Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Maybe I could try to send my mother a message. She’s in Switzerland, studying the universe. If anyone could help me, it would be my mother.”

  Alec released her, and stood up abruptly. “How would you send her a message?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe bury some sort of time capsule in a place that would be excavated. God knows, England always has some kind of archeological dig going on, usually looking for Roman ruins.”

  “How could your mother help you?”

  She heard the anger in his voice, and reached out to grasp his hand. “Alec . . .”

  His fingers tightened almost painfully around hers. Then he sat down on the bed again. “Don’t ask me to be happy for you, Kendra, for any possibility that you could leave. I love you.” He twisted to look at her, his hand reaching up to cup her face. “I can’t bear to think of life without you.”

  Her heart squeezed at the thought of losing him too. She threaded her fingers through his silky hair. Could anybody be in a more impossible situation?

  She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she said slowly, her voice unsteady. “If I was going to write to anybody, I should write to myself in the future—a warning to stay away from England.”

  He drew back, frowning. “You are not setting my mind at rest.”

  “It should. Because I can tell you if I got that letter, I’d never believe it. I’d assume it was a joke or a scam. No matter what.”

  This was the craziest conversation she’d ever had. But she continued. “The paper would be old. I would recognize my handwriting. I could even put in facts that only I knew. But . . . I know myself, Alec. There are ways to get paper from this era, and forgery only requires expertise. The hardest thing would be for me to figure out how someone knew intimate details.” She shrugged. “Systems can be hacked. I might’ve been under surveillance. I know myself. I would think it was a clever hoax, and I wouldn’t listen.” She caught his gaze. “Would you believe it if you got a letter from yourself from two hundred years ago?”

  Alec looked startled, then thoughtful. “I know myself too,” he admitted after a moment. “I don’t know how to test for paper, but . . . I would not believe it.”

  “I don’t even believe it now. It’s too . . . insane.” And that’s how her mother would view it as well. Who wouldn’t?

  He gazed at her in such a way as to make a lump rise in her throat. “I’m selfish, I know,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her again and pulling her against him. “I know you want to go back to your world, Kendra, but I can’t wish for it. Don’t ask me to.”

  Kendra’s head was tucked against his chest. She heard the strong, steady beat of his heart. If the positions were reversed, she would be just as selfish, she realized. Oddly, she felt like crying.

  “I have a question,” he murmured.

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s a nerd?”

  Kendra laughed, and allowed herself to snuggle closer. “I’m a nerd. And you’d be the hot quarterback. If we were in the twenty-first century, there wouldn’t be a chance in hell that I’d be able to get near you.” Because she was near him now, she lifted herself, and devoured his mouth with a kiss that sent a shaft of heat straight through her.

  When they drew apart, slightly breathless, Alec asked, “What’s a quarterback, and why are they hot? Do they have some sort of fever?” His clever fingers were beginning to roam in a way that made it hard for her to concentrate. “Why wouldn’t you be able to come near me?”

  She laughed again. Kissed him again. “Hot means handsome, in my era’s lingo, which you are. Quarterback . . . we’ll save that for another time. And I wouldn’t get near you because you’d be with the bouncy, beautiful cheerleader, or a homecoming queen.”

  His green eyes gleamed at her. “You are either overestimating me, or underestimating yourself. Unless I was a complete nodcock in your timeline, I’d be pursuing you. And . . .” His breath feathered her lips as he leaned closer. “. . . if you don’t want to be forced into marrying me, I must go.”

  He smothered Kendra’s groan with a kiss. The bed rose as he drew away. Snatching up his boots, cravat, and jacket, he crept to the door.

  “Wait,” she said. “What about Flora?”

  “Keep your voice down, woman. I shall find a position for your Flora at one of my estates if the Duke does not.”

  “You’ll help her?”

  “Shh. Yes. Now go to sleep, darling.” He opened the door a crack and peered out.

  Kendra released a sigh. “You know, this is ridiculous. We’re adults.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You are the one who wanted rules and structure, sweet.”

  “Not these rules,” she muttered, but he was already gone.

  Without Alec’s warmth to share, the bed was too cold, even with the blankets. Kendra shifted, trying to get comfortable, as her mind replayed their conversation, racing forward and circling around like a cat chasing its own tail.

  The idea of sending a letter to the future was certainly intriguing. But she’d been honest with Alec. She couldn’t imagine herself believing such a letter. What if she sent it to her fourteen-year-old self? Would she have been more open-minded then? Probably not. She’d been dealing with the shock of figuring out how to navigate her life without parental authority. It had been like she was in a freefall. If she’d received a letter from 1815—Help, I accidentally traveled through time, and now I’m stuck in Regency England—she’d have tossed it in the trash, thinking it was some sort of weird hazing.

  The fact that she was here at all must mean that she had never—would never send her future self a letter. She’d remember getting such a letter. Even if she was in some sort of time loop, that would be part of her memories now, wouldn’t it? So that could only mean she never sent the letter . . . or something had prevented her future self from receiving it. Fate? The universe? A higher power conspiring to keep her in the nineteenth century? She didn’t know, couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  Her head was beginning to hurt, and yet now that she’d begun to consider the matter, she couldn’t turn it off. Her mind spun with the scenario that she could get a letter to her mother. But, what then? It wasn’t like her mother could whip up a time-travel machine and rescue her. And she suspected that her coldly rational parent would also dismiss such a missive. But maybe she’d try to call Kendra. When she couldn’t locate her, she’d contact the FBI to trace her whereabouts. Or had the FBI already contacted her mother? Her father?

  Kendra’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t told Alec or the Duke how she’d spent her final moments in the twenty-first century—plotting the death of a valuable asset of the United States government, laying false trails, creating new identities, and opening overseas bank accounts. The Bureau wouldn’t have wanted to spread that information, but she was certain that they would have contacted her parents as part of their investigation. Or maybe they had invented a story to explain a manhunt for one of their own. If she ever made it back to her own timeline, would she see her own face staring back at her from an FBI’s Most Wanted poster?

  She let out a heavy sigh, and rolled out of bed. It would be time to get up soon, anyway . . . well, in another two or three hours, maybe. She would do some yoga stretches, and then go to the private parlor. Review her notes. Maybe beg a cup of coffee out of Mrs. Bolton or Mrs. Pratt. Screw the cup; she’d ask them for a full pot.

  Because it was freezing, she grabbed the cotton robe from the chair and hastily pulled it on. Tying the sash, she stumbled across the dark room to the window, shoving the curtains open.

  It was still dark, but not the inky darkness of night. In an hour, the sun would begin its daily climb toward the heavens. Whether East Dingleford would actually see the sun was another matter though. She could see the shape of low-hanging clouds, and fog, silvery-gray, shifting like the souls of the damned across the ground, winding around t
he barn and outbuildings and through the trees.

  She gazed into the backyard of the inn, remembering how Mrs. Bolton had drifted across the frost-covered ground a few days ago in her nocturnal journey. Kendra had pushed the incident to the back of her mind, distracted by other events. Like a double homicide.

  She tapped her fingers along the windowsill as she recalled the first evening at the inn, when Freddie had accused Mrs. Bolton of sympathizing with the Luddites. And she remembered the old woman’s panic. Like a mosaic, bits of stone were falling into place to create a pattern, a picture.

  Would Mrs. Bolton have ventured out to meet a brother who had radical sentiments?

  There was only one way to find out if her suspicions were right. Kendra turned away from the window, and moved to the wardrobe. Twenty minutes later, she opened her door and slipped quietly into the hallway.

  35

  The inn was silent and dark. There was a small window at the end of the corridor near the stairs; otherwise the hallway was so dark that she couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of her. She moved slowly, cautiously, her hands outstretched so as to not bump into any furniture or the wall, using the light of the window to guide her. She almost regretted not lighting a candle, but she’d been afraid someone might see the flame. Besides, it always took her too damned long to strike the flint to light the wick anyway.

  Deprived of sight, her hearing became more acute. She heard the soft swish of her morning dress and cloak as she crept forward. A floorboard creaked underfoot as she reached the stairs. She winced, held her breath, and waited.

  Silence.

  She exhaled slowly. The shadowy light from the window gave her a measure of comfort that she would be able to descend the stairs without breaking her neck. The fan window above the door helped direct her down the hall, but halfway down, the meager light disappeared, and she once again had to proceed more cautiously. She summoned the layout of the downstairs from her memory and followed the mental map. Past the private parlor. The kitchen on the left. Another room with the door closed on the right. A short stretch to the back door.

  Her hand encountered the smooth wood of the back door. She allowed her fingers to drift over it, to feel the cold outline of the iron lock. She threw open the bolt and eased it open, relieved when there was no noisy squeak. She stepped out into the cold and the damp, closing the door behind her.

  Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted. Kendra clutched the velvet cloak closer to her throat and struck out across the uneven ground, the grass crisp with early morning frost. The mist was slightly disorienting, obscuring the stone buildings she knew were ahead. As she drew near, they took shape behind the curtain of fog, and solidified when she was within a few feet of them. Kendra recognized the low stone structure on her right—an ice house. The small building to the left was a chicken coop. She wasn’t sure what the next building was, but it didn’t matter. Her attention was already shifting back to the stone barn looming ahead of her.

  She hurried over to the barn door. The strong scent of hay, manure, and animal assailed her nostrils as soon as she opened the door. Three small square windows were cut into the stone, offering some relief against the dark interior, but not much. She hesitated in the doorway, allowing her eyes to adjust to the murkier light. She got the impression of a dirt floor, two stalls, and a high ceiling that soared to a hayloft. A large shadow moved in one of the stalls, lower and wider than a horse. A cow. She hadn’t give much thought to what it took to run an inn of the Green Maiden’s size. But as she moved farther into the barn, she realized how smart it was for the Boltons to have a cow for milk and chickens for eggs.

  She approached the second stall and paused, then reached out, pushing the wood gate inward. It was darker in the stall, the meager light from windows unable to reach the area, but she could see something dark lying against the lighter hay.

  “Mr. Thackeray . . .” she whispered, remembering Mrs. Bolton’s maiden name. The dark shape didn’t move. She bent down, her hand just brushing the blanket, when a noise behind her made her straighten and swing around.

  A man emerged from another door, buttoning up his breeches. He stopped in surprise as he spotted her. Kendra recognized him as the large, burly Luddite from the road, the one who’d been carrying the pickax.

  “Mr.—” she began, but her greeting was transformed into a cry as the man suddenly exploded in movement, racing forward and catching her square in the chest as he gave her a hard shove that caused her to fly backward. Her body slammed against the gate, which cracked loudly against the stall’s wall. Disturbed, the cow in the next stall issued a plaintive moo. The straw and the blankets softened her fall, but she still gasped in agony as her tailbone hit the ground.

  “Fuck!” She bit her tongue, tasted blood in her mouth. She heard the man’s pounding feet as he ran toward the door. Despite the pain lancing up her spine, Kendra scrambled to her feet in time to see the man dive out the door. She yanked up her skirts and gave chase.

  Mrs. Bolton’s brother had to be in his fifties, Kendra calculated, which gave her the edge, because she was younger and faster.

  Except she hadn’t considered the fog. The sky was lighter, but the mist clung to the earth with tenacious fingers. She was forced to stop, her gaze scanning the area. She turned sharply at the sound of running feet, and she caught a glimpse of the Luddite racing toward the woods before his figure was swallowed by whorls of fog. She sprinted after him.

  The mist was worse in the woods, reducing the visibility to a monochromatic gray. The chilly dampness snuck beneath her cloak and dress. She shivered, and stopped. Her gaze swept the area. She caught a quicksilver movement in the darkness, heard the snap of twigs. She ran in that direction, then went skidding on a batch of wet leaves. Arms flailing, she managed to keep her balance.

  “Mr. Thackeray!” she called out. Her voice sounded loud and alien in the forest. She pivoted. Listened. A cacophony of noises seemed to drift out of the fog. Tree branches stirred above. She caught the occasional coo of a bird, the rustle of damp leaves on the ground.

  “I know the Luddites didn’t kill Stone!” she shouted.

  She paused, waiting, and heard nothing but rustling and cooing.

  “I just want to talk to you!”

  There came a sound from behind her, and she spun again. Her heart thudded as she squinted, trying to see beyond the mist.

  A wild boar burst through the vapor, and came to a stop about fifteen feet from her. The creature was the size of a large dog, with bristly fur and a long snout. Its small, beady eyes regarded her. Then it twisted its body, which seemed too bulky for its short, skinny legs, and bolted back into the fog again.

  Kendra let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She wasn’t sure how dangerous wild boars could be to humans, but she wasn’t about to find out if the creature had family nearby, or if there were bigger and more dangerous animals just waiting to pounce on her. She snatched up a thick branch from the ground, and held it like a baseball bat. Just in case. She may not have been a survivalist, but she knew how to survive.

  It took her a while to make her way out of the woods. Some of her tension eased when she spotted the shadowy outline of the barn and outbuildings ahead. The mist was thinner here, she thought, away from the woods. She hurried past the barn and crossed the clearing to the inn. She let out a relieved sigh, tossing aside the branch, as she opened the back door and slipped inside. The glow of oil lamps and a soft murmur of conversation came from the kitchen. The inn was waking up.

  Rubbing her arms beneath her cloak to drive the chill away, Kendra approached the doorway. Inside the kitchen, Lizzie and Tessa were beginning their domestic duties, with Lizzie black-leading the stove, while Tessa poured water into the teakettle. Kendra spotted the clock near the fireplace. Almost six o’clock.

  Tessa let out a screech, which she quickly stifled. “Gor! Miss Donovan, ye startled me somethin’ fierce!” She hastily set down the pitcher and reached for a r
ag to sponge up the water she’d spilled when she’d jerked the pitcher away from the teakettle.

  “Sorry.”

  “Have ye been outside?” Lizzie asked incredulously, eyeing her cloak.

  “Yes, and I’m frozen.” Kendra removed the cloak, draping it over her arm. She was becoming aware that her half boots and the bottoms of her skirt and cloak were soaked. Her feet inside the boots were numb with cold. She gravitated toward the fire blazing in the hearth and held out her hands to the warmth.

  “Whatever were you doin’ outside at this time, Miss Donovan?” Tessa blurted out, earning a frown from her older sister. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss . . . Is yer chamber pot full, and ye needed ter go ter the privy?”

  “Tessa!” Lizzie hissed, mortified. “Gentry have their own ways ter go about their business. I apologize, Miss Donovan. My sister is young, and still needs ter be schooled with the proper respect for her betters.”

  Kendra had to suppress a smile at Lizzie, only two years older than Tessa, taking such a grownup stance. “Where’s your grandmother?” she asked.

  “Oh, she’ll be here shortly, as will Mrs. Pratt,” Lizzie said. “Can we help ye with anything, Miss Donovan?”

  “No.” She stepped away from the fire, then paused. “Actually, I’d love a pot of coffee, if it’s no trouble.”

  Tessa said, “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, miss. I’ll make ye up a tray”

  “Thanks. I’m going to change my clothes and shoes . . . I’ll meet you in the private parlor in twenty minutes.” She started for the door, but paused, glancing back at the sisters. “If you see your grandmother, tell her I need to see her.”

  The inn was still quiet but not quite so dark when Kendra retraced her footsteps back to her room. It took her ten minutes to wiggle out of the loose-fitting blue muslin morning gown, take off the half-boots, and strip out of her white stockings; another seven minutes to wiggle into a lilac cotton muslin gown and pink stockings, and shove her feet into embroidered slippers. She ran a brush through her hair, but knew that she didn’t have the skill to do anything more than that, and had no intention of waking up Molly just to style her hair.