He cleared his throat. "Are you certain she wouldn't have simply gone to stay with one of her sisters? Or a friend?" Or eloped with a footman to Gretna Green? He wouldn't have expected such a thing of Julia, but then, even that seemed more likely than traveling to the future.
Lady Pendleton leaned in and patted his hand. "Dear Oliver, I know this must seem preposterous to you, as it must to any reasonable person. Indeed, if I didn't believe you to be deeply in love with my daughter, I would never have involved you in this at all. I would go after her myself and let the pieces afterward fall where they may."
She grinned at him. "I believe I've mentioned that Julia is very much like her mother, so you'd best become accustomed to—shall we say—an unconventional sort of wife." She gave him a playful look. "I daresay you'll never be bored in the bedroom. Lord Pendleton never had cause to be, I assure you."
Oliver jerked his head back. Now that was an image he'd never thought to have. He felt the warmth in his face.
Lady Pendleton laughed.
Chapter Six
November 22, 2015
Half Moon Street
London
Eleven in the morning
"The coins are in excellent condition, considering their age," the proprietor said as he examined each one with his magnifying glass. "As though they were minted only a few years ago." He turned a suspicious face to Julia. "Where did you acquire them, if you don't mind my asking?"
Julia did mind. She couldn't tell him the truth—that she and they had skipped across two hundred years without undergoing the normal aging process.
"My mother gave them to me," she said truthfully.
The silver-haired shopkeeper—of Indian descent, she decided—tilted his head to one side as he regarded her. "Indeed. A collector, is she?"
Julia swallowed. "Yes. She collects all sorts of things." Also true.
The man narrowed his eyes. "I see." He picked up a coin and inspected it more carefully before putting it down and turning his attention back to her.
"These are priceless coins. I doubt that any serious collector would let them go. Are you certain you have your mother's permission to sell them?"
"I'm quite certain," Julia insisted. "She—er—gave them to me for my birthday last year." She fidgeted, unused to telling lies, even partial ones.
"Well," the man said, picking up the handful of coins and running them through his fingers with awe. "I suppose that's all right then. I'll go into the back room and come back with an offer." He gave her a tight smile. "I'll need some identification, of course."
Identification? Julia stared at him blankly.
"A driver's license? A staff ID card? A passport?"
Julia shrugged.
The man frowned and stroked his chin, alternating looks at her and the coins in his hand. "An address then. Your direction, in case we should be required to contact you."
Julia let out a huge breath. "Of course. I live in Grosvenor Square. Number forty-two." Well, she had lived there, two hundred years ago.
The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows skeptically, turning away and muttering in a language Julia didn't understand, leaving her to cool her heels in his small, cramped shop. Unused to deception, combined with the anxiety, caused her to shake a bit as she worried that he suspected her motives. Indeed, she was certain he did, but when he returned with an itemized list—printed as though from a printing press!—she felt giddy with relief.
Four hundred thirty-two pounds seemed like a fortune to her. She must have spent too long looking at it because the proprietor shifted his feet and quickly offered to throw in an additional fifty pounds. Speechless, she continued to stare at him, and when the doorbell rang to announce another customer, he raised his offer to five hundred. Julia was quick to accept.
The colorful paper notes were light in her secret pocket as she left the shop, feeling quite pleased with herself. It was an exhilarating feeling to know that she could manage quite well on her own in the future, much as the other women were doing, with no maids or chaperones in sight. Of course, her anachronistic appearance was still drawing attention, so she decided the first thing she would do was to seek out some modern attire. After she found some sustenance, of course.
The smell of food enticed her into a small café off Piccadilly Street. She surveyed the room with interest, seeing no waiters, only two young women in blue aprons and caps behind a glass case displaying pastries, sandwiches wrapped in some sort of transparent material, and bottles of colorful liquid.
"Can I help you, miss?"
One of the young ladies in blue, a blonde with pert gray eyes, looked at her with curious interest.
"What a lovely costume! I suppose you're working at one of the period exhibits?"
"Er, yes. Apsley House."
"I'm told it's quite lovely." The girl, who wore an engraved pin with the name "Ashley" on it, gave an anxious look in the direction of the person in the queue behind her. "What can I get you, ma'am?"
Julia moistened her lips. "Er, what do you recommend?"
Ashley's hands went to her hips. "The ham sandwich is fine. Or if you'd prefer something hot, we have paninis or jacket potatoes." She pointed to a chalkboard behind her.
"A jacket potato," Julia said quickly, "with cheese." At least she knew what a potato was, jacket notwithstanding.
When the girl asked for fifteen pounds, Julia's hand went to her throat. "Fifteen pounds?" For a potato?
"Get used to it," said the older woman behind her. "Things are getting so dear in this city that only the tourists can afford it."
Dear indeed, thought Julia, as she handed over a twenty-pound note and went to a table to wait for her food to be brought. Five hundred pounds might not be such a great fortune as she had thought. But then, she reminded herself, she didn't intend to stay long. Taking a deep, pained breath, she closed her eyes, picturing in her mind her mother, frantic with worry about where she had gone, having to send word to all the wedding guests to return home, and the wasted food—the beautiful wedding cake she'd watched Cook decorating the day before—how disappointed she and everyone involved in the preparations—must be to see it all come to nothing.
And Oliver. The world seemed to spin around her as she forced herself to imagine what Oliver was thinking now that he knew she had run away and left him waiting in vain at the altar. He must be angry. Any man would be. But was he a little bit sad, as well? Or just disappointed that he was going to have to go to the trouble of finding someone else to be Violet's mother?
If the latter was the case, Julia told herself, dabbing at her wet eyes with a paper serviette, it was better that she let him go. As painful as it would be to watch him wed another—again—she would never wish herself in a marriage with a man who thought of her only as a convenience.
Her food, when it came, turned out to be delicious. The brown liquid in the bottle labeled "Coke," on the other hand, nearly made her choke when she felt it trickle down her throat. It was like nothing she'd ever tasted before. Not fiery like brandy—which she'd sampled once from the decanter in her father's library—but bubbly. Still, it wasn't vile or anything, and as she took a few more sips, she found she enjoyed the taste. Vastly superior to the ale she'd grown up drinking, and it didn't muddle her head as wine always did.
After finishing her meal, she rose from her chair, with shopping on her mind. Looking out the glass of the double doors, she saw a store called Zara with display windows bearing life-size mannequins dressed in intriguing ensembles from trousers and warm sweaters to strapless, sequined ball gowns. She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and joined a crowd of people waiting to cross the street. The delight of shopping was one pastime she shared with most ladies of her time… and by the multitude of women carrying shopping bags, it seemed it was shared by the ladies of the twenty-first century as well.
***
November 22, 2015
St. George's Church
Hanover Square
London
>
A quarter past noon
Other than a slight feeling of nausea that could have been a symptom of his overall skepticism, Oliver felt nothing when he closed his eyes and whispered the strange words—Romani or some ancient language?—the gypsy woman had taught him. He fully expected that when he opened them again, he would still be standing in Madame Herne's drawing-room with Lady Pendleton and the extraordinary fortune-teller snickering at his credulity. Although, he recalled as he opened his eyes and realized his error, both had been grim-faced and earnest in their insistence that he go after Julia and fetch her back… if he truly loved her and wanted a chance to win her as his wife, that is.
He wasn't at the gypsy's shop on Gracechurch Street. But he wasn't where he expected to be either, at Hyde Park, where he'd been told Julia had gone. Instead, he found himself outside St. George's Church, where he'd been scheduled to wed that morning.
For a moment, he thought his knees might give way, so he leaned against one of the Corinthian columns and took several deep breaths to get his bearings. He pinched himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming. It seemed impossible, but here he was, beneath the portico of St. George's Church—he pinched himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming—and the scene he beheld was like nothing he'd ever imagined. The shiny self-propelled vehicles of numerous sizes, shapes, and colors barreling down the street and parked in rows along the streets. The small fir trees bearing colored lights that flickered on and off on the pavement between the shop fronts, their own displays lit from some hidden source he couldn't fathom. The pedestrians passing by on the pavement wearing colorful coats and hats. Women in trousers and—egads—one in a short frock well above the knee that appeared to be bare-legged, except for tall, black high-heeled boots. She looked up to catch him staring, and winked. "Great costume!"
Startled, he turned to his own apparel, and realized that it was his appearance that was noteworthy here. Except for a few widened eyes and surprised smiles, nobody seemed to be scandalized by his scarlet wool cloak flanked with three capes, buff-colored nankeen trousers, and well-polished Hoby boots. Perhaps traveling through time was commonplace in this century? But wouldn't that lead to a great deal of chaos and upheaval? He clenched his jaw. He wasn't here to philosophize. He was here only for Julia.
Julia. Where was she? The chill of the air and the dark clouds seemed to indicate the onset of inclement weather. He fingered the shiny red stone in his pocket. According to the gypsy, this guinea-sized stone was the mate of the one she'd given to Julia, and its vibrations would lead him to her. The stone felt oddly warm to his touch now, giving credence to the gypsy's assertions. Its warmth meant that Julia was here. His skepticism rapidly evaporating, he straightened up and took a step to the right. The stone seemed to vibrate in his hand, and continued to do so as he descended the church steps and followed the pavement to the closest crossroad. As long as the stone continued to vibrate, he ascertained that he was heading in the right direction. When it stopped, he changed direction until it began to vibrate once again. Quite a handy article, he thought, so long as the matching stone remained in Julia's possession. Because if she lost it… he might never find her in this vast and convoluted metropolis.
He quickened his step, forcing himself to avoid gaping at all of the remarkable spectacles he encountered along the way. The stone seemed to become more heated as he walked, which assured him that he must be honing in on Julia's location.
Chapter Seven
Hair With Flair
Jermyn Street
London
Half past twelve o'clock
"There you are, ducky. I only chopped off six inches or so. You still have plenty of length left. See how it falls so naturally into waves? It'll be so much easier to take care of, now, you'll see."
The chair swiveled around, and Julia gazed at her new "look" in the mirror. She'd been hesitant to take the stylist's advice to cut it so drastically, but then, she'd already thrown caution to the wind while purchasing clothing at both shops she'd patronized that day, so why not do the same with her hair? It would grow back… in time.
Her soft copper hair fell in gentle waves around her neck, giving her a more feminine appearance. Contrary to her assertions, the stylist had cut a great deal more than six inches on the sides, revealing the porcelain skin of Julia's neck and décolletage. On closer inspection, she marveled at how cleverly the stylist's shears had worked its magic to give her the illusion of delicate femininity.
"It's lovely. A miracle, really. It's all in the cutting, I see. I shall have to show Cox how it is done, from here on."
"Cox. Is that your normal hairdresser?"
Julia blinked. "Er, yes. In Wittersham, where I reside."
The stylist gave her knowing grin. "A girl needs to treat herself every now and then. London's the best place for the latest trends. But as long as you're stranded out in the country, you might try this conditioning cleanser when you wash it, instead of shampoo. Detergents strip away the natural oils in your hair. Use this instead, and your hair will get healthier and smoother, and even using hair dryers and hot curling tools won't seriously damage it."
She handed Julia a bottle made of some transparent material that was not glass and instructed her to clean her hair with it twice and be sure to rinse with cold water. Saranne's All-Natural Hair Miracle. Julia hadn't been aware that her hair needed a miracle, but it was undeniable that it was softer and sleeker after one treatment, and she doubted it was due to the fresh cut or the hair dryer.
Now the magic hair dryer… that was something she would love to take back with her. Imagine not having to sit for upwards of an hour in front of the fireplace! As a child she had kicked up a fuss every time she'd been compelled to have it washed, and even as a young lady, she'd often wished to take the scissors to it to make it more manageable. Young unmarried ladies must be guided by society, her mother had insisted. Afterwards, well, she could make her own rules, as Lady Pendleton had.
But alas, the hair dryer wouldn't work in 1812, she realized, as she watched other hairdressers connecting various devices to a power source. Some form of modern magic that didn't exist in her time. But the hair cleanser—she removed the bottle cap and sniffed. Floral and—well—clean. Perhaps she could get an apothecary to make some for her.
"That'll be seventy-six pounds," announced the clerk at the counter. "Sixty-four for the cut and blow-dry and twelve for the conditioner. Will that be cash or credit?"
Julia sucked in a quick breath at the price, although she had already learned from her other shopping experiences that prices in the twenty-first century were outrageous. The stash of paper bills she'd believed to be a fortune had slimmed down considerably in the past two hours.
"Cash," she said promptly. She wasn't entirely sure what "credit"meant, except that she'd seen other clients pay for their purchases with a slick device the size of a calling card. Whatever it was, she didn't have one, so she counted out four twenty-pound notes and handed them over to the clerk.
Before departing through the heavy glass doors, Julia put down the shopping bag that contained her nineteenth-century clothing and donned her cinnamon-colored thigh-length faux fur jacket and bright orange knitted cap. She loved the freedom allowed her by tight black trousers called "leggings" and the warm comfort of the fur-lined ankle boots. Wouldn't her mother be scandalized? On second thought, probably not, since her ladyship had visited the future herself. But Oliver… oh, dear. Would he be scandalized to see her limbs so prominently displayed? Not that it mattered, since he would never have the opportunity to see them.
At the thought of Oliver and their ill-fated wedding, she felt a sudden heaviness in her chest. She'd thrown away her chance to marry the man she loved, and a part of her was pretty sure she'd live to regret it. On the other hand, if he'd wanted a subservient wife with no mind of her own, well, she wasn't the right one. And it was better to know that now than after the vows were spoken.
She wasn't, however, ready to return. Not just yet.
"Pardon me," she said, pulling a map out of her coat pocket and turning toward the clerk. "Would you be so kind as to direct me to the best route to Kensington Palace from here?"
The young blonde wrinkled her forehead. "Walking, you mean? It's a good thirty- or forty-minute walk from here, but I'm guessing the bus or Tube would take as long."
"I'd like to walk, yes." Julia knew that the large red vehicles were buses, but she had no idea what was involved in traveling on one. As for the Tube, she didn't want to admit that she had no idea what that was. Walking she could do, however.
"I'll mark out a route for you. You don't get to the city much, do you?" she added as she handed the map back to Julia.
"Quite seldom," Julia agreed.
Picking up her shopping bag while she smiled her farewell, she pushed open the door with her shoulder and came face-to-face with… Oliver.
She stumbled back and would have fallen had he not caught her and pulled her against him.
Oliver was here? Oliver had come to find her? How could he have known? Did that mean he cared for her after all? A myriad of conflicting feelings passed through her mind, but all she could do was smile and say, "Oliver."
Chapter Eight
Thank God!
Oliver was so relieved to see Julia safe and sound that he let out a huge breath, and when she seemed a bit shaky on her legs—her clearly visible, trouser-clad, exceedingly shapely legs!—he reached out to steady her and draw her in his arms.
"Julia!"
"Oliver!"
"What are you doing here?"
"Why did you leave?"
They stood and stared at each other for a long moment, until the clerk came to close the door behind them because "they were letting the cold in."
Finally, Oliver spoke. "I came to bring you home. Julia, your mother and sisters are so worried about you! I was worried about you! Why did you decide to do this? And on our wedding day? I cannot comprehend what you could have been thinking!"
Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection Page 12