by Cate Lawley
A handsome face smiled back at her. "Comfort isn’t the primary consideration when choosing one's attire in this time. It's an intriguing concept."
"Comfortable clothing fascinates you more than independence for women? Spoken like a man." Beth looked down at the gravel path and her inadequate footwear. Comfort and functionality just ratcheted up a few notches on her priority list.
"Unfair," he said in a teasing tone. "Both are fascinating." But then a stillness settled on her companion's face.
"Why so serious?" Beth stopped, her hand on his arm.
Looking ahead on the path, he said, "My sister was a poet. She believed education would change the future for women."
"She's right. Not only education, but that's a large part of it."
"My sister succumbed to a fever many years ago, so she'll never see those changes."
Beth gently squeezed the arm under her fingertips. "I'm sorry."
A crisp, bright midday with a picnic cloth laid out under a shady tree…
Long legs sprawled out on the cloth, he asked, "Do all people speak so in your world? In your time?"
"Speech has become increasingly more casual over time. The way I talk is typical. Both men and women use slang." Beth nibbled on her sandwich. "Language is alive, ever-evolving. That's one of the reasons I love old books. They're a window into the language of their time."
He studied her closely. "I'm fond of old texts, as well. But I’m more inclined to imagine where the book has been, who has read it, whether it was treasured or sat unread upon a shelf. Sentimental, perhaps."
"I'd say charming." Beth picked up another sandwich square from her plate and studiously avoided his gaze.
An overcast afternoon in a public garden, the humid air smelling of cut grass and sweet flowers…
"A hot air balloon? No, I've never ridden in one." Beth considered it. She wasn't sure if the idea was appealing or frightening. "Have you?"
"I'd planned to, but…time got away from me." He took a sip of his tea, and turned to admire a nearby rose bush filled with pale pink blooms.
Somehow, she knew his response was significant, just like she knew exactly what to say. "You should make time. Today. Don't wait any longer."
He nodded his agreement. "Our time together has taught me that embracing the unexpected can bring surprising rewards.”
“And?”
His lips curved. “And I won't wait."
Beth rolled over in bed and snuggled tighter under her covers.
Chapter 5
When Beth awoke the next morning, she practically bounced out of bed. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so well. And then she remembered the dreams.
She unplugged her phone from its charger and rang Hillary.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Sounding groggy and only half awake, Hillary skipped right over "hello."
"Hill, it's after eight. You've probably already hit snooze at least twice." Beth sank down on the edge of her bed. "Besides, I had to tell you about the most bizarre dreams I had about this man."
Bedclothes that had been rustling stilled. "Did he have a big—"
"Hillary! Not that kind of dream. How can you be such a die-hard romantic and still have such a dirty mind?"
"Not mutually exclusive." Hillary's words were garbled by the toothbrush she was almost certainly speaking around. Water splashed in the background, and when she spoke next it was much clearer. "But don't keep me in suspense. If it wasn't that kind of dream, then what kind was it?"
Beth dropped back down on her bed then scooted back to lounge against the headboard. "First there was a walk in the park. Then a picnic, and tea in a tiny, beautiful garden. But I have pieces that are all out of context. More like a movie montage than a dream or a memory."
"Okay…And what’s the big deal? That sounds boring and not unusual at all."
"Well, it wasn't even a little boring, but you're missing the point. Tea, as in British tea. A walk in the park, as in strolling down a park path in inadequate shoes, a tight corset, and a Victorian gown. A picnic, as in antique china and a servant."
"You had a Victorian dream? Okay, that's a little weird."
"Wait, it gets weirder. I can describe to you in excruciating detail what it feels like to walk in a tightened corset and skirts that almost drag the ground." Beth slouched on her bed, mostly because she could. "I've never had such good posture."
"Except you didn't—it was a dream."
"Yes! That's it! I wasn't in a corset or drinking tea, because it was a dream. Except I've never worn a corset before, and I certainly have no idea what it feels like. So how is it I can remember exactly how shallow a breath I could take without my lungs burning or my skin pinching?" Beth filled her lungs with a deep breath, again, just because she could. "You have no idea, Hill. I can’t even imagine a trip to the bathroom—Ugh, never mind. The point is, I can remember it all as if it actually happened. Not in a fuzzy, non-specific way like a dream. Oh, and I like tea with two sugars and lemon."
"You don't drink tea, and the corset experience sounds unpleasant. But what about this man you mentioned? Who was he?"
"You don't think it's strange that my dreams were so vivid? Freakishly vivid?"
"Not really. If you're that worried about it, though, I can hook you up with an expert."
Beth wasn't sure she needed to see a therapist over one night of odd dreams, but if it made her feel better—maybe? "Okay—who are you seeing?"
"I told you about her. She reads auras, remember?"
Beth groaned. "The fortune-teller. Yes, I remember. I don't think I'm quite there yet."
"She’s not exactly a fortune-teller. And don't knock it until you try it—but tell me about this man! Was he gorgeous?"
Beth rolled on her side and tucked her knees close. "Well, not gorgeous, more handsome. Dark hair, warm brown eyes—warm like he's actually seeing you—and beautiful manners. He pulled my chair out for me, stood whenever I did, and helped me into the carriage. Oh! I'd forgotten about that. I went on a carriage ride."
"Tall, short, facial hair? No man-bun, right? That wouldn't work in a Victorian setting. But those Victorians loved their facial hair. Spill." Hillary's voice trailed off. "Oh! Build—skinny, muscular? Now spill."
Beth sighed. "Definitely clean-shaven. Taller than me, maybe half a foot taller? Broad shoulders. I'm not sure about build, Hill. He was wearing a suit."
"Fair enough. Benedict Cumberbatch, Ryan Reynolds, or Channing Tatum?"
"Oh, that's good." Beth closed her eyes, thinking back. "Um, Ryan Reynolds, but maybe less…"
"Buff?"
Beth grinned. "Yes. I was thinking bulky—but that works. I don't think the Victorians made it to the gym much." Her grin faded. "I feel a little funny talking about him like this."
"Well, he's just a dream, so you can put your mind at rest. You're not betraying confidences or oversharing, because he's not real. Does this not-real man have a not-real name?"
"No. No name." Beth frowned. Why did it feel so much like she was betraying a confidence? She scrunched her eyes shut and gave herself a little mental shake. Hillary was right. She didn't even know his name; he was just a dream.
She spent the next several minutes recounting her adventures in Victorian England with her unnamed, handsome, and thoroughly attentive escort. And even though Beth knew he was only a dream, there were a few details she kept to herself. First, Beth was convinced that her unnamed man, contrary to all outward appearances, was sad. And second, she remembered the exact moment the dream ended: her mystery man clutched for her hand as it faded away.
Chapter 6
Beth's work day started in low gear. And, distracted by dreams she couldn't get out of her head, she made error after error. When lunch rolled around, she decided it was probably in the best interests of both her and her clients if she took the rest of the day off. It was that or go back and double-check any work she completed. And the diary sitting on her writing desk, begging to be
read, had nothing to do with her decision.
Beth tapped her fingers on her desk. Who was she kidding? That diary had everything to do with her decision. Maybe if she hurried and finished it, she wouldn't be so consumed by thoughts of its author. No, consumed wasn't the right word. This was no crush. She was intrigued by the mystery of the book and the man. And distracted. Definitely distracted. "Right." She tapped the desk firmly. Time to do some reading.
She grabbed a cup of coffee then sat down at her writing desk. As she placed her mug well away from the handwritten pages, she had to stop and marvel at how casually she'd begun to treat the diary. First no gloves, and now she had a drink within spilling distance. The less-than-extraordinary entries must have sparked her dreams. Something within the words spoke to her.
Scanning through the first few pages, it didn't take Beth long to find where she'd left off. Her gentleman author had taken a constitutional—a brisk walk through the park near his home—in the last entry she'd read. Beth scanned the words, looking for the entry that followed, but then she paused. Had this entry been the impetus behind her dream where she'd walked in the park with her mystery man?
Possibly. But that didn't explain the picnic or tea. Or her memory of wearing Victorian clothes. She rubbed at the tiny crease forming between her eyes. She took a drink of her still-too-hot coffee and almost scalded her throat. Trying not to sputter coffee on the fine script, she set her mug down. And once she'd caught her breath, she started to read.
The writing was fine, elegant even. And while the events described were commonplace, the words themselves were never dull. Anything but. The author had a dry sense of humor and an eye for interesting details. So it was a mystery to Beth, why—for the second time—she'd read only a few pages and was struggling to stay awake.
She took several swallows of coffee, but it didn't help. Almost as soon as she started to read, her eyes grew heavy with sleep. There was a rational reason, Beth was certain, because there was always a rational reason. She was probably coming down with a cold or some other bug and just needed the sleep. Convinced that was the answer, she scooped up the book and moved to the sofa. She'd come close to snorting coffee on it—what harm could reading a few pages on the sofa do? She really was developing an odd relationship with this diary.
Once she was settled on the sofa and snuggled up with a fluffy blanket, she started to read again. A carriage ride…the sharp rap of hooves on cobbles…the gentle sway of a carriage…the jerk of a pothole.
"Elizabeth."
A firm grip on her forearm turned into a gentle shake.
"Elizabeth."
Beth's eyelids felt like they'd been glued together, but the shaking continued with such a determined persistence that she tried to pull herself awake. She forced her eyes open, and there he was…whoever he was. Hazel eyes framed with thick lashes met her gaze, and she had to will her hands not to reach out and touch his face. Brown—she'd remembered his eyes as brown. As she tried to orient herself to the bizarre situation—corset, full-length dress with long, tight sleeves, enclosed horse-drawn carriage, strange man—her hazel-eyed companion leaned back against the cushions. With a little more space and a handsome man's face no longer within easy reach, Beth felt less lightheaded and more awake. "Who are you?"
A frown crossed the man's face but was replaced with a more neutral expression before he spoke. "I had hoped you'd remember our previous encounters. I'm disappointed, but under the circumstances it's hardly surprising. Edward Stanbury, and it's a pleasure to see you again." Edward Stanbury offered an abbreviated bow.
A throb began to bloom into an ache in Beth's right temple. If this was a dream, how was it possible she felt a headache looming? And Edward Stanbury—Mr. Stanbury? Edward?—seemed much too real, not at all the indistinct construction she'd expect from a dream. She replayed his words, suspecting she'd missed something important. "I'm sorry—encounters? How many times do you think we've met?"
"Several." Again the flash of disappointment. "Tea, walks in the park, a shared picnic. You hold none of those events in your memory?"
"But…" The outings Beth had described to Hillary had only been dreams, not memories. To think otherwise was madness. "It's not possible. This carriage, this dress, you…all of this is simply not possible."
"Improbable, yes, but the evidence is before you. You are here, as am I. Magic, fate, the hand of God? I do not know. But I believe that you are real and you are here." Edward leaned across the carriage and reached for her gloved hand. He held the tips of her fingers and looked into her eyes. She blushed at the intensity she saw there, as if he truly knew her. The words that left his lips were barely above a whisper. "Live in this moment with me. Share another day with me. Please." When she hesitated, he said, "You helped me learn to take chances again. Do you remember?"
"The hot air balloon. Yes." Yes, she remembered—that he'd needed to step outside the past, even if it was into a hot air balloon. And yes, she'd share a day with this man.
Chapter 7
Edward hadn't realized how solitary his existence had become, not until Elizabeth had appeared in his garden. It had been a quiet day, as most of his days were. And late in the afternoon. Almost exactly one month had passed since that noteworthy day. She was a spark that lit up his dull existence. She'd brought adventure into his life.
He would never have suspected her eventual tale of traveling from the future. Why would he? She had been dressed no differently than one would expect. And her speech had been explained—in part—by her colonial origins.
At first an apparition, she'd become more solid as the seconds passed. Eventually, she'd become a woman fully formed, asleep on a lawn chair. And having seen her fade into existence, a spirit was a reasonable presumption, perhaps. But the future? That had taken time for him to understand. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. It had been time he'd enjoyed immensely.
"Can I ask what's made you so happy?" Elizabeth asked, a look of confusion passing across her face.
And no wonder, if she had no memory of their previous encounters. Edward had the advantage of their past discussions, the hours they'd spent hypothesizing the cause and purpose of Elizabeth's journey.
"I apologize. I was recalling the occasion of our first meeting."
"That's flattering." She gave him a wan smile. "Unfortunately, I don't remember that happening. Maybe you could jog my memory?"
Edward repressed a smile at the odd phrasing. Initially, he'd found it gauche, irritating. Now he found it endearing. "You appeared in my garden."
"Appeared? I just winked into existence?"
"No. At first, you appeared as a specter. But your form solidified until you were whole."
"That's just not possible." Elizabeth gave him a speculative look. "If you're from a different time…" Her chin tilted.
He'd come to learn this was a sign of a mental effort to dispel confusion with rational thought, and he found it charming. His Elizabeth attempted a rational reasonable explanation for her arrival in his era each time he encountered her. "This is the age of Queen Victoria, 1899."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then how can you be certain I'm not an agent of the devil? Or some other aberration?"
"Because I've come to know you and cannot believe that you represent some unwholesome will. Certainly not the devil, should he exist. And you did appear on my lawn chair in a deep slumber." No gentleman would comment upon the gentle snore that had escaped before she'd woken, but the memory made a smile tug at his lips.
"You seem pretty sure." The tiny crease of worry just atop the bridge of her very fine nose deepened. "Have we had this conversation before?"
"We have, indeed. And you were equally as skeptical each time, but my brilliant analysis convinced you to put aside your doubts and embrace the experience of time travel."
"Wait—how many times have we had this conversation? I mean, how many times have we met?" Her enchanting countenance turned a pale shade of pink, a certain sign that she w
as losing her patience.
Edward handed her the fan that lay abandoned next to her. "Half a dozen or more." Seven times, with this as the eighth, to be exact. He suspected, however, that such accuracy would only befuddle her further.
Elizabeth swept the fan in front of her face with a decidedly unladylike vigor. "A dozen? A dozen." The vigor with which she employed the fan increased. "But I've only just had the one night of dreams. But I suppose it doesn't have to make sense, because it's a dream and they don't make sense. That's how dreams work."
Edward listened as she continued in this vein for several minutes. He knew from past experience that she would eventually talk herself into some semblance of equanimity.
Finally, she turned to him, chin firm and resolute. "Well, if this is a dream, then there's certainly no harm in us enjoying—" She looked at the passing scenery, just now changing from town to country. "What exactly are we doing?"
"I had intended a trip to a rather well-regarded rose garden in the area. The Honorable Stephen Humphries opens his gardens every third Saturday of the month."
"Ah. And when I emerge from a carriage that I never entered, your driver will do what, exactly? I'm working on the assumption that people in my dream act like real people—and that he'll flip out, um, react poorly." As soon as the words left her lips, she gave him a curious, intent look. "You seem so real."
And therein lay the challenge. As soon as he convinced her of the reality of his existence, she disappeared and lost her memory of him. And after seven visits, he had hoped for more. Whoever was directing these encounters—and he was certain some intervening force was at work—they either had a devilish sense of humor or needed to hone their skills. Fate, a trickster, a higher being? He'd posed these questions more than once, several times to Elizabeth, and always he came back to the same answer. He simply had no explanation, and he was enjoying himself far too much to hope for it to end. Realizing he hadn't answered her question, Edward cleared his throat, and said, "There's a trick to it, but we've managed in the past. No need to worry."
