Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  To Sarah’s satisfaction, the attendant was immediately uncomfortable. He motioned to a door that was two rooms to the right of the double doors that Sarah knew were the entrance to the office. The man caught her looking at the double doors, but mistook the frown on her face as one of discomfort. The attendant put his arm out to escort her. “It’s the grey door, madam,” he said. “Over here.” The doors along this level were far enough from the second-floor railing that no one could see them from below. The noises of the party muffled as she walked closer to the doors.

  The attendant accompanied Sarah to the powder room and motioned to it politely. Sarah grimaced again to put herself back in character. “Thank you, sir,” she replied. “I fear I may be in here for a while.”

  The distressed look returned to the man’s face. “I understand, madam.” He walked about six strides away and stopped to watch additional guests making their way up the steps. They had come close enough to the double doors to touch them. Sarah had been tempted to wander against them or bend over in mock pain and accidentally grab the latch to check the lock. If I could distract him somehow!

  “Ah!” she said. “Better to fix this out here in the light.” She stood in front of the door of the powder room, playing with the folds of her gown, hoping that the man wandered off, but he stood at his new post like a sentry. So much for Plan A! Walking through the office doors in an unsupervised hallway had been her optimistic first plan. Plan B was to locate a side door into the office from an adjoining room where she could sneak through unseen. Georgian era rooms usually had connecting doorways with simple skeleton key locks. Sarah had a locksmith on their payroll in Philadelphia and had become quite adept at opening locks with a few simple tools; tools that she had in the same case under her bodice. Unfortunately, the attendant stood firm, and she was two rooms away.

  Sarah pushed the door of the powder room open, stepped in, and let it close behind her. She was standing in an ante area that contained three mirrors and a narrow daybed. Sarah moved past this to the next door that led into the main powder room. There were basins here and stalls that she assumed contained toilets. Much like her bathroom in Philadelphia, Sarah could see the twenty-first century influence on its arrangement. It was unlike any other bathroom from the era, save the one Sarah had designed for her own home. She scanned the wall on her left hoping for a connecting door, but there were only basin tables. So much for Plan B.

  Sarah stepped to the open window and stuck her head out. She pulled her head back at the sound of flutter and feathers from startled pigeons scrambling in all directions. She waited for them to fly away before sticking her head out again to inspect the marble ledge. This was Plan C. Dried pigeon droppings littered her path. She examined its length past the windows to the room closest to her and then to the office balcony which was less than twenty yards away. The ledge was large enough for comfortable footholds, and there were plenty of outcroppings and decorations to grab along the way.

  Chapter 29

  Plan C

  Sarah stepped over, latched the powder room door and immediately sprang into action to remove her shoes and most of her clothing. She had planned the color of her petticoat down to the decorative speckles and lines to make it an exact match for the grey marble of Ferguson Manor. The sun was low enough now for it to help her melt into the wall. A pair of leather slippers and leather gloves went on in place of her dress, and she was now ready to make her way across the ledge. Stepping along the brick divider and letting herself into the office from the balcony door had been an option she had prepared for since her first day in London, but she still took some time to stand at the window and gather enough courage.

  Sarah pushed her fears away and peeked her head out the window to scan the yard. A few heads were bobbing here and there off in the distance, but no one directly below. The setting sun was now on the opposite side of Ferguson Manor, so the building threw a long shadow on the yard and made it seem darker in the grass than it was. She checked that her phone and the tools in the pack around her chest were secure, and then she crawled out along the third-story ledge. She looked down once, panicked, and resigned not to look down again. Three stories were further to the ground than she imagined.

  Sarah gathered herself, and worked to shuffle one foot to the other and developed a rhythm. She reached the balcony faster than expected, straddled its railing and plopped onto the stone floor. She kept her head lower than the balcony railings as she duck-walked to the balcony doors. Each door had a large window covered by a blue-velvet curtain. Sarah eased her head into the space between the partially drawn curtains to see into the office. The dim light of the early evening filtered its way into the room through other windows so that she could see the entire room. The office was empty.

  Sarah reached up and tried the latch, but the door was locked. She removed the pack from her chest and took out the credit card. It was something Sarah had carried with her from the twenty-first century and was perfect for unlatching eighteenth-century doors. She reread the name of the sixteen-year-old girl that had once owned the card, along with the expiration date. The fact that the card was valid for another two hundred and fifty years caused her to smile. She slipped it between the doors and eased one open. Sarah walked softly into the room and quietly shut the door behind her. She made sure to put the card back into her pack and tucked it securely.

  Sarah stood up to look around. There was no safe or lockbox, but there were five large pictures and three closets. The first closet had clothing and the second contained miscellaneous office items and what looked to be rejected mechanical inventions. The third closet door yielded a solid iron lockbox. Her excitement immediately turned to dismay. “Crap!” she whispered. She had the skills to open any number of key-based eighteenth-century locks, but no tool in her pack could help her with a seven-digit combination.

  She considered alternatives, then pulled a chair in front of the safe and sat to ponder the numbered dials. There had been a noticeable dimming of the ambient light since she had broken into the room, so she stood back up, opened some of the curtains and then immediately returned to peruse the lock. She wasn’t going to give up without trying a few guesses. She had spent enough time with Patrick Ferguson to know he was eccentric and his seven-number combination wouldn’t be random. Seven numbers? A telephone number!

  Sarah unbuttoned her pack and pulled her phone out. She had brought it to use the flashlight, but now she was hoping it could provide clues to opening the safe. Sarah pressed the phones ready button, and the security display flashed on. She touched her thumb to the button to unlock the phone and then paged through her contacts for Patrick’s Tennessee phone number. They had each other’s numbers since their first couple of months together in Philadelphia when they were experimenting whether messaging and texting worked even though there were no cell towers. Patrick had been on his phone constantly during those times hoping to discover additional time travelers.

  Sarah turned the dials to show Patrick’s Tennessee phone number, tried the latch, entered it again, and then backward, but the safe remained locked. She entered her phone number and then her mother’s, and still nothing. Karma was abandoning her. She sat up in the chair to look closely. The fading light told her she had already been too long. She used her thumbprint to bring back the screen. Wait!

  Patrick’s had burned his thumb in an accident, and so his thumbprint never worked to unlock his phone. She turned her attention to the twelve buttons of the security screen, trying to remember his swiping pattern. Damnit, I’m not getting anywhere! Sarah looked at the clock in the corner. Ten minutes had passed since she had entered the powder room. How long before the attendant checked?

  She looked down again at the security screen. Seven numbers were three swipes on the pad. She dialed 1, 2, 3, 6, 9, 8, 7 into the safe—nothing. Her fingers were starting to shake. She tried 3, 6, 9, 8, 7, 4, 1—nothing. I have to go! She stood up, ready to leave, but sat down again. Another! She tried to remember the motion
of his fingers when he had sat in their bakery. 3, 5, 7, 8, 9, 6, 3—there were noises outside in the hall. I have to go!

  Sarah pulled the lever at the same time that she was standing to leave. Thunk! The swinging lever sounded like a gunshot. Crap! She stood there immobile waiting for commotion from outside, but none came. She leaned closer to the safe and eased the door open. It had three shelves. The first held her backpack. Tears welled up in her eyes at the sight of the red synthetic burlap of the backpack she had carried with her from the twenty-first century. Patrick’s Quantum phone was on the second shelf along with items from his bike, including an LED flashlight. The third shelf had four bound record books with Ferguson Industries labels.

  Sarah slid the backpack from the top shelf and lifted it to a conference table in the center of the office. Her fingers were shaking hard from adrenalin, and she almost knocked over one of the chairs surrounding the table as she set the heavy pack down. Sarah used her trembling hands to move two chairs away from the table to keep from knocking them over. She stepped back and unzipped the pack. All four advanced placement textbooks, An American Experiment, Biology, Chemistry, and Calculus were there. The chemistry and history books were smudged and worn compared to the others. Seeing her copy of Twilight brought a smile to her face. It was still new looking, so it was evident that Patrick wasn’t a Twilight fan. Sarah was anxious to reread it.

  Conscious of time, Sarah zipped the backpack, pushed it to the center of the table, and walked back to close the door of the safe. She planned to drop the backpack off the balcony into the hedges and then retrieve it when it was dark. As Sarah reached for the door of the safe, the title of one of the Ferguson Industries ledgers, “American Payments,” caught her eye. She questioned whether “American Payment” had anything to do with her husband’s business, so she pulled the bound volume from the shelf.

  The ledger was relatively new, and most of its pages were blank. The first section, labeled “Priority One,” showed payments planned for almost ten pages of British companies. Each company then had a subsection showing multiple American merchants and growers along with their debt. Ten blank pages after that was another section labeled “Priority Two” which appeared to be a list of British citizens, their addresses, their positions, payment amount and expected date. Some of the payments were already complete, while others had times that were six months to a year into the future.

  The “Priority Three” section caught Sarah’s attention. It read like a who’s who of the United States Founding Fathers. It listed important American colonists, their last known address and the individual who was responsible for contacting them. Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin were numbers one and two, respectively, on the list. Looking down further, she found her husband, Thomas Mifflin, at number seventeen. It listed their Philadelphia home and their current London address.

  Her husband’s name hinted that these payments might not be simple bribes and this ledger deserved scrutiny. Sarah thought first to steal it, reconsidered, and then pulled her phone and began taking pictures. It took her five frantic and precious minutes to lay the ledger on the table and photograph the pages. She scrambled to place it back on the shelf of the safe, exactly where she had found it.

  Sarah looked at the shadow of the backpack on the table. After traveling thousands of miles to take it, could she possibly decide to lock it back in the safe? Twilight? Was she willing to risk all the names in that American history textbook to investigate the names in the ledger? The books and backpack were tattered enough to show that Patrick consulted them on a regular basis; she suspected he’d know they were taken almost immediately. Voices sounded outside the door, and she made her decision. She jumped to the table, picked up the pack, taking care not to hit another chair, hurried to the safe and gently slid the pack back onto its shelf.

  She closed the door, spun the dials randomly and walked to the table to replace the chairs she had moved. Now she heard activity at the door, like the ringing of keys. She took only a second to check that everything else was in place, hurried onto the balcony and eased the door shut behind her. She had gotten out in time. Candlelight seeped through the slits left by the drapes as people entered the office. Sarah climbed softly over the rail and hurried back along the ledge. Pounding came from the powder room, as she got close.

  “Madam!” the attendant said through the door. “Are you ill?”

  Sarah poked her head into the powder room while still standing on the ledge. “One moment,” she yelled.

  “Others are waiting, madam,” the attendant scolded. “If you are ill, go to the physician.”

  “Oh! How my new dress is stained!” Sarah yelled as she tumbled into the window. “I want a moment to clean it.” Sarah’s glance into the glass showed her smeared makeup. It would be hard for the attendant to question her poor condition when he saw her again.

  **********

  Sarah unlocked the door to the powder room to the scrutiny of a dozen irritated ladies. Two lifted their masks to show exactly how angry they were, but Sarah’s mask remained down. She descended the staircase as casually and calmly as she was able. Thomas was talking to another man but turned to her as she approached.

  “Husband,” she said. “We must go. I am ill.”

  “I have business with Mr. Harrington.” He gestured to the man who was standing in front of him.

  “The lady’s curse is upon me, and I fear I have ruined my gown. I’ve cleaned the stains for now, but it would be embarrassing should others take their place. ”

  Her statement had its desired effect on Harrington who immediately grew uncomfortable. “I can visit your apartments later in the week,” he said. Thomas looked back at his wife, irritated. She had often joked about how uncomfortable men became at the mention of menstruation, so it was not lost on Thomas that she was doing her best to break up their interview. He shook his head before turning back to Harrington with a smile on his face. “Wives,” Thomas said. He exchanged pleasantries with Harrington and shook his hand.

  When he was gone, Thomas said irritated, “I believe at times that you do not want my business to succeed.”

  Sarah saw the gleam in his eye that said he was only humorously angry. “Husband, your business is already successful.” She lifted her mask, gave him a flirtatious smile, and kissed him.

  “Was it there?” he asked when she had stepped away.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Dropped where we planned?”

  “I left it in his office.” She could see the questioning look on his face even through the mask. “This situation is complicated,” she explained. “I must show you something and tell you a secret I have kept for many years.”

  Chapter 30

  The Proposal

  Pigeons fluttered outside Patrick Ferguson’s office window as a servant moved around lighting oil lamps. They soon filled the room with a warm glow and Matt settled into a padded leather chair; Ferguson took his seat behind a large mahogany desk that held a few precise stacks of papers, two ledgers, a blotter, inkwell, and quills. It occurred to Matt that Ferguson, a mechanical engineer, could have designed a better pen. Matt inspected the only other items on the desk, bronze models of a carriage and a bicycle. They sat on oak bases, and their metal had a rich brown patina.

  “You’ve sold a few of those,” he said, hoping to start the conversation. When Ferguson did not reply, Matt turned to follow his gaze over Matt’s left shoulder.

  “Odd, that,” Ferguson said. He stood and crossed the room to the conference table in front of the glass-paned French doors that led onto the balcony. Ferguson straightened the chairs, then stepped back, evaluated them another time, and readjusted them. He leaned away to take in their full perspective and then moved over to see that the balcony doors and nearby windows were locked.

  “They look straight now,” Matt said.

  “The maids know,” Ferguson replied. “I must speak to them.” He gestured casually, as if to remind himself of more pressing i
ssues, and retook his chair. His back was straight, and he looked directly at Matt. His posture along with his choppy vocal pattern reminded Matt that Ferguson had military training.

  “What’s your background?” Matt asked. “Education and such.”

  Ferguson looked at Matt suspiciously, trying to size him up. “A master’s in mechanical engineering from the Imperial College, and then Sandhurst.”

  “Sandhurst?”

  “The Royal Military Academy. The equivalent to your West Point. And you?”

  “I have an undergraduate degree from the Philadelphia College of Science and a Ph. D. in Chemistry from Kansas.”

  “Science geek,” Ferguson said with no hint of humor in his voice.

  Matt had spent too much time among ranchers and horseman not to know when he was being probed for weakness. “I try to think my way out of problems,” he said. “If another approach is required, then so be it.”

  “And genetics?”

  Matt thought a moment and then shook his head. “I know the basics. I woke up on a farm after the reactor accident and chose to stay and learn the horse business.”

  “Reactor accident?”

  “They never contacted you?”

  Ferguson looked back with squinted eyes and a crease in his brow.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Matt explained. “There was a reactor accident, whatever that means. It pushed us through a wormhole. The scientists, maybe the ones who caused the accident, figured out a way to text me on my phone. They offered to take me back to the twenty-first century if I was willing to risk the wormhole again. I chose to stay.”

  “You could have returned?”

  Matt nodded.

  “How many others?”

  “Only the ones you know—me, you, Sarah and her mother.”

  “The Morris women,” Ferguson said. “I often wonder what became of them.”