Toil And Trouble, A Paranormal Romance (Jolie Wilkins)

by H. P. Mallory

  “This is too tight,” I gasped, feeling like all the blood was being pushed out of my center.

  “I barely pulled on ye,” Elsie said.

  “Barely pulled on me?” I repeated. “I feel like my liver’s now wedged in my throat!”

  Christine cupped her mouth as she fought to get her laughter under control and walked around me, as if admiring a horse at auction. “Your figure looks quite nice,” she commented. Then she faced Elsie again. “Elsie, where is the bustle from Mrs. Marseille’s?”

  Mrs. Marseille must have been a seamstress or a boutique proprietor, if I had to guess. Elsie muttered something undistinguishable and disappeared into Christine’s armoire, returning with what appeared to be a straight jacket. Rows of baleen ran up the sides to the back of the contraption giving it structure. Elsie pulled my arms up until they were perpendicular to my body and started securing the contraption around my waist. Christine looked on approvingly, as if enjoying my transformation. I, myself, couldn’t enjoy it and was instead visited by images of Hannibal Lecter.

  She grabbed a mound of muslin trimmed in lace. “And her petticoats, Elsie.”

  Elsie accepted the garments and carefully arranged them atop the bustle until I looked like my waist was all of two inches wide but my ass would stretch from here to Scotland. Scotland … the thought made me twitch with panic. What was I doing playing dress up when I should be in battle? God only knew what had happened to Rand, not to mention Sinjin. Then I suddenly had a thought—maybe the future was standing still now that I was in the past? I could only hope so. But regardless, I had to get out of here; I had to convince 1878 Rand to help me.

  “Am I nearly ready?” I asked, albeit breathlessly.

  “Your hair,” Christine started and motioned for me to sit down in front of her vanity. I could barely walk in all my new garb and sitting could only be more difficult. But as much as I wanted to complain, I couldn’t let Christine know I wasn’t used to wearing this type of getup. After all, in California in the 1800s, as a wealthy woman, I probably would have worn the same thing. So I sucked it up and sat down. Christine lifted my elbow length hair and secured it into a bun at the top of my head.

  “That will have to do for now. Dinner will be served shortly.”

  I glanced at myself and didn’t know what to think. With the top knot, I looked like some old school marm but the dress really was lovely. The rich blue matched my eyes perfectly. And I definitely looked well off with the lace billowing from the neckline and tight jacket narrowing over my waist with equally tight long sleeves ending in more lace.

  “Thank you, Elsie,” Christine said with a smile as the maid curtseyed and left.

  I turned to the task of standing up and didn’t want to alert Christine to the fact that I wasn’t practiced in Victorian fashion in the least. I attempted to stand and once accomplished, I tried to walk gracefully but the circumference of the dress turned it more into a hobble. Christine eyed me suspiciously, her smile about to give way to amusement.

  I took baby steps until I joined her at the doorway and together we hobbled down the stairs. She led me into the dining room where Rand sat beside Pelham, who looked pale or rather, green. Christine obediently took the chair beside her brother and I sat next to her. Actually, it would be more fitting to say I sort of flopped into the seat and rolled back up into a sitting position.

  “Are you well, William?” Christine whispered, the smile at my ridiculous display vanishing from her face as soon as she eyed her brother’s ashen countenance.

  Pelham smiled warmly. “Yes, darling, I am well, merely vexed with a trifling cold.” Hmm, could this be the beginning of Pelham’s cholera that eventually killed him?

  “Perhaps you should be,” Christine started, her face highlighted by the yellow flames of multiple candelabras.

  Pelham waved away her concern, then faced me. “In honor of our mysterious guest, I have asked Cook to marvel us with new treats from the kitchen!”

  Rand grumbled something unintelligible, making me realize he probably wasn’t going to help me. In fact, this Rand of 1878 was kind of an asshole. I frowned at Rand before turning to Pelham with a bright smile. At least he and his sister were friendly. Rand and Elsie could go screw themselves.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pelham,” I answered, settling my eyes on the white table linens. The sparkle of the crystal candelabras and glasses contrasted against the silver of the utensils, all erupting in a beautiful display of prismatic reflection.

  “Please, call me William. My Christine says you and she have become friends.”

  Hmm, maybe I wouldn’t have to bewitch Pelham after all—maybe the prospect of a playmate for his sister was enough for him. I smiled at Christine and before I could respond, I was interrupted by two servants carrying silver trays which they laid before us.

  “And what is this, George?” Pelham asked.

  George, who upon further inspection was the identical brother of the other servant, replied “For your first course, fillet of sole with anchovy sauce, cream of celery soup, mutton curry, and sherry.”

  While his brother announced the menu, George ~2 filled our glasses with pink sherry while I inspected the plate of fried fish before me cautiously. Celery soup sounded doable albeit uninteresting. I turned my attention to the silver platter of mutton curry which I thought might be more palatable. I was a big fan of Indian food, although I rarely ate lamb or mutton. George ~1 ladled the mutton into our bowls, followed by the celery soup, while George ~2 busied himself with filleting the fish.

  Once the two Georges retreated to the kitchen, I waited for the others to begin eating, planning to emulate them. Instead, Pelham lifted his glass of sherry and the others (including me) followed suit.

  “To the queen’s health,” he said quickly and swallowed a gulp. I thought it more fitting for him to cheers his own health, but there it was. We raised our glasses in toast and even though I’m not a big drinker, the sherry went down with no problem. I spooned a small portion of the sole and found it wasn’t incredibly bad. The mutton curry, on the other hand, was like no Indian food I’d ever consumed. It was in a word—vile. The curry was sharp and left my tongue wallowing in discontent. So I concentrated on the sole and finished it quickly, only to find everyone’s eyes settled on me.

  Christine shifted uncomfortably and turned beet red while Pelham resumed spooning his curry. Rand continued to watch me with elevated brows and a slight smirk playing with his lips. So the bastard could smile; imagine that.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “Perhaps California is different,” Christine started in a small voice, before flushing even more brilliantly red and focusing all her attention on her untouched plate.

  “Okay, out with it,” I said, becoming visibly irritated.

  Rand met my eyes directly. “When a lady consumes her dinner with such voracity, it often displays a voracious appetite for other pursuits.”

  “Balfour!” Pelham reprimanded.

  “Du liebe Güte!” Christine blurted. Hmm, my German wasn’t good enough on that count so I thought I’d rely on my magic—it was worth a shot. I thought to myself: translate and almost instantly, the words “Oh my goodness” traveled through my mind.

  Then I focused on what Rand had just said and it took me a second to realize he was talking about sex. Oh my God. I felt the heat of a blush suffuse my face but refused to look away. “Christine, as to your point, yes things are quite different in California.”

  Rand faced Pelham and there was anger in his eyes. “Sie gehört hier nicht hin.” The words “she does not belong here” rang through my mind, loud and clear. So Rand could speak German. Ha, well I could understand it.

  “Wo sind deine Manieren? Darüber sollten wir später redden,” Pelham said and my mind translated the meaning to: “Where are your manners? We shall discuss this later.” Then Pelham faced me with an embarrassed smile. “Apologies, Miss Wilkins.”

  I just nodded while he faced his sister
and Rand again. “We will speak English only, please.”

  I smiled and relaxed into my chair, hoping my magical translation ability could not only translate but also create. Worth a shot. “Keine Sorge; ich spreche Deutsch!” I said, which meant, “No worries; I understand German.”

  Christine’s mouth dropped open while Rand shook his head in irritation and dropped his attention to his plate. Pelham just chuckled.

  So the Victorians were pretty freaking unbelievable. A woman with a healthy appetite meant she also had a healthy appetite for bedroom sports? Good God. I glanced at Christine’s plate again and noticed only a mere indentation in her fish while her mutton was untouched. The two Georges rescued me from further embarrassment by removing our plates while a female servant began replacing them with new plates and glasses. Then the two Georges returned with something I will never forget as long as I live. And I don’t mean in a good way.

  “Second course,” George ~1 began. “Boiled calf’s head, brains in butter and herb sauce, citrus cranberry sauce, carrots in dilled cream sauce, tipsy cake, and claret.”

  V O M I T.

  Well, thank God women were supposed to show restraint at the dinner table. I had no argument with that, although the tipsy cake sounded interesting. The boiled calf’s head was absolutely repulsive and I couldn’t help but notice Rand’s avoidance of the nasty thing. Pelham, on the other hand, didn’t wait for the two Georges to begin serving him and tore off a piece of the cheek revealing a toothy grin. George ~2 ladled up a spoonful of brains and butter sauce on my plate, a lump of cranberry compote, and a couple of inconspicuous carrots smothered in a white sauce before departing back into the kitchen. I immediately went for the carrots, being careful not to consume them too quickly, lest Rand think I was interested in a carrot of another sort.

  After finishing my last carrot, I eyed the mound of brains amid bleeding butter as it ran the entirety of my plate. It seemed like minutes as I forked a very small bite and brought it to my lips reluctantly. The taste was horrid and I felt myself start to gag. I washed down the brains with a healthy gulp of claret and thrust my spoon into the cranberry, hoping it might soothe my thoroughly disturbed taste buds. The cranberry citrus goulash was as tart as biting into a lemon and I decided I was finished.

  “You will sample the tipsy cake?” Christine asked. She cut me a piece no more than the width and length of my index finger and plopped it onto my plate. The cake looked alright but after taking a bite, tipsy wasn’t a good description. There was no taste of alcohol at all and instead, it was dry and felt like I was chewing cement. What a disappointment. I washed it down with the claret and wanted to brush my teeth, the brain film still hanging onto my molars.

  “Have you given more thought to Christmas dinner?” Pelham asked Christine.

  Christine beamed and clapped her hands together ecstatically. “Oh, yes, I have completed the list of courses and I have even arranged for games.”

  “Christmas?” I started, downing another mouthful of claret.

  Christine faced me with a large smile. “Oh yes, Miss …”

  “Jolie.”

  “Jolie,” she corrected with an embarrassed smile that gave way to an excited smile over Christmas planning. “Christmas at Pelham Manor is just lovely. It is a true German celebration. You will so enjoy it. I am terribly sorry you cannot be with your own family but we will try to make it as enjoyable for you as we can. Won’t we, brother?”

  Pelham smiled. “Yes, of course we will.”

  “Really, William,” Rand started, throwing an angry look in my direction.

  Pelham silenced Rand with his hand. “It is the Christmas season, Balfour; you might learn from Dickens’ example.”

  Maybe he was referencing Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. If I could remember correctly, Dickens wrote in Victorian times and seemed to be mostly concerned with the plight of the have nots. Hmm, more importantly, when the hell was Christmas? I really wasn’t planning on staying that long, if I could help it. I needed to get Rand to use his warlock abilities and get me the hell back to my own time—with a few seconds to spare me from Gwynn’s blade. And I also needed to do a bit of research into Mercedes. The more I thought about her bizarre words and abilities, the more I thought she might be able to help. So no offense to Old Saint Nick, but Christmas didn’t enter into my plans.

  “When is Christmas?” I asked.

  Christine faced me, wide eyed. “Why, in half a fortnight.”

  That was just one week away.

  I gulped the remainder of my claret, eyed the forlorn calf’s head, and resolved to get on the next train out of 1878 ASAP.

  SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, after tossing and turning all night, thinking of and refuting ways to get back to my own time, I awoke to find a ray of sun struggling to get through my drawn curtains. I yawned, stood up, and yanked the curtains back. The sun’s brightness assaulted me as it reflected off the blanket of snow covering the trees, bushes, and grounds outside Pelham Manor.

  My heart sped up. I didn’t belong here; I had to get back to my own time. Yet, insofar as I could see, there was no way to get there. Rand had clearly demonstrated his aversion to helping me and he was my only hope. My heaving chest felt like it might cave in on itself so I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, focusing on my exhale. My heart’s palpitations slowed and a wave of refreshing calmness washed over me. I had two goals: first to find out more about Mercedes; and second, to persuade Rand I wasn’t after his money, but his help.

  I opened my weary eyes and gazed out the window again, trying to appreciate the beauty of the sparkling snow. The tranquility of the moment was interrupted when Rand and Pelham appeared, Pelham sporting a thick blanket around his shoulders. He took such small steps that Rand basically hobbled next to him. Hmm, I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall for their conversation because I was convinced it had everything to do with me. Obviously Rand didn’t want me here.

  Well, while I might not have been able to magick myself into a fly (ew), I was able to assume the shape of the fox. I turned away from the window, observing my floor length nightgown. Not wanting to take the time to magick myself into the height of Victorian fashion, I decided to venture outside in my nightie, despite the fact that it would be considered indecent to be seen in my undergarments. At this point, I didn’t care. Besides, once I became a fox, my clothes would be destroyed anyway.

  I checked the empty hallway outside my bedroom which only emphasized the early hour by the fact that the entire house was silent with not even the sounds of maids stirring the coals. I crept down the stairs into the short hallway that linked the back entrance of Pelham Manor. Once there, I opened the door, only to find Rand and Pelham just twenty feet ahead of me. I tip-toed into the snow and closed the door behind me as carefully as I could. Noticing a skeletal bush covered in downy snow, I hid behind it and closed my eyes, calling my fox. I envisioned the creature flooding my body with a spry quickness I could feel through my blood. Shape shifting is not painful; your head begins to cloud, like you’re about to pass out and voila, you’re on all fours.

  I scampered out from behind the bush and scurried the distance separating me from Rand and Pelham. I had to be careful to remain covered by the bushes so neither would notice me—I mean, wasn’t fox hunting a national pastime in England?

  “Thank you for assisting me outside, Balfour,” Pelham started. “I am not quite so hot now.”

  Rand merely nodded and grabbed Pelham’s arm when Pelham misstepped and nearly fell over. Pelham heaved a frustrated sigh and gratefully allowed Rand to support him. Then his body went still and he fought to catch his breath with only his contorted face revealing his agony. Guilt suffused me—I could heal Pelham; I could take away his pain and sickness. At the same time, though, was it right for me to do so? Was I in a position to make such a decision? I didn’t think I was.

  “Where does it hurt, Pel?” Rand asked, his expression full of concern.

  Pelh
am sighed. “Pain is a general theme of the whole of my body.”

  Rand said nothing but maneuvered Pelham to a wooden bench overlooking the grove of elm trees. Rand swept the snow from the bench and supported Pelham’s upper arms as the weaker man attempted to seat himself. Rand placed Pelham’s blanket around his shoulders before positioning his hands above Pelham’s head. Then he closed his eyes and his aura amplified its blue radiation. When Rand opened his eyes, Pelham glanced up at him with a smile.

  “I do not understand how you are able to do that, Balfour, but I thank you all the same.”

  “Let us leave it as one of the world’s unsolved mysteries,” Rand said with a laugh.

  Hmm, so Rand had already mastered the ability to remove pain. Although it wasn’t the be all end all, neither was it something relegated to an intermediate. Maybe Rand was more advanced in his magic than I’d presumed. I hoped it was far enough advanced that, once blended with mine, we could send me home again.

  “Pelham, would you be averse to discussing Miss Wilkins?” Rand asked, standing before Pelham with a worried expression marring his otherwise perfect face.

  Pelham shook his head and looked incredibly tired, almost achingly so. “What is worth discussing?”

  “She does not belong here, Pel,” Rand started.

  Pain and anger shuddered through my fox body. How could he be so cold, so uncaring? Hadn’t he understood when I said I was a witch? What would it take to convince him I wasn’t after his fortune? Maybe I hadn’t done enough to prove my powers ...

  “And what shall we do with her?” Pelham retorted. “Throw her into the cold?” His voice cracked and he closed his eyes, looking as though he would fall asleep right there.

  Rand frowned, turning around to face the grove of elm trees as he crossed his arms against his chest. “There are places for people like her—people with dementia.”