“May I show ya the front desk, miss?” he asked, in a thick cockney accent. He looked her over thoroughly with protruding eyes.
“Yes, please,” she replied, allowing herself to be led.
“Good evening, miss,” said the innkeeper, who struggled to his feet from where he had been dozing in his chair, “May I help you?” He quickly smoothed his thinning hair.
“I am Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.” she said to him. “My representative, Mr. Jackson Taylor was here several days ago arranging for my arrival. He said you would have a room available for me.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Franklin. He paid well to reserve you the best room in the inn. He predicted the date of your arrival quite accurately, and here you are!” He tapped on his registration book. “Good, very good. I am sure you are tired coming all that way from Portsmouth, not to mention the journey from America. How pleased we are to have you here! Can I set up a room for your maid as well?” he asked, craning to look around her.
“No,” Cassandra said with a choke in her voice. “My maid, she…she did not survive the journey from America. I am quite alone.”
“Oh dear heavens! We had no idea—so sorry, so very sorry,” he exclaimed.
“If you please,” replied Cassandra, dropping her eyelids, “I would like to simply retire for the evening; I am overcome.”
“Yes, of course, at your service, ma’am. Charlie!” he called to the young bellman. “Get Betsy. Have her show Mrs. Franklin to her room immediately. Get the fire lit, bring her a warm basin of water; make sure she has the freshest linens, and a glass of wine. Hurry now, hurry! Are you hungry, Mrs. Franklin?”
“No, thank you,” murmured Cassandra while dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You are too kind.”
Charlie had not yet gone to fetch Betsy, but stood staring at the visitor. “Is it only the two bags, ma’am?” he uttered.
“Yes, I…I brought very little in the interest of—starting over, you know.”
“No need to say another word, I’ll fetch ‘em upstairs in two shakes.” He hurried off, leaving the bags in their place.
Cassandra and the innkeeper stood awkwardly alone for a moment. Cassandra sniffed the air. Something smelled like moldy cheese. Was it the innkeeper?
Betsy appeared and guided the visitor to her room. With the shock of being thrust into a world she could only before dream and read about, and the relief at having successfully arrived at her destination, Cassandra allowed herself to be fussed over by the maid. Charlie arrived with the bags and then retreated. Finally, locking herself in, she considered her first night in the world of 1820 England.
She gazed around the room, cheerfully lit by lamps and candles. The fire blazed in the hearth, but she now realized how she had always taken for granted the wonder of integrated heating. The gas that lit the lamps on the streets and the coal and wood that were used for heat were, by 2120, quaint remnants of a world that had once fought constantly over oil and almost driven itself to catastrophe by global warming with the use of fossil fuels. Now, at this moment, Cassandra was stunned by the inefficiency of fire. Her first order of business tomorrow would be to purchase heavier woolen undergarments and order sturdier gowns. Though Jake had warned her about the cold, he was a man who had the privilege of wearing pants and jackets and couldn’t guess how much colder she would be.
The room was probably quite luxurious for an inn of the time, she decided. She took in each item. The curtains were heavy red velvet, faded with time and dusty at the top. The four poster bed, the principal piece of furniture in the room, had a thick headboard of dark wood, nicked in places, and was canopied with the same velvet curtains as the windows. At the foot was a large chest on which Charlie had placed her suitcase. There was a spindly writing desk and chair in a corner, an armoire against one wall with a crack running down one of the doors, a painted dresser against another with an oval mirror above it, and near the dresser, a pitcher of water, a glass and a basin on a small round table, covered with a yellowed lace doily. She looked down at a red print area rug at her feet that was worn, but clean. Something scuttled along the edge of the wall and caught her eye. A cockroach. She shuddered, and ran to her suitcase, extracting a tiny folded packet from a small cloth pouch containing many similar packets. She unfolded it and blew on the fine powder contained inside. It dispersed into the air, becoming invisible almost at once. The microfine insecticide went to work and in seconds the cockroach stopped dead. Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief knowing that all crawling creatures abiding in the room would now die as well (though the formula was totally harmless to humans), and none others would intrude for several days.
She lifted her cosmetics case onto the dresser and stopped for a moment to look in the mirror. How did she appear to these people, she wondered? Now that the trip was a reality, this question loomed larger than she ever thought it would. She’d been nervous about seeming out of place, but standing in front of the ancient mirror, that possibility took on a whole other level of importance.
Her image was soft in the lamplight. For one thing, she knew that no one would ever guess that she was anywhere close to her age. She could easily pass for thirty. In comparison, Betsy, who Cassandra imagined to actually be around thirty years old, was already missing teeth, her cheeks were hollow and her skin was lined. Cassandra smiled at herself. Her teeth were perfect, more perfect than those of ninety-nine percent of the people of any class that she would encounter during her stay—and white, too white. Well, she hadn’t been willing to stain them; she’d have to make up some story about the miracle tooth powder in America if anyone commented. And her hair, even in the low light, shined. It had no gray, thanks to the years of taking herbal supplements, which allowed one’s hair to continually grow any color one wanted, depending on the formula. Her blue/gray eyes had been treated by laser surgery to install UV blockers and shade adjusters, which, like the sunglasses of decades ago, grew darker to shade the retina when exposed to the sun.
She turned her head from one side to the other and examined her face. Her skin was almost without wrinkles, sags or jowls, just a few laugh lines around the eyes (for good measure). She had collagen rebirth treatments to thank for that, as well as creams and pills that blocked sun damage and rebuilt cells. When she got really old, she figured, she could always rely on cosmetic adjustments to reverse the signs of aging. Of course, good health on the inside was a factor too.
She opened the cosmetics case. Inside were powdered concentrates of the various herbs and vitamins she relied on to maintain her health and youthfulness. They were all packaged to look like products of the day (things you could only buy in America, she would say). There were creams and lotions—more than enough for her year’s stay.
Cassandra went back to her suitcase and removed her nightgown. She had insisted to Betsy that she unpack her own things; this was easier than worrying about what might arouse curiosity. She took off her gown and stiff undergarments, leaving on her bloomers, stockings, and chemise. (Shannon had insisted that she wear a lighter, shorter version of a corset, which she said the fashionable ladies wore at the time under their dressy clothes). She threw her nightgown over her thermal underthings, shivering. She quickly cleansed her face with her specially prepared creams and brushed her teeth with the sort of toothpowder and toothbrush that looked authentic to the time period but were, in fact, undetectably enhanced to perform up to modern standards. She was relieved not to have to take the time to remove make-up. Even though she’d had her eyelashes and eyebrows permanently dyed, and subtle, but permanent color applied to her lips, she was still used to wearing a little bit. Well, it’s all natural for me from now on, she thought. Okay, not quite all natural.
Finally, she removed a vintage perfume bottle from her case. She removed the stopper, which extracted a little glass wand. Once she applied the lavender-scented liquid to her wrists it would work subcutaneously and she would be asleep within a minute. Time travel was upsetting to the body’s natural
rhythms, and though it was dark outside, her body had not adjusted to the time of day. This night was the zenith of nearly a lifetime’s work. Anything could happen, anything could go wrong. She needed her wits about her and she needed sleep. She touched the cold wand of the sleep aid to her wrists, extinguished the candles, and climbed under the thick covers of the bed, confident that the bug powder had done its job. She snuggled in to get warm and noticed that the bed smelled of unidentifiable soap, of sheets still damp from the London air. Her heart was pounding with all that lay before her. But the sleep aid started doing its work, her heartbeat slowed, her breathing deepened, and she closed her eyes on the first few hours of her new life in Regency England.
******
In the morning she woke to a soft rap on the door.
“Come in!” she called from the warm bed.
A key turned in the lock as Cassandra peered out from under the covers. The cold in the room stung her face.
“Good morning, ma’am,” declared Betsy as she entered. “I’ve come to light your fire and bring you some warm water for bathing. I could even arrange a tub for you if you please, after your long journey.”
A bath sounded good but complicated. “I think I shall make do with the basin for now; thank-you, but perhaps later.”
“Very well, ma’am.” Cassandra watched Betsy stoke up the fire from the snug warmth of her bed. “Would you like me to open the curtains?”
“I shall do it, Betsy, thank you so much.” She envied the thick fabric of the maid’s dress.
Betsy hesitated. “Very well. And how about yer breakfast, ma’am. Shall I bring it up or would y’ care to have it downstairs in the parlor?”
“I think I will take it up here,” replied Cassandra; she wasn’t quite ready to make small talk with the other guests. She considered it better to seem a little shy for now, and build up to the socializing in due time. She suddenly felt insecure about everything from her clothes to her mannerisms. She knew she was well studied and trained, but in spite of the help from all her coaches and the simulations, she knew she would eventually make mistakes.
“Very good, ma’am… if there is nothing else—”
“No Betsy, that will be all.”
“Very well then, I will leave you to yerself, and I will have yer breakfast in about twenty minutes.”
“Sounds wonderful, thank you.”
Betsy’s smile faded as she glanced around the room again. Cassandra just stared at her, at a loss for what else to say, until the woman finally gave a nod and backed out of the room.
“Sounds wonderful?” Cassandra repeated to herself. Is that something they would say? Think, Cassandra! Think before you speak, for God’s sake!
She began to clean up as well as she could, as close to the fire as possible, and to dress in the warmest clothes she had brought. She had practiced getting in and out of the garments many times, and could manage it pretty well by now. Shannon designed both the inner and outer wear so that she could put it on without assistance, which was no small feat considering the complexity of the clothing that was worn by the upper class—and of course, it all must still appear completely authentic to anyone, such as a maid, who might come in contact with it. The gowns had flattering high waists and little need to be held in by girdles and corsets because the comfortable undergarments that Shannon had designed provided structure with stays and improved one’s posture and bust line.
Cassandra finished dressing and turned to her hair. She had also practiced over and over winding it into a high pile of curls at the back of her head, using only the implements that would be available to her in 1820, and could do it quickly now. Just as she was finishing, Betsy appeared with the breakfast.
“Oh! Right elegant you are, ma’am, such a beauty, my goodness!” she exclaimed.
Cassandra blushed. “You are too kind, I am sure,” she replied, feeling it was the correct response. She followed Betsy to the writing desk.
“Oh, not at all, ma’am, not at all,” Betsy replied, setting the tray down. Her breath wafted over Cassandra, who quickly turned her head from the odor. But then the maid moved away and the delicious smell of the breakfast prevailed. Cassandra looked it over: eggs and ham, rolls and butter, tea with thick cream and honey, oatmeal porridge with dried fruit, a large slice of pale yellow cheese. She would never be able to eat it all.
“This looks delightful, Betsy, thank you.”
“Will you be requiring anything else, ma’am?”
“No! Thank you. This is plenty.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” The maid went out and closed the door.
First things first, Cassandra thought. She went to her case to extract a bottle of pills. The tablets would serve to regulate her digestion and protect against parasites or food or water-borne bacteria. She could not afford to get seriously ill; she had no way to call the team for help. They had supplied her with as many prophylactic and first aid substances as possible, but she could only carry so much. She had five-hundred of the digestive aids, more than enough for one a day.
In addition to protecting her digestive tract, she had certain dietary concerns. Mostly, she could eat anything, but she wasn’t used to caffeine, and the British tea was strong. Therefore, another tiny tablet, which she could carry with her and drop into her tea, would neutralize the effect of the stimulant. If someone wondered what she was putting in her cup, she would show the label, which read “Nerve Tablets for Ladies.”
She also needed to be careful about her sugar intake. In 1820, fine pastries were made with the white sugar that her system was not used to handling. She had to be prepared to eat what was offered to her in the interest of politeness, but God knows she didn’t need any hysterical episodes brought on by a blood-sugar crash.
Having fortified her system, she got set to explore the breakfast. The flavors were distinct and vivid, fresher than she’d ever tasted, though she was in the middle of London and people in her own world had access to the very freshest foods. The chickens were probably out in back of the inn laying the eggs, she thought. The ham was probably just recently smoked on a farm outside the city, the rolls baked moments ago in the inn’s oven, the cream delivered every day from some nearby dairy farm, the tea, black as could be and thrillingly bitter. She ate more than she thought possible.
Breakfast finished, she looked over her planned schedule for the day. She had much to accomplish within eight hours. First she would post a note to the housekeeper in Hampshire, who was awaiting her arrival at her new home. She had brought a small writing set, the kind commonly used by a lady of her position, and, schooled in the flowery script that was nineteenth century handwriting, penned a quick note saying that she was in the country and expected to be down the next day. She could afford to pay anything it cost to get the message there in one day, and its destination was indeed an entire day’s ride by horseback.
Her next task was clothes shopping. Jake had found a first-rate dressmaker nearby. She and Jake had walked there and back to the White Hart several times in the simulations they were able to create after he had returned from his advance journey. He had noted the names and addresses of the shops and businesses she would need, and the VR library had done a spectacular job of recreating those few blocks of old London with the information Jake had given them.
She was gathering up her cloak and gloves to go out, when she began to feel the need for the water closet. She had used the chamber pot in her room the night before and again that morning for urinating, but this urge, she had learned from her research, ought to, if at all possible, be deposited in the water closet down the hall. She stepped nervously into the hallway and peered around. All clear. She tiptoed down the hall and rapped on the door. No answer. She took a deep breath and opened the door. She was in luck, it flushed! It was rudimentary to be sure, but a crank on the side actually flushed it with water, though it didn’t fill afterwards. Thank God, she thought, all right, here goes. She went in and latched the door-—she could only hold her br
eath so long. She was forced to inhale at last. It wasn’t so bad.
That done, she went back to her room, washed her hands in the basin, and put on her cloak, hood, and gloves. On the way out, she handed her letter to the desk clerk with the money for the post and a generous tip, and was assured it would go out that morning. She was carrying about ten British pounds in coins, divided between hidden pockets and her purse, to hold her over until she could get to the bank.
She stepped out the door of the inn into the street, and the stench hit her, a cross of human and animal excrement, rotting food, and shallow cemeteries. The simulations couldn’t prepare her for this, and the night before, in her hurry, with the freezing temperatures, and the streets being so empty, she didn’t notice it. But now the sun was warming the streets full of horses and carriages. She remembered that London, at this point, had a sewer system, but it essentially emptied into the Thames.
She set off for the dressmaker’s, clutching a kerchief to her nose, but generally not attracting undue attention due to her hood and cloak, though it was odd for a woman of her obvious upper class to be out on the streets with no escort. It was unbelievably cold, but she knew the way there and arrived quickly. Brown and Clark’s it was called. She entered, lowered her hood, and was met with stares.
The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) Page 2