria snickered. “I thought you were a ghost.”

  He was disappointed to hear it. “You believe in such whatnot, Miss Smith?”

  “No,” she assured him. “But it doesn’t sound a whole lot less plausible than what’s actually happened. I’m having breakfast with a guy who’s 160 years older than I am.”

  Charles stiffened, almost dropping his utensils. “What did you call me?”

  Victoria’s eyes grew as wide as the buttons on his waistcoat. “You haven’t done the math?”

  “No – well, yes, but I refer to your choice of wordage. To allude to any man as a guy in my time is not complimentary. Quite the insult, in fact, although I’ve recently read it is now used in affable address between men in the former colonies. Do you know of Guy Fawkes?”

  “Sure. November fifth. Bonfire Night. Gives the Brits a reason to drink like fish and set things on fire. Tons of fun.” She returned the map. “To be a guy isn’t an insult now. People use the word all the time. No one puts the two together, especially not in the former colonies – which could also sound a little insulting to someone from the United States of America.”

  “Forgive me. It has not yet been a century since your colonial uprising.”

  “When we kicked your butts to kingdom come?”

  Straining to interpret, and praying he was wrong, Charles did not mask his shock. It was rare for him to be struck dumb by another’s comments. He knew most of the lower-class cant of his day and even used it on occasion. But if Miss Smith’s informality was de rigueur in her London, then things had changed far more than he, or any prognosticator, could fathom.

  “Hey.” She rested her hand on his arm in a gesture clearly meant to console. “I’m sorry. That was over the top.”

  When discomforting silence rose between them, Charles decided that it was his fault. He could not measure Victoria by his social conventions any more than she could apply her own standards to him. She was far less superficial, and exponentially savvier, than the popsy-wopsy types who appealed to his brothers. While they might hail from different eras, they inhabited the same remarkable city and by their own particular choosing. Gladly Charles would sacrifice his pride to resurrect their rapport.

  “Perhaps not,” he acknowledged. “Yet I feel compelled to ask – where is it, my dear American, you currently reside?”

  She graced him with the ebullient smile he’d already grown to crave. “England.”

  “And why did you move back to the motherland?”

  Playfully she hesitated. “Because I’ve wanted to live here since I was little.”

  “Not so tyrannical now, are we?”

  Victoria lifted her cup in salute. “And you still make the best mug of tea.”

  Chapter Three

  The world was not flat. Its circumference had been validated many times over. Yet the title of the book Charles clasped in his hands appeared to disagree.

  Briefly he flipped through its crisp pages. It contained no maps, and the words he skimmed referenced finance, not geography. Relieved, he returned it to the shelf.

  Bored of waiting, he had drifted downstairs – first to re-examine the storeroom door and then the bookshop beneath it. Quickly his survey became overwhelming due to the breadth and depth of printed materials. The national book market continued to flourish, and the daguerreotype had given way to images so real, Charles felt transfixed by their richness.

  Like Miss Smith.

  He pushed aside the capricious thought and wandered behind the shop’s counter. Its glass top sheltered books that appeared to be from his era, and only the padlock on its rim kept him from reaching inside.

  Much of what Charles expected to find in a shop was not there. No register. No ledgers or ink pots. In their customary place sat a black rectangle that was roughly the size and shape of his old writing slate.

  He touched the rectangle with his thumb. The contraption awoke, and an image seized its screen – Victoria’s transcendent smile tucked among five others. With painted faces and matching frocks, they held glasses of champagne and mugged like they shared one uproarious joke. The picture was too intimate for Charles to deduce where they stood, but all six women were jubilant and perhaps a touch in their cups. Two, he observed, were of African lineage. Another looked to be from the subcontinent of India. A fourth likely hailed from the Far East.

  Intrigued by their diversity, and clear affection for one another, Charles smiled to himself. Perhaps the world was flat after all. The idea pleased him more than a little.

  Straightening, Charles set his hands on the edge of the counter. He imagined what it must be like to operate a business, to spend each day kowtowing to the whims of others, fetching and wrapping and chatting with strangers whose custom put food on the table. It would not be unpleasant, he determined. Wearying, yes – but no more so than the career he had chosen.

  A shopkeeper’s lot was out of the question. His profession was the nethermost he could sink in society without discrediting his family more than he already did. Perhaps that was why he had pursued journalism. He was worth too much for clerking, yet somehow worthless to his brothers.

  Or perhaps he found the lives of others more interesting than his own.

  Turning, he inspected the wall behind the counter. More books, some priced outrageously high, sat in glass cases. More padlocks kept his hands at bay.

  One book was splayed open on a woven gold stand, and Charles read the poem on its page.

  And yet these days of dreariness are sent us from above;

  They do not come in anger, but in faithfulness and love;

  They come to teach us lessons which bright ones could not yield,

  And to leave us bles
t and thankful when their purpose is fulfilled.

  He recognized the stanza – a translation from German, if he was not mistaken. Perhaps it was a hymn. Certainly it was lyrical. Then Charles took a step back.

  Were Victoria’s days dreary?

  There were few accidents, he’d learned, in the arrangement of spaces. Houses often spoke louder than their owners. A one-room flat might reveal more than its tenant. And appearances could be read like a book.

  To his right, a key rattled in the front door’s lock. The window shade was still drawn, but Charles presumed it was Victoria, and he darted around the counter to stand in a posture of courteous expectation ingrained in him since childhood.

  As the bronze bell rang overhead, one of the women of African lineage entered the shop. She crossed its threshold, wrestling to retrieve the key, and froze in shock when she noticed Charles.

  The boy in her arms was less flummoxed. “Where’s Auntie Tor?” he demanded.

  Charles recovered before the woman did. “Auntie Tor will return shortly. She is out on an errand. I am Charles Stratford, her…” A dozen possibilities, all inaccurate, popped into his mind. He was unprepared to explain his presence in Victoria’s bookshop, much less her life.

  The woman’s befuddlement transformed to delight, and she finished the thought with an enthusiastic grin. “Boyfriend? Ah, Tori. That’s my girl!” Jerking the key loose, she passed it to her son and extended her hand. “I’m Claire. Pleased to meet you.”

  Informal, Charles reminded himself. Informal. Informal. Informal.

  He took the woman’s hand and returned her squeeze of greeting. Habitually he tipped a nod.

  Letting go, Claire looked him up and down. “Oooh, Tor’s found a gentleman. House of Lords, is it?”

  Hoping the comment was rhetorical, Charles just smiled. Claire – who had offered no surname amidst her salutations – seemed hoydenish yet more than common. She was petite, as her skin-tight trousers revealed, and the substantial diamond ring on her left hand bespoke both of marriage and wealth. Her watch, too, glittered with a multitude of jewels. Her blouse bore the pattern of a leopard’s pelt, and in place of a pelerine or cloak, she wore a sack coat of red leather. She did not wear a hat.