Yesterday and Forever

by Victoria Alexander

  "Who are you, Margaret Melissa Masterson? Where do you come from?" An intensity underlaid his soft whisper.

  As if in response, she moaned again and tossed on the bed, incoherent words mixed with sobs. He bent closer, straining to understand.

  “No . . . Kiki . . . where . . .are. . .you . . . no." Her thrashing increased. Adam reached out to calm her. She struggled and he stared into open, unseeing eyes. His strong arms enfolded her, pulling her close. Adam groaned, acutely aware of the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest through the thin fabric of her gown. Desire overwhelmed him. He tilted back her chin and brushed his lips lightly against hers. The tension eased from her body. Slowly, reluctantly, Adam pulled away. She lay limp in his arms, her eyes closed once again.

  So much for not seducing helpless females.

  The lack of self-control annoyed him, and Adam laid her gently back on the bed. Drawing the bedclothes around her, he spied an odd-looking bracelet on her left wrist. Curious, he picked up her hand and carefully slipped the bracelet off her arm. The wide gold band had an attached glass case. Inside the numbers 12:00 flashed.

  "How very odd,” he said quietly. "It could be some type of watch or clock but there are no hands, no numbers, not even a face. Still, it appears to be a kind of time piece. A device to track time perhaps. Time . . . ” He stared at the now serene figure on the bed.

  “Of course, that's it!" The pieces of the puzzle clicked neatly into place. "That's the answer!" With a last quick glance at the bed, he turned and raced back to the library.

  He searched impatiently among the items on the desk and muttered to himself, “Where was that? I know I saw something here."

  He scattered the pile of shiny cards searching for the one he had noticed earlier but put off examining in the wake of so many other fascinating discoveries. A small, stiff card with some type of transparent material encasing it, it had the words Driver's License at the top and another one of those remarkable likenesses. This one, too, was of the woman upstairs.

  "Where is it? Here!" He seized the card triumphantly and laid it on a cleared spot on the desk. "And this." He grabbed the blue book marked Passport and placed it next to the card. “And these." He snatched up the magazines and added them to the arrangement.

  His gaze flew from one to the next to the next; he could scarcely believe his eyes. On the card marked Driver's License the birth date was January 12, 1969. On the passport booklet, the birth date was the same, January 12, 1969. And the magazines bore the date May 1995. But of course they would. She wouldn't be reading periodicals written when she was born.

  “Bloody hell."

  Stunned, Adam stared at the evidence before him. Too fantastic to believe, yet too logical to deny. The answer to the questions raised by the images too lifelike to be paintings, the unreal quality of the magazines, the mathematical device, the clothes, and those blasted shoes.

  “Good lord." Adam gripped the edge of the desk. "Can it be? Is this possible? Is she not merely from another place? Is she from . . . another time?"

  ***

  Morning came and went before Lydia made her way back to the library. She slipped through the doors and silently observed her brother. Adam sat behind the desk, oblivious to everything but the magazine in front of him. He appeared crumpled, disheveled, as though he'd spent the night in his clothes. Surprising for a man who prided himself on his appearance almost as much as he did his skill with the reins or his competency in handling estate business.

  This was scarcely the look of a man who would force his own sister into an arranged marriage. In the excitement of their discoveries, Lydia had nearly forgotten her brother's ultimatum; nearly, but not quite. It wasn't that she didn't want to be married. On the contrary, a husband and children were her most heartfelt desire. But Lydia watched friends marry for wealth, position, and family, and others marry for love. Some of those in arranged matches eventually seemed to find wedded bliss. Others took their pleasure outside the marriage bed. Lydia vowed she would be an ape leader, and dwell in solitude in the country before submitting to such a marriage.

  Her eyes narrowed in speculation. Adam was a man thoroughly up-to-date on scientific inventions and discoveries. Had his position in society been different, she was certain he would have spent his life as a scholar. Of course, he would have had to over-come his now nearly forgotten wild streak. Nonetheless, his fascination with this Miss Masterson's possessions could be turned to Lydia's advantage. If he found the woman as interesting as her belongings, perhaps he would forget this nonsense about finding his sister a husband. Or at the very least, give her more time.

  "Adam, did you retire at all last night?" She walked briskly across the room.

  "What? Oh, yes, of course.” He appeared haggard and nowhere near rested. "I simply couldn't sleep, that's all. Sit down; I have something to discuss with you." He hesitated, then gestured to the items on the desk. "So, what do you make of all this?"

  "I have no idea what to make of it." She shrugged. "It's all very peculiar."

  "If it is not a hoax, some well—devised ruse," he said cautiously, "then it may well be we have a visitor, and I say this reluctantly, from another time."

  Lydia stared, eyes wide with disbelief. "Oh, Adam, that's ridiculous."

  “I know, believe me, I know." He leaned back in the chair and absently ran his fingers through his hair. "I have been pondering this all night. Reading these magazines, studying these items and, ridiculous as it may well sound, this is the only answer. Our Miss Masterson comes from another time. I believe a time approximately one hundred and seventy-seven years in the future."

  "You're serious, aren't you?" Lydia could not remember ever seeing her brother draw a rash conclusion. On the contrary, he gave careful consideration to all matters before him. If he believed this, it simply must be true.

  “Quite serious. Look." He picked up one of the magazines and waved it at her. “This shows me a world so totally foreign from our own it is hardly recognizable. There are many things here that are appalling. Poverty, famine, and war still rage. Moral values appear virtually nonexistent. But there are wonders here, too."

  He rose and paced the floor, gesturing with the journal in his hand. Excitement shone in his eyes as his words spilled out faster and faster.

  "There are forms of communication and transportation never imagined in my wildest dreams. Illnesses that would kill us are referred to here in passing as mere childhood annoyances. Goods and services are provided by mechanical methods in numbers beyond measure. Good lord, Lydia, people can actually fly.”

  Lydia stared at him, stunned. "Are you certain?"

  "As certain as I can be. It is the only logical answer. The only thing that explains all of this." He waved the magazine at the articles on the desk.

  Lydia's gaze traveled from her brother to the desk and back to Adam. "It does make sense, more or less." Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. "I had wondered about the birth date, of course, and those wonderful little paintings, or whatever they are."

  She glanced again at the stacked items on the desk, then turned back to her brother. Caught up in his excitement, she realized the possibilities of his discovery.

  "But how marvelous, how terribly exciting! What fun it shall be. We can take her around. She can tell the future. Maybe show some of these remarkable things. She'll be the darling of the ton, the hit of the season."

  "Damnation, Lydia!" Adam exploded. "You will not speak of this to anyone. We don't know for certain if this insane conclusion is correct. And even if it is true, who would ever believe it? For our sakes, and possibly for her safety, we must keep this to ourselves." He leveled a stern gaze at his sister. "I am deadly serious. Do you understand?"

  "Oh, all right." Lydia's lower lip jutted out in the pout she'd perfected in childhood. "But we can't keep her a prisoner. Once she wakes up, if of course this isn't some kind of prank, I daresay she won't be at all happy to find out she isn't even born yet. I certainly wouldn't be."r />
  "Very well." Adam sighed in resignation. "What do you propose?"

  "Well, first she's going to need suitable clothes."

  "Clothes?"

  "Clothes." He apparently failed to grasp her meaning. With a sigh of her own Lydia replied, "Yes, my darling brother, clothes. You cannot expect her to go around in those things she was wearing. As interesting as they appear, they simply will not do. She needs to be properly dressed."

  "But we have no idea how long she will be here."

  "Adam," she said, as though addressing a small boy, "how long she will remain with us simply doesn't signify. If she is not dressed properly, at the very least the servants will comment. And our servants will talk to other servants, and so on and so forth. If you really want to keep where she came from a secret, the best thing for all concerned is to make sure there is no gossip."

  "Of course." He returned to his chair. "How quickly can it be done?"

  Lydia smiled triumphantly. Shopping for someone else was the next best thing to shopping for herself. "If I plead and cajole and offer to pay far more than I would under ordinary circumstances, I believe my modiste can provide an appropriate wardrobe by, say, day after tomorrow. In the meantime Jane can shorten some of my things."

  His gaze wandered back to the items on his desk, and Lydia could see she'd already lost his attention.

  “I'll be going then?”

  "Fine." His eyes focused once again on the magazine in his hands.

  Lydia smiled and strolled out of the room, her basic belief in men confirmed. In spite of their posturing and condescending attitudes, manipulating them was so very easy for Lydia she sometimes wondered if she should feel at least a little guilty. But guilt never entered her thoughts. Her mind was too full with the seeds of plans and plots to make Miss Margaret Melissa Masterson as appealing to Adam as her magazines and other trappings. Meddling in this mystery woman's far more intriguing life would surely keep her brother out of hers. A smug smile firmly in place, Lydia called for a carriage, grabbed her hat, and sailed out the door.

  ***

  Afternoon drifted into evening and still Adam remained at his desk. He read and reread the magazines. He examined Miss Masterson's possessions over and over. Some of what he read and what he saw remained incomprehensible, too far removed from the scope of his knowledge and imagination to understand. But he could grasp most of it and his spirits soared with the awesome evidence of man's advancement.

  Immersed in the wonders of a future time, he barely noticed the light of day fade. He never saw a discreet Wilson silently light the gas lamps. Vaguely, he was aware of Lydia coming in and saying something about a card party. An untouched supper tray sat on a table near the door.

  At midnight, he finally pushed his chair away from the desk. With a weary step, he moved toward a crystal decanter and the amber liquid it held. He poured the brandy and swirled it in the glass.

  "What is a woman from a world like that like?" he said. "What does she think? What does she want? What does she need?"

  Surrendering to an irresistible urge, he left the library and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. He pushed the door open and moved silently over the carpeted floor to the bed. Extremely improper, his uninvited presence in a lady's bedroom. He didn't have the excuse of exhaustion or excitement as he'd had last night. Yet, inexplicably, he needed to be here.

  She lay sleeping quietly tonight. Peaceful. Serene. Beautiful. Adam stood over her, contemplating the tousled hair, slightly flushed cheeks, barely parted lips. The tangled bedclothes left one nearly naked leg exposed. He sipped the brandy still in his hand.

  "I need answers, Margaret Melissa Masterson,” he said softly.

  Pulling a chair to the side of the bed, he sat and swung his legs up to rest on the bed, one crossed over the other. For minutes, or perhaps hours, he stayed. Watching her sleep. Waiting for her to awaken. And wondering . . . what would happen then?

  Chapter Two

  Maggie opened her eyes slowly and gazed at her surroundings. It was a charming room: high, ornately plastered ceiling, four-poster bed, beautiful antique furniture, and just the right blend of old-fashioned style and natural warmth. A room lived in and used every day. A room pretty yet comfortable. A room totally and completely unfamiliar.

  "Where the hell am I?" She jolted upright and cringed, every muscle in her body screaming. Her head throbbed and she ached all over as if she'd been beaten, or worse, enrolled in an aerobics class. But the physical battering was nothing compared to her emotional turmoil. Maggie loved a good party and a good time, but absolutely never in her life had she awakened in an unfamiliar room.

  "What is going on here?" Maggie threw her feet over the side of the bed and gingerly stood. "Where are my clothes?" She glared around the room as if it were somehow responsible for her predicament and hobbled toward a huge wardrobe, muscles protesting every movement. Maggie pulled open the doors and rummaged through the clothes inside.

  "Beautiful things. Really neat stuff." But nothing was even remotely familiar. None of the clothes were hers, and Maggie stifled a rising sense of unease. The garments in the wardrobe were terribly elegant and very formal, at least to someone whose preferred style was jeans and a sweater.

  "Okay," she said. "Calm down. Let's just go over the basics. I know my name. I'm Maggie Masterson. When last I checked, I was in London. So far so good. Now for the trick question. How did I get here?" She gazed at the engaging chamber. "And where is here, anyway?"

  The door to the room creaked open and Maggie turned sharply. “Where are my clothes?"

  The young woman at the door jumped but quickly recovered to drop a quaint curtsy.

  "Begging your pardon, miss. I don't know about your things. But the master said to bring you these." She held out an armful of clothes.

  Barely noticing the girl's long dress and starched apron, Maggie strode toward her. She seized the clothes and held them out for appraisal.

  "No, no, these aren't mine." Her voice rang with impatience. "I want my stuff back. I just want to get my things and get out of here. How do I do that?"

  "I don't know, miss." The girl stared wide-eyed at Maggie. "I only know the master said to give you these."

  Maggie cast a disgusted glance toward the delicate, floor-length dress she held in her hands. "Look, I can't wear this. Here." She thrust the dress at the girl. "Take it back and tell me where to find this master of yours."

  "Milord is in the library, but you cannot disturb him."

  "Oh, you bet I can. Now, where is this library?"

  "The bottom of the main stairs to the right, but you cannot go down there." The girl appeared positively shocked. "Not in your night rail!"

  The unfamiliar word confused Maggie. "My what?" The girl stared at her nightgown. It wasn't until then that Maggie paid any attention to what she wore. A beautiful white gown fell long enough to cover her bare feet and trail slightly behind. Lots of material, but fairly sheer.

  "This?" She plucked at the delicate material. "Oh, don't worry about this. Look, I know we're from different countries and all, but I can't believe anyone's going to be shocked by seeing me in anything with as much material as this getup. Besides, I wear less than this for grocery shopping and from what I've seen of London so far, I'm fairly conservative. Of course"—she eyed the girl speculatively—"nothing is as conservative as what you're wearing."

  Abrupt realization dawned and Maggie thought she understood.

  "Oh, I get it. This is some kind of period hotel or bed and breakfast, right? You know, where everyone wears costumes and pretends to be Henry the Eighth or Queen Victoria or something. That's cool, that's really neat." Maggie inched toward the door. "But you see, this is all some kind of weird mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. So I'll go downstairs and see the master, or head honcho, or whoever and get this straightened out. Thanks, so long."

  Maggie shot out the door and raced down the hall in what she hoped was the right direction. Other costumed employees star
ed and she ignored a wave of self-consciousness.

  A prim and proper looking butler-type dropped his jaw at her approach and she grimaced to herself. Maybe I should have changed.

  "Excuse me," she said sweetly. "The main stairs?"

  "That way," he croaked and pointed ten feet down the hall.

  “Thanks." Maggie dashed past him. She found the stairway, flew down the stairs and pulled up short at the bottom. No less than four massive double doors to the right of the stairs confronted her.

  "Oh, this is swell." She eyed the doors and tried to decide which was the best bet for a library.

  "Okay." Maggie paced back and forth and considered the options. "In old mansions like this there was usually some kind of front parlor, and maybe sitting rooms, and of course dining rooms and breakfast rooms.

  "As for the library, well, this looks like as good a bet as any. I just hope I don’t end up in some kind of conference or meeting or something." Maggie swung open the second set of doors and gasped.

  Before her in a magnificent, elegant, almost unreal setting were high, ornate ceilings, a glittering chandelier, and damask draperies. The room shimmered in green and gold.

  “What a gorgeous restoration." Maggie stared in appreciation at the delicate striped settees, Louis XIV chairs, and Aubusson carpet. "This looks practically new and totally authentic. Someone did a great job."

  She backed out of the room, closing the doors behind her, and glanced curiously down the hall.

  Why aren't there more guests? All the people I've seen so far are obviously employees. That's really weird; this place is neat. You'd think it would be busier.

  Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, Maggie considered her choices. Which way to turn next? What door to try now? Alice, at least, had the guidance of a rabbit and wasn't dressed in a ridiculous nightgown. Maggie turned to the next set of doors.

  "One more time." She grasped the doorknob, pushed firmly, and, taking a deep breath, stepped inside.