Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  Robyn wondered if she could make it to the bathroom unobserved. There were only three doors in the bedroom, and she already knew that one door led out into the corridor, and the other into some sort of super-sized closet, which meant that the third door probably led into the bathroom. Using one of the bedposts, she managed to get her feet firmly on the ground and her body upright before Mary noticed her.

  “My lady!” The servant sprang to her feet looking, as always, slightly harassed. “My lady, how can I help you? What do you need?”

  “I need the bathroom,” Robyn said.

  Mary wrung her hands. “My lady, the doctor would never give me leave to order you a bath.”

  Robyn was willing to argue the issue of when she could bathe later. Right now, she had other, more pressing needs, and she was not willing to use a bedpan.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take a bath,” she said. “At least not right at this moment.”

  It was infuriating to realize how weak she felt, but exercise was the only cure for atrophied muscles, and Robyn walked determinedly across the room, occasionally hanging on to a piece of furniture for support. She realized as she touched the solid reality of the furnishings that her idea of a hologram had been absurd. The technology for projecting such a detailed and clear-cut appearance of an entire room of antiques didn’t exist outside the movies. But it wasn’t surprising that her attempts at rational thinking had been so unsuccessful these past few days. The boundaries between delirium and reality had been so fuzzy, she still wasn’t sure precisely what she had dreamed and what had actually happened.

  She was shaking by the time she reached her goal, the third door in the bedroom, the one she was sure gave onto a bathroom. She pushed it open with relief, but relief turned instantly to dismay.

  She was in a narrow room, little larger than a broom closet, with a small window at one end. A chair, with satin armrests, a white satin seat, and a contrasting skirt of bright blue satin, was the only piece of furniture in the room. Robyn had enough experience with antiques to know exactly what she was seeing. The chair was a close-stool, or commode, and this tiny dark room was an unpleasant eighteenth-century forerunner of a functioning bathroom. Good Lord, the people running this place were carrying authenticity to totally dotty lengths! Where the devil had they hidden the modem plumbing?

  Mary hurried into the tiny room and rushed to the commode. She lifted the satin seat and held it to her breast like a shield. “My lady, you should have said as how you wished to use the close-stool. I would have helped your ladyship.”

  Robyn gritted her teeth. In other circumstances she might have seen the comic side of the situation, but right now, she couldn’t manage to laugh. “I suppose you’re going to tell me there isn’t a proper bathroom in this hotel,” she said.

  “No, my lady, I wusn’t. I wusn’t going to say no such thing.”

  Robyn felt a brief flare of hope. “You mean there is a proper bathroom? With regular plumbing and a toilet that flushes?”

  Mary shrank back behind her shield of the satin commode seat. “My lady, I know I be ignorant and don’t understand how the gentry do speak, but I cannot grasp ahold of what you are asking. Don’t be angry, my lady, I’m trying my best.”

  Robyn sighed. “Just leave me alone for a couple of minutes, Mary. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mary bobbed a curtsy, her face flushed with evident relief at having understood Robyn’s request. “I shall wait for your ladyship in the bedroom.”

  The commode was marginally better than using a bedpan, Robyn supposed. And although she would have sold her soul for a shower with hot running water, she was willing to make do with the jug of cold water she found on a shelf next to the commode.

  A pretty washbasin decorated with cherubs and pink roses stood next to the water jug, and a porcelain tray, also decorated with cherubs, contained a round, rough-hewn lump of soap, scented with verbena, along with several embroidered linen towels. Despite the coldness of the water, Robyn stripped off her sweat-sodden nightgown and washed herself from head to toe. Lord, but it felt good to be even halfway clean!

  It was only when she realized that she was squeezing the cold water over her inflamed breasts, trying to ease the heat and hardness of them, that her pleasure faded. She ran her hands slowly over her tall, slender, slack-waisted body and confronted the terrifying, incredible truth. Not a single part of her—not a limb or a muscle—looked or felt familiar. Her skin was too white, her legs were too long, her arms were too weak. And worst of all, her belly was too limp and flaccid, with skin that hung in loose folds as if she had just given birth to a baby.

  No, no! I didn’t have a baby. I’ve never been pregnant. Robyn didn’t realize she had screamed her denial aloud until Mary’s worried face appeared in the closet door.

  “Are you all right, my lady? Are you in pain?”

  Robyn snatched up her discarded nightgown and held it in front of her. The maid seemed to have no sense of how to respect another person’s privacy. Robyn drew in a deep breath. “I’m okay. Look, could you please get me something clean to wear?”

  “Yes, m’lady. Right away, m’lady.” The maid came back almost at once with a beautiful nightdress made of soft white lawn, gathered at the wrists and throat with exquisite embroidery and fastened down the front by pale blue satin ribbons.

  “Would you like me to bind your breasts, my lady? To get rid of the milk, I mean.”

  “No!” Robyn’s denial was instantaneous. To bind her breasts was to acknowledge that they were engorged with milk, and she wasn’t prepared to buy into the fantasy that everyone was trying so hard to weave around her. She put on the clean nightdress, refusing Mary’s help, and walked back into the bedroom.

  “Where is the mirror that stood over there by the windows?” she asked, suddenly noticing its absence.

  “The master ordered it to be removed,” Mary said, her voice nervous. “It was carried out while you were sleeping, my lady.”

  “I see,” Robyn said, and wondered if she did. Obviously her body had not really changed its appearance since such a change was impossible. Therefore it followed that the apparent changes were some sort of an illusion, although she couldn’t begin to guess how that illusion was maintained. Perhaps if she saw herself in a full-length mirror the illusion would be shattered? Why else would her supposed husband have been so anxious to remove the mirror?

  “Good old William certainly thinks of everything, doesn’t he?” she commented.

  “Yes, m’lady. His lordship is a good master,” Mary said. She put her arm around Robyn’s waist as they approached the bed, presumably to help her up into it. Impatient with the suggestion of weakness, Robyn shook off the maid’s arm. Mary cringed back, her arm raised in an instinctive gesture of protection, as if she expected Robyn’s rejection to be followed by a swift blow to the head.

  Robyn was appalled. She sat down on the high bed and gestured reassuringly to the maid. “Mary, it’s all right. I’m not angry with you. For heaven’s sake, I’m not going to hit you.”

  Mary straightened and ducked into one of her endless curtsies. “Thank you, m’lady. I will try to please your ladyship, if I can.”

  Robyn looked at the woman standing in front of her. She took in the silly mobcap, the tight, uncomfortable bodice, the flowing white apron, the square-toed black leather shoes. Looking at Mary’s cowering demeanor, it was difficult to believe the woman was playing a part. She looked so damned humble. Robyn cleared her throat. She tried to talk, but the words wouldn’t come. She cleared her throat again. Finally, she managed to ask the ridiculous, terrifying question.

  “Mary, what date do you think it is?”

  “Why, ‘tis the tenth day of November, my lady.”

  November 10. That would be Monday—four days after she had arrived in England. That sounded reasonable enough, given her hazy memory of days and nights of fever. Robyn summoned up all her courage and asked a question she wasn’t at all s
ure she wanted to have answered.

  “Okay, so it’s November 10. What year do you think we’re living in, Mary?”

  “Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon, but what do you mean, my lady?”

  “You know, what year is it? The date. Is it 1993? 2001? Whatever.”

  The maid looked at her pityingly. “‘Tis the year of our Lord 1746, my lady.”

  Robyn searched the maid’s face for any trace of cunning or mockery. She could find none. “You really believe that, don’t you, Mary?”

  “Of course, my lady, for ‘tis the truth. Why should I doubt it? My mam died the same day as the old King, the one what come from foreign parts and spoke no English. I were three years old when we lost her.”

  “The King from foreign parts? Who do you mean?”

  “George, my lady, the first of the kings from Hanover. That were 1727 when he died, and me mam. too. Says it on her tombstone clear as clear. And George the Second’s been King of England for nigh on twenty years. ‘Tis 1746 all right, my lady.”

  The poor woman was crazy, of course, and Robyn ought to have felt sorry for her. Unfortunately, all she could feel was fear. Deep, dark, overwhelming terror that wouldn’t go away.

  She lay back against the linen-covered, lavender-scented pillows and tried to control the shivers that convulsed her unfamiliar body.

  “Zach,” she whispered. “Where are you? For God’s sake, get here soon, Zach. I need you.”

  * * *

  Zach felt as if he had been pacing the corridors of the hospital’s intensive care unit for days. A nurse hurried by and stopped to give him a sympathetic glance.

  “Still haven’t heard?” she asked. “Would you like me to get you a cup of tea?”

  Zach tried to smile. “No, thanks.” In the past, he’d always enjoyed drinking strong English tea, lightened with creamy milk, but right now, his stomach roiled at the thought of yet another cup. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to drink tea again without remembering this hideous surgical waiting area, with its orange tweed sofas and too bright fluorescent lights.

  “Shouldn’t be long before you hear how she’s doing.” The nurse gave him another encouraging smile, and somehow Zach resisted the urge to tell her to take her professional cheer and shove it where the sun didn’t shine.

  “Thanks.” He turned away, stuffing his hands into his pockets, not intending to say anything more, but the words burst out of him anyway. The image of Robyn lying in the car park was too vivid to be kept silent.

  “There was so damn much blood,” he said hoarsely. “She was scarcely breathing when I got to her and the paramedics couldn’t find her heartbeat. Even if the doctors manage to save her life, will she ever be her old self again?”

  The nurse patted his arm comfortingly. “Head wounds bleed a lot, you know, and it doesn’t necessarily mean the trauma is severe. And your girlfriend was lucky twice over. First off, the ambulance arrived right away, and second off, Dr. Forsyth was on duty here when she was brought into Emergency. He’s one of the best surgeons in the country, and that’s a fact, not just me praising one of our locals.”

  Zach allowed himself a moment of hope, then despair returned, stronger than before. “She’s been in surgery for two hours.”

  “Surgery? In the operating theater, you mean? Two hours isn’t all that long, not really.”

  “It feels like a lifetime. Two lifetimes.”

  “The waiting’s the worst,” the nurse agreed. “But it shouldn’t be long now. Anyway, I must go. Sister’ll be ranting and raving if I don’t take her these dressings. But cheer up. If the bullet had killed your girlfriend, they’d have been out of the operating theater long before now. Honest. They don’t waste this much time on a dead patient.”

  The nurse left and Zach resumed his pacing. He swung around eagerly when a male voice spoke his name. “Mr. Bowleigh?”

  “Yes?” His eagerness faded when he saw that it wasn’t a doctor who had spoken, but a man wearing a crumpled gray suit, carrying a raincoat over his arm. Zach slumped wearily against the wall. “Yes, I’m Zach Bowleigh.”

  The newcomer held out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Detective Inspector Harris, of the county CID—Criminal Investigation Department, that stands for—and I’ve been assigned to look into this unfortunate shooting incident. I’m very sorry that you and Miss Delaney should have had such an unpleasant welcome to England, Mr. Bowleigh. It’s not what we expect in this part of the world, not what we expect at all.”

  Zach was tired and oversensitive. He felt his hackles rise. “I’m sure Robyn is very sorry to have disturbed the local peace. Next time I’ll tell her to make sure she’s shot in New York, or L.A., or some other suitably violent American city.”

  “Don’t let’s get off on the wrong foot, Mr. Bowleigh. I was trying to express concern, not to complain because Miss Delaney got shot on my turf.”

  Zach turned around to stare out of the small window. The overcast winter afternoon had faded into a dark, lowering night with almost no moon, presenting a scene as dank and gloomy as his mood. He drew in a deep breath. “I apologize, Inspector. My sarcasm was out of line. But this has been a rough day.”

  “You have all my sympathies, Mr. Bowleigh. The hospital tells me the doctors are still operating on your friend. Any word as to how things are progressing?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Well, we must certainly hope for a successful outcome. In the meantime, Mr. Bowleigh, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions? In an investigation like this, the sooner we can get moving, the more likely we are to come up with results.”

  “Go ahead. Ask whatever you want. I’d love to put the bastard who did this behind bars. Preferably sharing a cell with a certified sadist.”

  “Well, we’ll do what we can to accommodate your wishes, Mr. Bowleigh, at least as far as getting the gunman behind bars. Now, they told me at the hotel that you were the first person to reach Miss Delaney’s side after the incident. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Zach gathered his thoughts, trying to focus on the horrible scene in the parking lot and report clearly. “I’d flown in from Paris earlier that morning, and I was getting ready to go for a run. I’d caught an early flight, which meant I had time to run three or four miles and take a shower before meeting up with her.”

  “How long would you say it was between Miss Delaney being shot, and you calling for help?”

  “A minute, maybe less. As soon as I realized what had happened, I started yelling, even before I got over to Robyn’s side and saw how... badly she’d been wounded.”

  “Did you hear more than one shot, sir?”

  “No, just one. The bullet seemed to have grazed the top of her scalp, ripping off the skin. I don’t know if the bone was shattered, but there was blood everywhere.”

  The detective’s voice lost some of its hard edge. “Head wounds do bleed a lot, you know. It doesn’t always mean the worst.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “It’s still the truth, for all that.” The detective reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little notebook. “Maybe we should get a few routine questions out of the way first. I understand Miss Delaney’s parents are already on the way here from America?”

  “Yes. My assistant is helping with their travel arrangements. They should catch an evening flight from Washington, D.C., direct to London. They’ll be here early tomorrow morning.”

  “That was very efficient of you, sir.”

  “Yeah, I’m a great organizer.” Zach smiled bitterly. “I organized Robyn right into a close encounter with a bullet.”

  “I don’t see how you’re responsible for this incident, sir.”

  The remark was more a question than a statement. Zach hesitated for a moment before answering. “I was shot at a couple of times recently in Manhattan. Robyn was with me on the second occasion. I should have realized she was in danger and taken better steps to protect her.”

  “I see. Do you have
any idea why someone might want to take potshots at you and Miss Delaney?”

  “Yes, I have an idea,” Zach said, then stopped. For three months, he’d refused to report the problems at the Gallery to the police for fear of destroying his business reputation. And that stupid, high-handed reluctance on his part might have cost Robyn her life. Guilt closed up Zach’s throat, making it impossible to speak.

  “Sir? Would you mind sharing your ideas about the motive for this attack on Miss Delaney?” The detective’s question was phrased with impeccable British courtesy, but Zach wasn’t deceived. Beneath the veneer of sirs and fancy language, this cop was every bit as hard-nosed as his New York counterparts. Maybe even a bit tougher. Zach found that insight perversely comforting. He wanted a stubborn, seasoned cop to track down Robyn’s assailant, a cop who’d get his teeth into the case and never let go.

  “Someone’s been working a big-money antiques scam through my Gallery,” he said. “They’ve been passing off high-quality fakes as the real thing and making hundreds of thousands of dollars in the process. I started to investigate, called in some favors from fellow dealers. I guess I rattled a few dangerous cages, and when somebody took a shot at me, I figured it was intended as a warning to back off.”

  “But you ignored the warning, if that’s what it was?”

  “Yes. That wasn’t as careless as it sounds, you know. During the first attack, the gunman fired six shots and missed every one by at least two or three feet. He was either a rank amateur, or he intended to miss. The latter seemed more likely.”