She turned towards me and gave me a tight smile. Clearly winning this woman over was going to be a chore.
First, we started with a thin muslin chemise she referred to as a shift and some drawers, which I gathered were supposed to be like underpants. Then, after wrenching me into a corset, she began by layering me up with petticoat after petticoat until I counted six. Finally she helped maneuver me into a simple pale green dress with puffed sleeves and an ornate flower trim. How did women eat or breathe wearing these clothes? Not to mention deal with the summer heat? My shoes had miraculously made it unscathed and I was relieved to be afforded that one little bit of comfort.
Miss Barnsby also offered to put my hair up. I would have stuck it in a pony tail, which would have caused some form of scandal, I was sure. The truth was I had never been very good at being a girl, so hairstyling was not one of my strengths. When it became clear that Miss Barnsby’s desire to help me was more out of fear that my grooming could in any way be a reflection on her, she changed her attitude toward me. In turn, I made a mental note of it.
As I came down the wide staircase Lord Henry was just coming in from outside. My stomach lurched into a nervous knot. He was still in breeches, but was now wearing a double-breasted waistcoat, shorter in the front and longer in the back. In his hand he carried a top hat made from felted beaver skin. He caught a glimpse of me and bowed his head.
“Miss Emma, how are you feeling? It’s good to see you on your feet.” He looked surprised to see me walking around and not completely at ease with it.
“A hell of a lot better, thank you.” His eyebrows shot up. Oops. Again with the language. “I thought I’d grab some tea and get some fresh air,” I said as I continued following Miss Barnsby towards the dining room.
Lord Henry watched me with amusement.
I was just about to follow Miss Barnsby right through the doors into the kitchen and servants’ quarters when she turned towards me. “Oh, you need not follow me, dear, you may have a seat over there and the footman will bring you some tea,” she said with a touch of condescension and pointed to a long formal dining table.
The only one in the room to witness my mild humiliation was Lord Henry, who seemed to be waiting for me to sit before he could settle down himself to read some kind of newspaper. He chuckled to himself. My cheeks and ears burned. Within seconds I would be the color of cheap blush. When I was young, everyone had thought my rosy cheeks made me look healthy, but as an adult it had become quite a curse. One sip of alcohol and I was the color of a beet. Every emotion, shame, excitement, embarrassment was reflected by the many shades of red. Who knew there could be so many? There was no hiding with my skin.
Looking around the room with its thick draperies and delicate gold-trimmed furniture, I had always imagined a house like this bustling with people and servants. Where was everyone?
As if on cue, two young house maids bowed at Lord Henry and continued through the room, no doubt on their way to clean something. A footman came through a hidden door with a tray of tea and biscuits. He was dressed in a black tail coat and a crisp white shirt and neck tie. On his hands he wore white gloves and his hair was neatly combed back. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old but he was surprisingly tall.
He laid a flowered tea cup and saucer in front of me and poured my tea in silence. There was a small creamer and a bowl of coarse-looking sugar cubes laid out beside me.
“Please ring if you would like anything else, miss,” he said politely and vanished to the back of the room. I examined the small bell he’d left on the table beside me. He’d meant that literally. I had to fight the urge to ring it.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room as I sipped my tea. Now what? Was I supposed to make conversation with Lord Henry? Times like these having an iPhone would come in handy. Every empty silence could be filled up by scrolling Facebook or Instagram. With the swipe of a finger I was always able to go from Nellie-no-friends to looking busy. It felt excruciating to be without my third limb. Now, without my twenty-first-century distractions, my head whirled as I tried to make sense of my situation. I knew where I was, sort of, but when exactly?
Glancing up, I noticed Lord Henry watching me suspiciously from behind his newspaper at the other end of this long table, his hair catching the light perfectly like a magazine ad. The man was fastidiously well groomed. He had either a very attentive valet or a borderline compulsive disorder. I’d never laid eyes on anyone so well put together. Even his fingernails looked neatly buffed as he held the paper.
His paper.
I snapped back to reality. There would be a date on it somewhere. Reluctantly, I picked up my tea cup, holding it with two hands like I would nurse that first morning coffee, and walked over towards him. I was concentrating so hard on not tripping on the front of my dress that I didn’t notice his amused expression as I approached. My hands. I quickly readjusted my grip on the tea cup to something a little more dainty, or so I hoped.
“Um… Lord Henry?” I said tentatively. “Would it be all right if you, or someone, maybe your coachman driver guy”—what was the right term? —“could show me where we had the accident so that…” I was trying to catch a glimpse of his paper. Where did papers put the dates back then? Top right or top left?
“Do you think that might help you remember something?”
“Exactly.” I still wondered if it would be rude to ask if I could see his paper. His eyes followed mine to the paper.
“Oh, this would be of no interest to you, I’m sure, but I could have Miss Barnsby bring you some books on poetry and womanly things, if you’d like?” he said dismissively. It touched a nerve.
“Wow, that’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume that my ‘interests’”— I air-quoted—“would be so narrow.” I wasn’t looking to pick a fight. The truth was I did love poetry but I wasn’t sure what ‘womanly things’ meant. The idea of it brought up my feminist hackles.
“Have I offended you?” He looked confused.
“You’ve insulted me.” As soon as I said it I realized that I should have just let it go. The stress of my current predicament was making me more sensitive.
“Well, I have yet to meet a woman whose interests go beyond such things,” he said. “Certainly one with any proper breeding.” This last bit was said more quietly under his breath but with a hint of sarcasm. “Pardon me, madame, I don’t wish to insult you.”
“Apology accepted.”
Instead of looking annoyed with me, as I thought he might be, he cracked a smile.
“When you’re done with your paper, may I see it?” With my teacup in hand, and not in a dainty way, I walked back to the other side of the table feeling like I might have ruffled a few nineteenth-century feathers.
“Of course, Miss Emma.” He drained his own tea, rose and walked the paper over to where I was settling down to inhale those delicious-smelling biscuits the footman had brought me. “You can have it now. I have some business to attend to anyway.”
He paused for a moment and looked down at me, sitting there with crumbs on my lips.
“I will have the groom tack up some horses.” He paused. “I’ll take you to the accident site myself. You can ride, I presume?”
At this I did manage a smile. All the doom and gloom I had felt last night instantly evaporated with the idea of riding. It had been a few years and I’d missed it.
Lord Henry bowed to me and took his leave.
When he was completely out of the room and my daydreams of galloping through the rolling hills had faded, I stole a glimpse of his paper. One of the headlines read, ‘Cholera is back in England’. The article listed the many ways to help prevent the spread of the disease; observing the strictest levels of cleanliness at all times was at the top. Further down the page I noticed that Parliament was trying to pass a bill that would allow women to claim spousal abuse as a reason for divorce. Women’s lib was still a long way off. Realizing that I was distracting myself, I scanned the paper for w
hat I really needed to know and there it was in black ink—the date.
The seventeenth of August, 1854.
Chapter 7
Angus
I eyeballed the gown I was expected to ride in and immediately felt nauseous once again.
“I’m supposed to ride in that?” I pointed to the dress, or riding habit as Miss Barnsby called it.
“Would you prefer another color, Miss Emma?” said Miss Barnsby with the patience of a Post Office clerk at Christmas.
“Can I not just ride in some breeches?” We had already been over this.
She chuckled as if I’d completely lost my mind.
In the end, we settled on a pair of pants disguised as a dress with extra folds and a cute tailored leather jacket. While it was summer it wasn’t a particularly warm day. It had been ages since I’d last been on a horse and my wardrobe was doing little to help my comfort level.
When I got downstairs, a wiry man of maybe sixty with sharp, skeletal features and a dark suit with long tails approached me. He explained his name was Phoebus, the butler, and Lord Henry was taking care of some urgent business and would join me in the small drawing room in about ten minutes.
“All right, but I’d really love to get some air. Would you let him know that I’ll meet him down at the stables instead?” I was anxious to be with the horses and something that was at least familiar. While people’s manners, language and customs changed over the centuries I doubted that horses were any different.
The butler’s eyes widened, but before he could coerce me into staying I started for the door. He scrambled to get there first, no doubt moving faster than he was used to, his combover hair flapping wildly.
“Ah, madame, may I suggest…” he stammered, perhaps not sure how forcibly he should detain me.
“If you could just point me in the right direction that would be great. I mean lovely.” I smiled, hoping that kindness would do the trick. I couldn’t tolerate the idea of spending one more second indoors.
“Um… of course.” He looked over his shoulder for reinforcements, but none could be found.
I had a pang of sadness when I walked down the drive and saw the little cottage. My cottage. Almost unchanged.
Ben.
Tears welled up in my eyes and I dabbed at them with the gloves that Miss Barnsby had given me. Was he worried about me? Did he even exist at this moment? Technically no, I supposed. Would I ever see him again? How? I had too many questions and no answers.
The only thing I did know was that if I was going to see him again I would need to survive long enough to find my way back home. There had to be one. My purse. The only link between me and the future. It could be dangerous if it were found by anyone else. What would they make of its contents? My throat started to tighten and a wave of nausea washed over me.
Breathe, I had to remind myself.
A cacophony of activity from inside the stables refocused my thoughts. Horses kicked and whinnied as their lunch was being served. The run-down building of the future was now a pristine structure. The familiar smell of manure and horse dander was a comfort. On noticing me, a middle-aged man and young boy scrambled to their feet, clearly not used to anyone barging in on their turf.
“Milady,” the older man said, looking uneasy. “Has milord called for the horses early?” A look of concern crossed his face.
“No.” I noticed he was having lunch on a bale of hay and felt guilty for my intrusion. “Please don’t get up. I just wanted to come and see the horses for myself.”
“We’ve got Angus all ready for you, miss,” the boy of maybe ten said as he gave the last bucket of grain to a beautiful bay. “Here, over there.” He pointed to a large dappled gray warmblood gelding. He was beautiful.
Sensing we were talking about him, Angus stomped his hoof impatiently on the stone floor. As I’d feared, Angus was wearing a beautiful black sidesaddle. For the love of God! I’d never ridden sidesaddle. How the hell would I manage this? I suddenly regretted being so sure of myself when Lord Henry had asked me if I could ride.
A small rush of nerves coursed through my belly at the thought of actually riding again.
Moments later, I was getting used to my new mount Angus. With both my legs facing the same side of the horse I had no idea how to ask him to move forward. I squeezed his side with my left leg, the one that actually rested in the stirrup, and nothing happened. He looked back at me like a mischievous pony. Sizing me up?
“For Christ’s sake, horse, just go.”
I kicked him in the side. He was a little sluggish to respond but at least he started to move. There was a grassy patch next to the stable which he beelined towards, almost unseating me as he pulled the reins out of my hands to have a snack. This was not how I’d imagined my first nineteenth-century ride would play out.
After a small battle of wills, I managed to walk up to the house on horseback, looking more confident than I felt. As I approached, I could see Lord Henry mounting up. He looked over in my direction and smiled. The butler, Phoebus Owens, turned to see what his master was so taken with.
“You are an eager one. Ready to go then, Miss Emma?” Lord Henry called out.
My cheeks were already flushed from the exertion of getting Angus to maintain a normal walk. I could only nod.
He spurred his horse into a trot. Angus immediately woke up and, not wanting to be left behind, picked up the pace right behind Lord Henry’s black gelding Dexter. My body bounced along uncomfortably and I struggled to keep my balance. I was determined not to let my discomfort show. Even the jacket, while cute, was already making me sweat and overheat.
How did women do it in this century?
A soft touch on the reins and Angus pulled up easily next to a low-lying tree branch and I removed my coat and flung it over the limb. Lord Henry had continued on and was now quite a distance away. He must not have noticed that we had stopped. Angus was pacing and refused to stand still. He was anxious to catch up with Dexter and I worried he might take off.
My body felt contorted like a pretzel in this saddle. In frustration, I swung my right leg out from the top pommel so that I was sitting astride. This was the only way I knew how to ride. I let Angus have a little rein and asked him to canter. His smooth canter soon turned into a gallop and we were flying through a farmer’s field with the afternoon breeze blowing my hair out of its tresses, turning it into a tangled mess. It was exhilarating. It felt wonderful to be back in the saddle. For the first time, I felt in my element. All of my current stresses were on hold and the only thing that mattered was this moment.
We thundered right past Lord Henry, spooking Dexter. Within seconds they were on our tail and I couldn’t stop from laughing out loud. Twenty strides ahead I could see a three-foot hedge, no doubt marking the edge of some farmer’s field. All I wanted to do was jump it. I had only one stirrup but as long as I kept centered I would be fine. Instinct took over and I started counting my strides and steadying Angus’ pace. Realizing I needed to move him up to get the perfect distance, I dug my heels into his side and with the smallest of hesitation and a few clucks from me he left the ground and sailed over the hedge. We pulled up a few strides later and I gave Angus a pat on his neck.
“What a good boy!” I cooed at him, feeling proud that I could still do it.
On the other side of the hedge, Lord Henry looked gobsmacked as he pulled up.
“Miss Emma, are you quite all right? I’ve never seen Angus jump. It was splendid.” Lord Henry broke into a canter and jumped the lower end of the hedge and joined us. “I must admit I was quite worried when I saw you head straight for the thicket,” he said, pulling up next to us. “You never told me you were so accomplished.”
“Thank you. It all just seemed to come back to me. I guess it’s just like riding a bike,” I said, still pleased with myself.
“I’m not particularly clear on your meaning. Could you be referring to a velocipede?” His face was flushed and he pulled a small flask from the inside of
his jacket, took a sip and held it out to me.
“Yes, exactly, it’s something like that,” I said and reached out to take the flask. Looking to quench my thirst, I took a larger gulp than I should have and was met with the burning sensation of whiskey. It sent me into a coughing fit.
“Generally it’s more palatable if you sip it.” Lord Henry laughed.
“Yeah…” I coughed again. “I kinda got that.” Handing back the flask, I noticed the White Hart pub in the distance. Riding through the fields, I had lost my sense of direction. It looked different of course without the parking lot and beer garden off the side, but everything else was just the same.
“It’s not much farther. Are you all right to continue?” he asked, noticing where I was looking.
“Yes, but”— I hesitated for a moment—“do you think we can pop in afterwards?” I nodded towards the White Hart.
“Finally a woman who can read my mind.” He smiled and kicked his horse into a trot. Something about the way he said it gave me a little flip in the belly. Maybe it was how he referred to me as a woman when I’d always thought of myself as a girl. Even at twenty-four, while I was technically a woman, being one and feeling like one were two different things.
Chapter 8
The Greaslys
Our thorough search of the accident site turned up nothing. My purse, it seemed, had not made the journey with me.
This stretch of road looked like any other along these parts. I had wondered if there was some sort of wormhole hidden in the trees and bushes which flanked either side. Would I see the blurred outline of a translucent doorway that would whisk me back to the future? But no matter how many times I walked the area, nothing magical or strange happened. So how did it work then?
Of course Henry was hoping that I might remember what I was doing there and perhaps where I’d come from. Both of those things I knew but couldn’t tell him without risking being locked up in some sort of nineteenth-century insane asylum. No matter how many times I played things over in my head there was no logical explanation for how anything had happened. Where did one even begin to look for answers to the illogical?
The Wayfarer: A Time Travel Romance (The Wayfarer Series Book 1) Page 4
