At first when she had come, she wondered if she was delusional, but after waking in Seamus’s guest bedroom two days in a row, she had to accept that she had arrived in the past. It was the past in a world that was much like her own, but differing in key respects. Lincoln was dead. Whether his name was Jacob or Ezekiel, he was gone. It bothered her more than she thought it ought to. It wasn’t as if she had known him personally. She had seen pictures of him in her school books with his serious but friendly face and his stovepipe hat. He would now be no more than a footnote in a history book. No elementary schools or streets would be named after him. And he would not be in office to keep the country together or to free the slaves, bloody though the struggle would be.
She had to get back to her own world. She knew that without the Professor figuring out what had brought her here and how to get her back, her chances were slim. No, they were less than slim. She would never get back and her nephew would die. She would never see anyone she loved again. Trapped in a strange past with no money, no family and no way to make a living, she would be like a piece of debris, cast up by the tide. She had no family connections and no friends. Aside from Mrs. Washington, Henry and the Professor, she didn’t know a single soul.
She couldn’t think of that. She needed to focus. She had done a rotation in the Emergency Room and she remembered the level of focus necessary to keep a calm and organized mind while working on a patient. The rest of the world faded away at those times. Right now, she had to focus on getting home, and the Professor was the only key. She had to be practical and keep her mind on things over which she did have some measure of control.
Item one, lunch. She could join the Professor in his laboratory for lunch and see how his progress was coming along. He had been in the laboratory all day, even asking for breakfast to be sent up. She knew he must have slept at some point, but she didn’t know when that would have been. He seemed to live in his laboratory. She could see if there was anything she could get him that would speed the process. While there, she would check on her penicillin experiment.
Item two, Henry. The boy could read and write and seemed reasonably educated for the time period. Though she didn’t know much about nineteenth-century education, she knew he should be able to read and write. He did. He also knew a little Latin, which impressed her, and apparently Henry had asked Seamus questions over the months of their acquaintance as he knew a fair amount of science. Felicia wanted to make sure that before she left for home, Henry was taken care of.
Item three, she needed to figure out what to wear for this evening’s mummy party. Her other dresses from the dressmaker had arrived in boxes and Mrs. Washington had hung them in her wardrobe. She felt odd having anyone handle her clothing and she was uncomfortable with the idea of a servant, but Mrs. Washington seemed to take her duties in stride, and Felicia deeply appreciated her help.
All of her new dresses were ordinary day dresses, suitable for wearing at home or into town. Two hat boxes with bonnets sat on top of the wardrobe and she had enough stockings and underthings to last between wash days. But she had nothing suitable for a party.
She glanced at the clock again. There was no more time to muse over clothing. Felicia went downstairs and met Mrs. Washington in the kitchen. After loading a tray with two covered bowls of gumbo, two hunks of bread and two glasses of tea, she headed upstairs. She knocked on the laboratory door at noon, careful not to unbalance her tray, and Seamus admitted her. He pulled two chairs together.
“Tell me about Mardi Gras,” Felicia said after a sip of cold tea. “In my world, it’s a huge party.”
“Not much to tell. This year, there will be a parade through the Quarter, ending with the automaton display at the cathedral. What is it like in your world?”
“Well, there’s drinking. Lots of drinking. There is the parade, of course, but it’s huge in my world. There are lights and dancers and music. People on the floats throw beads and trinkets for people to catch. Women flash their—um. They try to get beads. It’s just a huge party. People come from all over the world to see it.”
Seamus seemed like he was going to ask her a question, but then Henry opened the laboratory door.
“A package came for you, Miss Sanchez,” he said.
Felicia noticed that the boy glanced at the food, but did not seem overly interested. Mrs. Washington was keeping him fed. Between the two women, he wouldn’t stay scrawny for long.
Seamus looked worried. “From whom is this package?”
“Didn’t say,” said Henry. But he had an apprehensive look. Felicia wondered who would be sending her a package.
“Well, let’s take a look then,” Felicia said and stood. She had been eating with her bowl in her lap and her tea glass on a tiny empty spot on the desk. She gathered them up and set them on the tray which was resting on the floor near her feet. It was no wonder Mrs. Washington refused to enter the laboratory and would only stand in the doorway. She couldn’t imagine trying to clean such a place.
When they arrived downstairs, Mrs. Washington was standing over the package in the front parlor. It was set on a low table and she eyed it as if it might be dangerous. She looked up when the Professor, Henry and Felicia entered.
“Came a few minutes ago,” she said.
The box was large, silver and tied with a huge green silk bow. The ribbon looked expensive, though Felicia thought that all ribbons in this time period might be made of nicer quality stuff than the ones she bought at the after-Christmas clearance sales.
She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. After pushing aside wads of tissue paper, she froze. Inside was a mound of burgundy fabric, but that was not what had startled her. A card resting atop the shining cloth said, “For the lovely Miss Sanchez.” It had no signature at the bottom.
Felicia lifted the card and looked at it. Of course, the handwriting was not familiar. She flipped it over, but the back was blank.
“It’s from McCullen,” said Seamus darkly.
“You recognize his handwriting?” asked Mrs. Washington.
“Yes.”
Felicia lifted the dress from the box. Mrs. Washington looked it over and nodded in approval. Felicia didn’t need to browse through an outdated fashion magazine to know that this dress was fine and expensive. The burgundy satin hung in heavy flounces around the skirt and a few embroidered embellishments decorated the bodice. The waist looked too small, but Felicia hoped that it was due to the enormity of the skirt.
She held it up to her shoulders and the hem swept the floor. That was good. She could wear her sneakers with it and they wouldn’t be noticed. It would not do to be tripping in pretty but clunky dress slippers.
“You’re going to look lovely,” said Mrs. Washington.
Even Henry was not immune to the dress’s charms. He held his hands over his mouth, but removed them to say, “It’ll be real nice on you, Miss Sanchez. Real nice.”
Seamus scowled. He rifled through the tissue paper, tossing it in crumpled handfuls to the floor. Mrs. Washington did not stoop to pick them up. Seamus found nothing and glared at the empty box. He muttered something Felicia could not make out. It didn’t sound like English.
“Tonight is our chance to get the plans for the engine,” he said. “This makes you conspicuous.”
“Won’t other women be in similar dresses? Should I wear one of the ones I already have?” Felicia was confused. Her impression had been that the mummy party was a formal event.
“Yes. Yes, they’ll be in similar dresses. It’s just that people will look at you in that.”
Mrs. Washington had a little smirk on her face, but the instant Seamus looked up, her face became bland.
“Henry,” said Seamus, drawing the boy aside. “Tell me what the delivery man looked like.”
Henry told him and Mrs. Washington leaned over to whisper in Felicia’s ear
.
“He’s unhappy that you’re going to draw people’s eye.”
Felicia had never thought of herself as any sort of great beauty. Then she caught on. She was the Castilian cousin, and would probably be the only woman in the room who wasn’t white. Yes, that would draw attention to her. They were hoping to obtain the plans for the engine, and blending in would be crucial.
Seamus started pacing and muttering. Henry met Felicia’s eyes and gave a little shrug as if to say, “That’s the Professor.”
“It’s a good thing McCullen sent the dress, isn’t it?” Felicia asked. “I needed something to wear, and this solves the problem. My skin color is going to draw attention no matter what I wear.”
“That is not what bothers me,” said Seamus.
“Then what?”
“McCullen is up to something.”
Chapter 14
“Henry, we’re going to need you tonight,” said the Professor.
Hazel stood frozen. The Professor was in a foul mood, but she couldn’t figure out exactly why. Of course, the hated McCullen sending Miss Sanchez a dress had bothered him. But if he had wanted to get her a fancy dress himself, then why hadn’t he? And he must have known that Miss Sanchez would attract attention at the mummy party. How could she not, with her dark hair and pretty eyes. Hazel thought they almost looked like cat eyes. A woman of her complexion would always stand out, especially if she were beautiful.
“I do not want to involve you, but I may have no choice,” said the Professor. They stood at the foot of the staircase, the Professor in his evening clothes, a white shirt with black pants, a teal and gold patterned waistcoat and black coat with tails. His top hat sat on the claw-footed table next to the door. Hazel thought he looked handsome. Even his hair was orderly, with just a touch of pomade to keep it from becoming its usual wild mess. Mrs. Washington was helping Miss Sanchez to get dressed and fix her hair upstairs.
“It’s the only way we can get Miss Sanchez home,” said the Professor.
“Why can’t she take an airship or a boat?”
“She just can’t,” said the Professor. He was looking over Hazel’s shoulder, distracted by his own thoughts.
“Just tell me what to do, Professor. And I’ll do it,” Hazel said.
“I know you will, lad.” The Professor rumpled her hair fondly. “But this is a little dangerous is all.”
“I’m not afraid.”
But Hazel was afraid, especially when the Professor gave her the look he was giving her now, an evaluating look, as if judging if she were up to the task.
“I know McCullen well,” he said. “He liked his desk near his bed, as he always had ideas right when he was falling asleep. So he’d jump up and work on something, sometimes staying up all night. When he became obsessed with something, he would only take breaks to eat or sleep. Sometimes not even that.”
“That sounds like you.”
The Professor’s look told Hazel that she had better not point out similarities between McCullen and the Professor again.
“My point,” said the Professor, “is that his desk is likely to be in his bedroom. Or if not, in a room close by.”
“McCullen is rich. So wouldn’t he have a proper study?”
“It’s possible. We’ll have to see when we get there. I’ll find a way to let you in, then you’ll stay with me. We’ll find the plans and get out. If needed, I can slip you the plans and you can bring them back here.”
“What plans?”
“For the engine. The McCullen engine.”
“And we need the plans to get Miss Sanchez home?”
The Professor did not answer, as he was looking up the stairs. Miss Sanchez descended carefully, holding the railing with one hand and her skirts with the other. Henry caught a glimpse of a purple shoe beneath her crinolines. The deep burgundy color of the dress suited her coloring, and now that it was on, she looked like one of the fancy ladies Hazel had seen going to a ball once. She had only seen them as they went from their carriages to the front door, but each one had been a differently colored frilled blossom.
Seamus gave a curt nod and turned to grab his hat. Hazel knew the Professor had been taught manners, but instead of being polite, he was adjusting his hat and ignoring the lady.
“You look very nice, Miss Sanchez,” Hazel said.
“Thank you, Henry. I don’t know if I’ll be able to breathe, but as my mother said, you have to suffer for beauty.”
Hazel’s mother had said the same thing on more than one occasion. Hazel remembered sitting on her mother’s bed, watching her lace her corset or pin up her hair. She sometimes let Hazel use the powder puff to put a little powder on her nose, though she always told Hazel that she was pretty enough without it. But her mother was dead, and her aunt had been a very different sort of woman.
The Professor seemed to recover his manners and offered his arm to Miss Sanchez. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
“Come along, Henry,” the Professor said over his shoulder.
Hazel pulled the door closed and trotted behind them down the front walk. A hired carriage waited at the curb. The Professor handed Miss Sanchez into the carriage and then climbed in himself. Hazel scrambled in behind him and sat down just as the carriage jerked forward.
The Professor looked Hazel up and down. She hoped that her usual street clothes would be sufficient for their visit to McCullen.
“Miss Sanchez will have to stay downstairs,” he said. “People would notice if she leaves for any length of time.”
Hazel looked at Miss Sanchez, who nodded reluctant agreement.
“I don’t like this idea. What if Henry gets caught?” said Miss Sanchez.
“I know, but I can think of no other way,” the Professor said.
Miss Sanchez sighed. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she asked Hazel.
“Oh yes. I’m very fast, and I can hide well.”
In fact, she could hide in plain sight, she thought.
Her stomach churned as the carriage stopped a block away from the McCullen house. The Professor made sure she knew which house it was and she headed for the back garden gate. Once she found the right house, she hoisted herself up enough to peek over the fence. The grounds were extensive and lavish, and the back of the house had a glass-domed conservatory attached. She mentally plotted a path from the garden gate to the back door that might allow her to get into the house without being seen. But she wouldn’t move until the Professor came for her. She found a spot near the fence and waited.
Chapter 15
Felicia wanted to take a deep breath to steady her nerves, but could not. A different sort of corset was required with an evening dress than with her everyday dresses. This one had to be worn under the dress and laced from the back. Mrs. Washington had laced Felicia in far more tightly than was comfortable. It was no wonder that women in old stories were always fainting. They could barely breathe.
Mrs. Washington had assured her that it was necessary for an event like this. And after looking in the mirror, Felicia had agreed that her waist looked very small, though she wondered if her lower ribs would be permanently deformed. She had a horrible moment when she thought of her ribs snapping and perforating her internal organs, but knew that it was impossible. Probably.
The carriage stopped at the end of a line of three other carriages that waited on the curved stone driveway of the McCullen home. The three-story mansion was magnificent. There must have been fifty gaslights and lanterns hung along the first story and along the sides of the driveway. They looked like stars, or maybe candles, casting a golden glow over the yard. Even the front entrance was lined with metal luminaries.
The house was immaculately landscaped, with perfectly trimmed topiaries and brick-bordered planters. The huge double front doors were both propped open wit
h white urns and servants in crisp uniforms stood on either side.
They left the carriage and Seamus offered her his arm. They climbed the stairs to the entrance. A man stood to one side with a book open in one hand. This must be the bouncer, Felicia thought. In her time, he would have had a clipboard.
“Mr. Connor and Miss Sanchez,” said Seamus. The man gave a little nod and they passed.
A long blue runner with silver trim ran over the marble floor, leading into a grand circular room where a curving staircase rose to the upper story. The ceiling was domed with elaborate white molding. Felicia wished she could stay there, taking in the beauty of the place, but she moved on to the double doors on the left, where a few couples were already chatting.
The adjoining room had a few tables set up. Felicia judged the number of guests to be around forty, about evenly split between men and women.
Seamus brought her punch in a crystal glass and saw to it that she was seated at a table near the farthest edge of the group where people chatted and nibbled hors d’oeuvres.
“Will you be all right alone?” Seamus asked.
“Of course,” she said. But she wondered. She knew next to nothing about the social mores of the era, though she had noticed that, as predicted, she was the only non-white person in the room. Aside from the black servants who circulated with trays of food, that is. “Go on. Henry is waiting.”
She had never been to a house like this, lit by so many flickering gaslights and smelling of a mixture of savory food and the ladies’ perfumes. The art on the walls had to be original, as she supposed that mass production of prints hadn’t yet begun. Even the guests’ dresses and suits had to be individually made. The only formal events she had attended were her high school prom, and the hospital staff holiday party. Management had rented a ballroom at the Marriott on Canal Street and she had bought a cocktail dress at Macy’s especially for the occasion. Nothing in her experience could have prepared her for this.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 11