by Kit Morgan
Worse, everyone, literally everyone, was in period dress, and the village looked like an English hamlet of a hundred and fifty years ago. She hadn’t studied much history besides what she’d been taught by Mr. Mosgofian, but nothing had prepared her for this. “How much money does the duchess have?” she said under her breath.
A woman tugged at her sleeve, extinguishing her thoughts. “Pasty, Miss? A penny will see your belly filled.”
“A penny?” Tory said in shock and looked at the tray the woman carried. “For a, a … what are those, Hot Pockets? Meat pies? Are you kidding?” Her stomach rumbled.
“No, Miss. A penny satisfies the hunger.” She looked Tory over. “Oh, you must be the new governess I heard tell about.”
Tory sighed. Yep, Cozette was not only loaded, but certifiably nuts. Who pays for an entire village of people to dress up and play along? Her employer, that’s who! Still, the meat pies looked and smelled wonderful. She could do with a bite – she’d buy one, then look for coffee. She pulled out what money she had and tried to remember what was what. Let’s see, there was a penny … she handed it over.
The woman stared at the coinage in Tory’s hand. “Wot’s this? I never seen money like that before. I can’t take it.”
“Why not?” Tory asked, her stomach growling like an idling truck.
“’Cos I don’t know what that is. I can’t use foreign money.”
“What? This is British currency! Heck, I don’t know what coin is which, but I’m not from around here.”
“Trouble, Daisy?” someone grumbled behind them. Tory turned to find an older man towering over her, wide but well-dressed. He eyed her with suspicion and tipped his hat, exposing thin white hair. “Good morning, Miss.”
“Morning,” Tory said, just as wary. This whole history thing was working her last nerve.
“Wot seems t’be t’problem?”
“She can’t pay and she’s tryin’ to give me foreign money,” the pasty lady replied.
“Is she, now?” the man said. “Lemme see your coin, Miss.”
“Sure,” Tory handed it to him. “I don’t know what the fuss is about. Money is money.” She leaned toward him a little. “I mean, I know it’s not ‘historically accurate,’ but give me a break, will you? I’m hungry.”
The man eyed her a moment, then looked at the money in his hand. “Wot t’devil?”
Tory sighed in exasperation. “Oh, please – can’t you people drop the act for two seconds? I just want to buy a meat pie or whatever that is. Better yet, do you know where I can get some coffee? There isn’t a Starbucks around here, is there?”
A crowd was beginning to gather. Just what she needed – like a hole in the head. “A wot?” the man asked, then shook his head. “’Fraid you can’t buy one of Daisy’s pasties with this funny money.” He closed his fist over the coins. “Who are you, Missy?”
“Oh, boy,” Tory muttered and squared her shoulders. No choice but to play along. “I’m the new tutor for Her Grace,” she said sweetly. “I’m from America, so I hope you’ll forgive my confusion.”
The man, the crowd and Daisy all looked blank.
“America,” she said again. “You know, former colonies. Across the ocean. Had a bit of a row with King George …”
“We know wot America is,” the man snapped.
“She tryin’ to pull one over?” someone called from the crowd.
“I dunno, but I’ll find out.” The man took Tory’s arm. “Come wi’me, lass, and we’ll get this sorted.”
“Now just a minute!” She wrenched herself free. “I work for Her Grace, and if you people would stop this nonsense and just let me buy a cup of coffee and whatever it is Daisy here is selling, I won’t say a word to her. Otherwise you’ll be in big trouble with the woman!”
“Now, now, let’s not be hasty,” the man said. “I just want you t’come wi’me and tell me where you got these coins from.” He grabbed her arm again, none too gently, and dragged her away.
“What’s the deal?” she asked, trying to squirm out of his grip.
“You resisting me?” He gave her arm a yank.
“I most certainly am! You people are nuts!”
“Was that an insult?”
“Yes!”
“’T’s what I thought. You’re under arrest!”
“Arrest! For what?”
“For resisting a magistrate,” he snarled. “Now c’mon, love. Let’s you and I sit down and talk about this play money, eh wot?”
Back from the day’s fishing, Aldrich stood at the edge of his favorite section of the gardens, staring over the fields to the woods beyond, where “proof” of all Duncan had told him was wandering. Or rather, patrolling. The thought disturbed him every time he thought about it, including today while fishing. Even speaking with Cozette during the ball didn’t help. He knew the duke and duchess well – whatever it was they weren’t telling him had to be serious indeed.
If someone was out there planning to harm Tory and marrying her would protect her, of course he’d do it. He’d do anything to keep her safe. The thought of losing her ripped at him, accompanied by an icy emptiness that made his insides quiver. The sensation lasted only a minute or two while he fished, but even a second was too long. He never wanted to feel it again.
But even if he believed Duncan – and despite the absurdity of it, he knew his friend was telling the truth – would Tory? And if she did, would she want any more to do with him, or would she demand to be returned to her own time, her heart won or not?
Perhaps it would have been better if Duncan hadn’t told him. He’d have continued to pursue Tory, as was his plan. He knew how to woo a woman and wanted the pleasure of wooing her. He’d spare no expense – long walks in the gardens, fishing, riding, trips to London and Dover, everything one did when courting in his century. What did they do in Tory’s – explore the deep in submersibles? Take trips to the Moon?
It was simpler not to tell her, he’d thought at first. After all, the original plan was to bring her to him, let them fall in love and go from there. Though what did the duke’s friends have planned for them after that? No, Tory would have to be told the truth at some point. Were they not planning to tell her and only shock him with it? If so, that would mean …
“Bloody hell.” Aldrich spun on his heel and headed back to the manor. He didn’t know how much information Duncan was holding back, but he knew there was more to it – he was already thinking of questions – but his questions could wait. Protecting Tory came first if there was an actual threat. From the sound of it, so long as he could marry her and leave (the question was to where – and when), they would both be safe.
He was halfway back to the house when he stopped and spun around again. “Duncan went hunting,” he reminded himself aloud. He glanced at the house and back. He wouldn’t be able to speak with His Grace until he returned. And when he did, would he have MacDonald with him? He made a fist – he’d still like to punch one of them.
But if not for them, he’d never have met Tory. Was this the plan of the Fates, that he marry a woman from another time? Would he have been able to resist her otherwise? Normally he’d consider someone like her beneath him, but he was so drawn to her that he knew he had to win her or die in the attempt.
But first, Aldrich knew he had to calm down. He didn’t want Tory to see him like this. She’d slept through luncheon but was probably heading down to tea about now. Best he join her. He took a deep breath and continued toward the house.
Chapter Twenty
The village magistrate studied Tory’s coins in fascination. “These are silver?” He bit one, just like they did in the movies. “Nope, sure ain’t.”
“Oh please, isn’t this taking things too far? It’s a twenty-pence piece and you’re acting like you’ve never seen one before.”
“Not like this I hain’t, love. Now hush.” He picked up the one-pound coin. “Nor this’n.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Where’d you get these?”
&
nbsp; “From my purse in a tool shed if you must know.”
“At Stantham Hall, you mean?”
“It is where I’m staying,” she reminded him.
He fingered the coins in front of him – a 20p, a 50p, some pennies and two one-pound coins. You’d think the man had never seen money before. “And who’s this?” he picked up the penny. “’S not Queen Victoria.”
“Of course not, it’s Queen Elizabeth. You know, I’ve had about all I can take of you people. I know the duchess is rich and all that, but can’t you drop the act? All I wanted to do was find some coffee and a donut and charge my cell phone!”
He leaned across the table. “And all I want’s t’truth. Did you steal these?”
“Steal them? It’s less than five dollars American! And they’re mine – I got them at the exchange when I flew into Heathrow!”
He looked at her as if he couldn’t understand a word she just said. Then he shook his head. “And you ‘spect me to believe these shiny new coins are from t’time of Queen Bess?” He leaned closer. “Look, either you’re barmy or you’re trying to pass false coin – and either way, I don’t ‘preciate it.”
Tory rolled her eyes. “This whole town’s lost its frigging mind!”
“Enough o’this.” The magistrate rose so fast he knocked his chair over. He stormed around the table, grabbed Tory’s arm and pulled her to her feet.
“What are you doing? Let go of me!”
“Not on your life, lovey.” He dragged her to a door, pulled her through it and down a hall to a staircase. “You’re not going nowhere ‘til I find out what’s going on. I’m locking you up.”
“What? You can’t do that!”
“Keep telling yourself that, dearie.” They reached the bottom of the stairs and he pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. He opened the door and shoved her through.
Tory stumbled from the force and fell. By the time she got to her feet the door was closed, a key already turning in the lock. “Are you kidding me?!” she exclaimed and rushed the door, banging on it. “Let me out! You can’t do this! Open this door!”
“I will – when it’s time to transport you t’London. That’s where they try counterfeiters. And keep the feeble-minded. Might be a nice berth in Bedlam waiting for you.”
Tory closed her eyes and took a calming breath. “It’s okay, Phelps. Get a grip. This one’s just overzealous.” She opened her eyes. “And overacting. LET. ME. OUT!”
But the only response was the heavy clomp-clomp-clomp of booted feet going upstairs, fading to nothing.
“How can this be happening?” She turned a circle in her cell. The room was entirely made of stone, with a barred window near the ceiling that from the sound of it looked out onto the street. Instead of cars she heard carts and horse-drawn wagons, men and women hawking their wares, children and the sounds of the carnival. No matter how she sliced it, the whole thing was nuts. Worse, that crazy magistrate still had her purse with her cell phone and charger in it.
She sunk onto a bench against the wall. Now what was she going to do? How long would she have to wait before someone came for her? The actors’ quitting time? Did everything have to be so relentlessly authentic? It was almost like she’d been transported back to the …
Tory stopped breathing. “No. Couldn’t be. It’s just a reproduction.” But her mind now had hold of an idea. Positively outlandish, and yet …
She jumped up, dragged the bench to the high window and climbed on to it. If she got on tiptoe, she could see out. But it wasn’t so much what she saw as what she didn’t see – no cars, no electrical wires, no telephone poles … come to think, she hadn’t seen one telephone pole on her trek to the village. But she knew she’d seen some when she first arrived at the duke’s estate – the car had passed a truck and crew working on the lines about a half-mile from Stantham Hall. Lines that suddenly weren’t there.
She ran a hand through her hair, loosening it from what few pins she’d used. Half of it fell and spilled over her shoulder, but she didn’t care. Her mind was running at full speed in a direction she didn’t like and couldn’t believe. And she didn’t know how to stop it. “No, no, no!” She jumped off the bench. “That’s crazy, Phelps, that’s crazy! Don’t go there!”
But she remembered all the weird stuff that had happened since she took this job. She’d been so desperate to get away from Benny, from everything, that she’d ignored all the red flags. At worst, she might have fallen into a scam used by sex traffickers to capture unsuspecting women, but that wouldn’t require a deception this detailed. Neither did any other con game she could think of. Besides, who in the world was crazy enough and rich enough to pull off a charade like this?
“Good grief, my sanity is hinging on economics,” she muttered. Because when it came down to it, money could prove she wasn’t crazy, pure and simple. Look how the magistrate reacted. And the pasty woman. And … everyone else. All this time she thought people were playacting, but every time she brought it up they looked confused. Because they were confused.
Because they weren’t acting.
What was that Sherlock Holmes line – “once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth” or something like that? But now that she’d done that, what remained seemed even more impossible. And yet it made perfect sense. She’d watched enough old movies with her mother to at least guess from the clothes and hairstyles and accents where she was … or more accurately, when.
She was in Victorian England – the late nineteenth century, Sherlock’s own time and place. The same time and place she’d studied so extensively in that class at MacMos International Educators. The duchess’s fantasy was no fantasy at all – it was the real thing. “No, it couldn’t be … I’m not really in the past, am I?” But how could she not be? The only real question was how she’d gotten there in the first place.
No, wait – there was another question. Why was she there? Why did MacMos pick her? Was she part of some experiment? Maybe they just knew desperation when they saw it. She certainly didn’t have the education for this – if the Duchess of Stantham really wanted a tutor, why not get one from a fancy university right here in England? Oxford or Cambridge had been around for centuries by Queen Victoria’s time. Why hire another Victoria from 21st-century California with only a high school diploma and a handful of juco classes? It didn’t make sense.
“Unless,” Tory said with a gulp. Unless they wanted someone expendable. She began to pace. “Oh, no way. No, no, no way. Get a hold of yourself, Phelps. Don’t lose it.” But she was already losing it – and wasn’t sure if she’d get it back. She stopped in the middle of her cell, fists at her sides. “Don’t. Go. Crackers.”
Then another thought popped into her head: what about Aldrich?
She sank to her knees as tears suddenly filled her eyes. Had she fallen for a man who’d died before she was born – and might be part of a time-traveling conspiracy besides? She didn’t want to think of him as a bad guy. Maybe he’d been kidnapped and brought here too – another victim of MacMos’ grand scheme, whatever it was.
Tory wiped her eyes, got up and sat once more on the bench. “Whatever he is, I’ve got to get word to him.” If the duke and duchess really were three sandwiches short of a picnic basket and bazillionaires besides, she needed to get him out of there. And if by chance she really was in the past, he was still the only one she knew well enough to trust. After all, she’d spent the most time with him, was getting to know him, had fallen in love with …
She cursed under her breath and closed her eyes. “What if I’ve fallen in love with a crazy person? Or a criminal?” But right now there was nothing she could do about that, not locked in this cell. So what could she do?
Tory looked up at the window again. She stood on the bench and called out through the bars. “Hello? Excuse me? Somebody?”
A dirty-faced boy stopped playing with a hoop and stick and looked at her. “Hullo.”
“Hi.” She waved at him, then
motioned for him to come closer. It was a stroke of luck – little kids were usually lousy liars.
The child wandered over, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, and she smiled – he looked like he’d come straight out of a production of Oliver Twist, a Victorian street urchin to the life. He got on his hands and knees and looked through the bars at her. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Yes, kind sir. I have an odd question for you.” Tory took a deep breath to brace herself. “Do you know … what year it is?”
“Aldrich, you’ve got to eat,” Cozette urged. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her.”
Aldrich paced to the other side of the drawing room. “No one’s seen her since last night – I don’t understand it. And where are these blasted friends of yours, Crumpet?”
Cozette eased herself into a chair. She was tired, he could tell. “Duncan is still searching for them.”
He sat, snatched a scone off a tray and sighed. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It has only been dark a few hours. Maybe she ran into one of the tenants and they invited her for dinner.”
“Emsworth and I questioned them already. None have seen her. Besides, you said she’d never met any of the tenants.”
“That is true. You’ve commandeered most of her time since her arrival, Aldrich.”
He glanced at her and sighed. “So I have.”
“You are in love with her.”
He smiled faintly. “Quite.”
She smiled back but said nothing.
“You should rest,” he said. As should he, but after discovering Tory was missing, rest was impossible short of collapse. He’d already asked every servant in the house and every party guest if they’d seen her. None had. None knew where she might be. “I only returned to the house to see if perhaps she’d come back.”