A great gush of joy was welling up inside her, desperately trying to burst out. She ought to suppress it, but she did allow herself to dance down one single flight of stairs. After that, she made herself go slowly, with the measured tread of a senior curator returning to her collection. If anyone saw her, they wouldn't be fooled, though. She was probably grinning like a loon.
She made it back to the safety of the costume collection without meeting anyone but visitors. Phew. Since the room was empty, she gave a couple of whoops of joy. Very discreet whoops. She would celebrate, for real, once she got home.
She was singing as she tidied away the costumes she'd been showing to the visitors and finished her paperwork. Before going down to the staff room to collect her outdoor things, she glanced in the mirror. There was a gleam of triumph in her eye, but if she kept her face straight enough, the others were unlikely to notice.
Some of the volunteers were already downstairs, chatting about their day and packing away their lunch boxes. Emma had noticed that very few of them used the Lamb House café. It had to be quite expensive, because the profits contributed to the upkeep of the house.
As the volunteers were about to leave for the car park, Geraldine appeared with a clipboard, part way through her routine for closing up the house for the night. "Oh, by the way, Emma. About that key."
Emma stiffened. Was she in for another dressing-down? In public, too?
Geraldine smiled. "I thought I should tell you. I had a look in the records this afternoon. They're nothing like complete, but I did find a reference to problems with some of the locks on the bedroom floor. It's possible that both the locks in the dressing room were changed, in the late Victorian period. So your key could be genuine. But if it is, the lock it fitted is long gone."
"Oh." Emma couldn't think of a thing to say. She knew she was staring, wide-eyed. At last, she managed, "Thank you for telling me, Geraldine. That's very, er, interesting. I'll put the key back in store with a new label saying 'Query Regency-era key to dressing room in the Lamb House, lock missing, replaced in late nineteenth century'. Then no one else will go off on a wild goose chase the way I did."
Geraldine nodded. "Good idea." She went back to her security checklist.
Emma drove home a bit distracted, turning the new information over in her mind. It was a very peculiar puzzle. According to available records, neither Lady Emma Groatster nor Will Almay had ever existed. And yet Emma herself had the possible proof provided by the dressing-room key, plus the definite proof of a hugely expensive sapphire earring. So the lovers must have existed. Somewhere.
What she needed was more proof. It was purely a question of finding it.
A glimmer of an idea tickled the back of her brain. And she was sure she had seen a book on the shelf in the research room that would provide the information she needed to make a start. To turn her latest off-the-wall notion into a full-blown plan, though, she would need a lot of background information and a great deal of guile, as well. A bit of luck could help, too.
Her new idea might prove the lovers existed. But, if it worked, it could also provide a huge boost to Emma's career. She ought to be focusing on that because, soon, she would have nothing else. Once Will married Patience, Emma would never make the transition again. Seeing him would be unbearable. So Emma would be alone, stranded in the modern world with not so much as a cat to love her.
Chapter Twenty
Emma woke up early with a smile on her face. She couldn't wait to get back to Will. And it was Friday. A working day. So she could make the transition to where she was beginning to think she belonged. If she didn't make the most of this chance, she would have to wait three whole days before she could try again. Three days. It would be unbearable.
She snuggled down under the duvet for a few extra minutes. It reminded her of being in Will's arms – safe, and warm, and wanted. She heard herself making contented murmurs in her throat. Mmm. But she must get up soon. She needed to be the first to arrive at the museum so that she could do a few more of those blasted record cards. She doubted that anyone would have noticed, while she was at the Lamb House, that the data entry had not advanced at all in spite of the curator's late night working the day before. But the longer she left it, the more chance there was that someone would notice.
She allowed herself to lurk a little longer, remembering her triumph of the day before. That sapphire earring under the floorboard changed everything. It was there. In the twenty-first century. And it was there because she, Lady Emma Groatster, had put it there in 1817. So keys were not the only things that could migrate over centuries. Till now, the time travel had been in one direction only. The crucial question was whether migration worked backwards in time, as well. And tonight, she hoped to find the answer.
~ ~ ~
At the museum, Emma mentioned, during the morning coffee break, that she was planning to work late again. "You're overdoing it, Emma," Richard said in a worried voice. "It's no wonder you're getting migraines when you work so hard. And it's Friday, too. Everyone else will be off on the dot of closing time. They've got lives to live beyond work."
And so have I, but not in this century.
She threw a glance at Richard, silently thanking him for his concern. "Most of my life revolves around work at the moment," she said with a rueful smile. "And I'm really enjoying it, even the data entry part of it. So it's honestly no hardship to stay late and do a bit more. My weekend will be a rather boring affair – shopping and chores like house cleaning are not exactly attractive prospects." That was not the whole truth. On Saturday morning, she was going to have her first riding lesson in years – side-saddle. There would be nothing boring about that.
"You haven't forgotten you're babysitting for us tomorrow?"
In the excitement of finding the sapphire, she had. "No, no," she said quickly. "It will be the highlight of my weekend," she added, with a laugh.
"Well, I hope Chloë behaves herself, or it will be a highlight you'll want to avoid in the future."
Emma shook her head. "No, I won't do that. Chloë and I are becoming firm friends." That was true. Emma loved children and Chloë was an absolute sweetheart. "I wouldn't pass up another chance to spend time with her. No matter what she does tomorrow."
"That's very generous of you, Emma."
"Besides, I want to hear all about Madam Butterfly."
"Now that," Richard said with a grin, "is stretching the truth a bit too far. Didn't you say you detested that particular bit of Puccini? I didn't tell Melanie so, of course. In any case, she's such a fan she would be bound to rave about it, even if she knew you hated it."
The rest of Friday passed very slowly. Every time Emma glanced across at St Mary's clock, the hands seemed to be stuck. But at long last, closing time arrived and, as Richard had predicted, all the rest of the staff left promptly. They had wives and husbands and lovers to go home to. Whereas Emma's flat was a lonely place, with no one. But in her other life…
She smiled to herself. She had more than another hour to wait, so she could dig out that book from the research room. She spotted it immediately, bang in the middle of the shelf, exactly where she remembered seeing it before. It was a mine of useful information. As long as the people in Will's Regency reality matched the ones who were recorded in the history books – and after her success with the sapphire, Emma was much more hopeful on that score – she should be able to turn her vague idea into action. But she needed Mr Richard Cosway to be alive, and still working, in Will's version of 1817 London.
Pity she couldn't take the book with her. Written notes might transfer if she was holding them in her hand when she put the lace gown on, but she couldn't be sure. So Emma set herself to memorising the key facts about Cosway instead. She now knew a huge amount about him, including where he lived, how quickly he could execute his commissions, and the highest fees he had ever charged. Fantastic.
Provided a version of the historical Richard Cosway actually existed in Will's parallel London.
~ ~ ~
Emma wasn't surprised when the lace ballgown took her back to her own Mayfair house and her own bedchamber. Her silver clock showed a little after one. In the morning? It must be, since she was dressed in her ballgown.
But what day was it? And how long since she'd last been here?
She pulled the bell to summon Bailey.
The abigail took several minutes to appear. For once, she must have been downstairs rather than hovering in the dressing room.
"Help me to undress, please, Bailey. I'm more than ready for my bed."
"You're frowning, m'lady. Have you the headache again? Shall I order a tisane?"
Emma shook her head. "No. I'm simply tired." Once Bailey had removed the gold gown and her stays, and wrapped her in a bedgown, Emma sank into her favourite chair by the fire. "Oh, that reminds me. There's something I want you to do."
"Of course, m'lady. Now?"
Emma laughed. "No, certainly not. It's the middle of the night. First thing in the morning will do very well."
Bailey stood in front of Emma's chair with her hands loosely clasped against her skirt, the picture of an obedient servant waiting for orders.
"I want you to send one of the footmen to Mr Richard Cosway, at number two Stratford Place. He is to ask Mr Cosway to wait on me here, tomorrow, at his earliest convenience. And Mr Cosway is not to disclose my request to anyone. Not even to his wife."
"Might it not be simpler to send Mr Cosway a note, m'lady?"
Emma shook her head again, more decisively. "I have very particular reasons for wishing there to be no written record of my dealings with Mr Cosway, Bailey. You will make sure the footman is word-perfect in my message, if you please." She made Bailey repeat it, word for word, until she was satisfied. "Good. Thank you. First thing in the morning, please. And the footman is not to wait for a reply."
Bailey nodded and set herself to brushing out Emma's curls and plaiting her hair for bed. The long strokes of the brush were very relaxing. As was the warmth of the fire. Emma could feel herself beginning to doze.
Emma was on the point of getting between the sheets when Bailey suddenly said, "Oh, goodness, m'lady. I had quite forgot. What with the instructions for the footman, and Mr Cosway, and— It totally slipped my mind. I am so sorry."
"What on earth are you talking about, Bailey? What have you forgotten?"
Bailey dug into the pocket of her black gown. "This, m'lady. A rather grubby note. It came for you while you were out." She sniffed. "I must tell you that I almost refused it when I saw the subscription, but the boy insisted it must be delivered to you. So in the end I let the footman take it."
She handed over a rather dog-eared piece of paper, roughly folded. On it was written, in black ink, "Lady E G". There was no address.
Emma reached for it. Could it be from Will? It did not look like a lady's hand. For Bailey's benefit, Emma shook her head sadly and said, "I suppose the boy who brought it could not read and so there was no point in adding my address."
"But your name, at least, m'lady?"
"He probably had it by heart. Along with the address. Such boys have a degree of native cunning, you know. One should not underestimate them just because they cannot read."
"No, m'lady." Bailey was hovering, waiting for Emma to open the note and say who it was from. From the look on the abigail's face, she was suspicious.
Emma knew better than to dismiss the woman. It would only serve to increase her doubts. So Emma leant towards the head of her bed and broke the seal in the light of her bedside candle. With the paper at that angle, Bailey couldn't possibly see anything written on it.
"Ah. It is from Mrs Smith," Emma lied glibly. The note was from Will. And, bless him, it was dated. "She has my missing earring, you will be relieved to hear, Bailey." That was another lie, for Will knew nothing about what Emma had done with the earring, but mentioning it might help to divert Bailey's suspicions.
The abigail grunted.
Emma made a show of scanning the rest of the note. "Mrs Smith has invited me to visit her tomorrow evening. And to stay for a few days, as she is presently confined to her bed. She would much welcome the company, she says. I shall go. I shall need that valise of books."
Bailey nodded. "I will prepare your travelling cases, m'lady. Are you likely to need evening dress, do you think?"
Emma glanced back at the note. "I imagine I shall be dressing for dinner, but I doubt that Mrs Smith will be hosting anything more elaborate."
Bailey nodded again. "You won't be wanting the gold lace ballgown, then," she said firmly. It was not a question.
Emma was stymied. Without the gold lace, she wouldn't be able to escape from Will. Not unless he allowed her to leave. She took a deep breath and considered her options. Did she trust him enough?
Yes. She did. Will was not Julian. Will was not controlling. She had promised not to run from him again. So she didn't need the gold lace as a sort of Regency get-out-of-jail-free card.
"At what time shall we be leaving for Mrs Smith's, m'lady? I presume you would wish me to order the carriage?"
"No. Mrs Smith is sending her own carriage for me at eight tomorrow evening. Or rather, this evening, since it is already Tuesday. She feels, er, she thinks she is imposing upon me quite enough by having me keep company with an invalid. And as I told you before, she likes to keep her horses exercised."
"Very well, m'lady. I shall be ready."
Uh-oh. Moment of truth. Get it over with. "I shan't be taking you with me, Bailey." When the abigail's eyebrows shot up, Emma added, placatingly, "Don't worry. Mrs Smith's woman can help me to dress and I shan't need one of your splendid hairstyles for reading to an invalid. It is a very small, quiet household. You would be quite at a loss for anything to do." Bailey still looked mulish, so Emma said, "It will give you time to change the trimming on my straw bonnets." She yawned and waved a vague hand in the direction of the dressing room. "I must say I am becoming thoroughly bored with them. What do you say to cherries, perhaps, instead of ribbons?"
Bailey grimaced. "Cherries would be quite inadmissible with your red hair, m'lady." She paused, her attention caught by Emma's professional challenge. "But carefully chosen flowers could look very becoming. Or feathers, perhaps?"
Emma smiled. It seemed she'd won that round. "I shall leave my bonnets in your capable hands, Bailey. And I shall expect to be pleasantly surprised at what your clever fingers have created, when I return from Mrs Smith's."
~ ~ ~
Richard Cosway arrived next morning before Emma had finished dressing. Bailey was frowning as she closed the door on the maid who had brought the message upstairs. "The man, Cosway. He is downstairs, m'lady."
"Goodness. Make haste with finishing my hair, Bailey."
The abigail continued her work at the same steady pace as before. "He is a tradesman," she said flatly. "He can surely wait."
"If he is a tradesman, Bailey, he is a tradesman with very influential friends. I believe his salon was frequented by the highest in the land when he lived in Pall Mall. The Prince Regent himself used to attend though His Royal Highness was not Regent then. He is much more conscious of his dignities now."
Bailey said nothing. She pinned a curl in place and picked up her comb again.
"Besides," Emma added, "Cosway is an old man now. We should venerate his years. Where have they put him?"
"In your bookroom, m'lady."
"Very well. I shall go down to him as soon as you have finished my hair."
Emma wondered what she would see. According to the reference books, contemporaries had described Cosway as a small man with a face like a monkey. In his younger days, he had certainly been mocked for his looks and for his extravagant and ostentatious modes of dress. He even had a nickname: "The Macaroni Miniature Painter". But he was undoubtedly an expert in his profession. Emma knew, even if much of the Regency did not, that Cosway had painted the famous miniatures exchanged between the Prince of Wales and Mrs Fitzherbert. She
knew, too, that when the Prince – who would be crowned as King George IV – eventually died, he would be buried with that same Cosway painting of Mrs Fitzherbert next to his heart.
"There. That is done, I think, m'lady."
Emma glanced at her reflection. "That looks very well, Bailey. Thank you." She rose to leave.
"Your earrings, m'lady?" Bailey was holding out a pair of neat pearl ear-drops.
"Yes, very well," Emma said, curbing her impatience. She sat down again for a few moments while the abigail put the pearls in her ears. "I will see Cosway now. And in the meantime, Bailey, I need you to fetch me some ready money."
Bailey's eyebrows rose.
"Thirty guineas should be enough."
Bailey's eyes widened even more.
"Bring it to me in the bookroom."
"I can ask Mr Bendridge, of course, m'lady, but he may not have such a large sum to hand. Perhaps, your strongbox…?"
A strongbox. I am bound to have a strongbox in the house. But where do I keep it? And where is the key?
"That might present, er, difficulties," she said slowly, playing for time.
"I understand, m'lady. You would not wish to let a tradesman like Cosway see where your money is kept."
Yes! It's in the bookroom.
"No. And to be perfectly honest – I would not share this with anyone else but you, Bailey – I cannot quite remember where I left the key."
"Is it not in the drawer of your desk in the bookroom, m'lady? I do not recall seeing it up here in your chamber."
"I can't remember. I will check when I go down. In the meantime, try if you can obtain the money from Mr Bendridge. As you say, it would not do for Cosway to discover where I keep my money box."
Although it would be very useful for me to discover it. And the whereabouts of the key as well.
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 18