by Laurie Brown
Twilla returned, a pitcher of steaming hot water in one hand and a bundle in the other. She deposited both behind the screen. An even younger girl followed her into the room carrying a tray with a silver coffee service, delicate china cup and saucer, plate of toast, and a large snowy napkin. The child set the tray on the table near the window and then curtseyed on the run as she scurried out.
“I’ve brought everything I expect you’ll need for your morning ablutions. Be there anything else, Miss?” Twilla asked. “Simply ring when you are ready, and I will return to help you dress.” She indicated the bellpull that hung next to the painting over the fireplace.
Eleanor hadn’t had anyone help her dress since she’d learned to tie her own shoes. “Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
The maid quickly masked her surprise and nodded. “As you will, Miss. Nuncheon is served for the ladies at eleven o’clock. The dancing master is in attendance today.”
“Thank you.”
“Just ring when you are ready, and I will take you downstairs.”
Eleanor was sure she could find her way without a guide, but she nodded rather than argue. As soon as the maid left, Eleanor headed straight for the bathroom. The rosette latch on the armoire wouldn’t budge. She tried every bit of decorative carving, in case she had remembered the location of the latch wrong. Nothing moved.
“Damn it.”
Locking the bathroom door was taking matters too far. Mrs. Simms was in for an earful.
In desperation, Eleanor was forced to use the chamber pot. Without her suitcases, she had to make do with the materials provided by the inn. She added the skimpy linen washcloth and hand towel to her list of complaints. On the plus side, the tiny square of handmade soap that smelled of honeysuckle was an unexpected pleasure.
She examined the wide-toothed comb that appeared to be tortoise shell. Since that was illegal, like ivory, it must be plastic. Good imitation. She pulled the comb through her hair, glad she’d recently cut it short and allowed it to curl naturally.
Then she examined the wood-handled toothbrush with strange brown bristles. She set it aside with a shiver of revulsion. A small round can labeled “tooth powder” contained a white substance that tasted like baking powder with a touch of mint. Since her disposable toothbrush was locked in the bathroom, she used her finger to rub a bit of it over her teeth.
As she dressed, she thought about Twilla’s earlier announcement of the day’s activities. The schedule change was a bit of a worry. What if they’d changed the time she was to speak? She’d better get downstairs and register for the conference so she could check the handouts for other revisions.
At least she didn’t need to change the outfit she’d planned to wear. The sprigged muslin was appropriate for luncheon, or nuncheon as it was called during the Regency, and a dancing lesson. Although Eleanor was mostly interested in the fashions of the Regency, she’d planned to attend as many seminars as possible in order to make contacts and check out the costumes the competition had produced.
She decided not to spare more time looking for her watch, which she would have stuffed in her reticule anyway, so as not to spoil the illusion of the period dress. A gauzy shawl of sunny yellow and a Japanese fan completed her outfit.
In the hall, a faint feeling of unease niggled at the back of her brain and slowed her purposeful stride. Nothing seemed familiar. True, she’d been exhausted last night, but apparently she’d totally spaced out. The colorful Turkish rug beneath her feet was at odds with her vague memory of generic neutral carpeting. And a plethora of portraits and landscapes hanging on the walls replaced the tastefully framed photos of the manor’s architectural features that she remembered.
When she reached the landing halfway down the grand stairway, she came to a complete stop. She blinked. “Omigod,” she whispered.
Either a crew had renovated the entrance hall overnight, or she was in a different place. Gone was the shuttered monstrosity of a registration desk. A round table topped with a large Oriental vase of flowers sat directly below an ornate crystal chandelier. The tarnished suit of armor was gone. As Eleanor descended the last steps, a footman dressed in blue and gold livery and a white pony-tailed wig opened the ten-foot-tall double front doors and stood at attention to one side.
Eleanor was treated to a scene from a movie version of a Jane Austen novel. Two men dismounted their horses and handed the reins to a stableboy. In a classic macho moment, the taller one thumped the other on the back. She didn’t hear what was said, but male laughter rumbled ahead of them as they strode up the front steps. As they entered, the first man removed his tan leather gloves. His high stiff collar, snowy cravat, buff breeches, and knee-high Hessian boots were accurate in every detail, fitting his physique as if they had been glued on his body. His dark hair was casually windblown and a bit on the long side. He handed his high-crowned hat, gloves, and riding quirt to the footman with an air of entitled nonchalance not many men could pull off. His intense gaze drew her attention to his stormy gray eyes, but his frown caused her to quickly look away.
The other gentleman, also wearing an impeccable riding costume, had blond curls à la Byron, boyish good looks, and laughing blue eyes. Standing side by side, it appeared as if an angel and one of Satan’s own had declared a temporary truce. The angelic one noticed Eleanor standing on the stairway and said, “Ho, now, what have we here?”
A butler, who seemed to appear out of thin air, proffered a folded message on a silver salver and whispered something into the blond man’s ear.
“Thank you, Tuttle,” he said, dismissing the servant with a wave before stepping toward her. “My dear cousin, please allow me to welcome you. A bit belated, but no less sincere.”
She descended the stairs in a state of confusion. Did the festival have an official host? If so, they’d chosen well. He must be a politician or used car salesman in his real life. Unlike the taller dark-haired man who stood glowering, this man was open and friendly.
“I’m so pleased you are arrived in time for the house party,” the host said. Her puzzlement must have shown on her face. “Come now. I can’t have changed that much.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “But maybe I have. I’m Lord Digby in case you haven’t guessed.” He made a low elegant bow, one leg forward. “But I insist you call me Teddy, as you did when we were children. After all, you are a member of our family.” He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something.
Eleanor tipped her head slightly to the side, trying to make the circumstances fit into a logical framework. Had some attendees of the festival assumed a persona like reenactors sometimes did? Nothing in the conference literature had mentioned role-playing. Maybe they had hired actors to play the residents of the manor who lived during the Regency.
“I’m overwhelmed,” she said. And that was the truth.
“My sisters will be pleasantly surprised you have finally arrived. We passed their carriage on the road, so Deirdre and Mina should be here shortly.” Digby turned and motioned his companion forward. “Lord Shermont, allow me to present my cousin from America—”
The rest of the introduction was lost to her. Shermont’s presence was the undeniable last straw. Eleanor could no longer rationalize everything that had seemed out of place. As she was descending the last stair, the unbelievable truth hit her mid-step.
Omigod. The ghosts had actually done it. She’d really traveled back in time.
The enormity of the realization caused the earth to drop from under her feet by at least two inches. Or so it seemed as she stumbled forward. Shermont steadied her by supporting her elbow. Even so, she nearly fell into his arms.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, regaining her balance and pulling free. She crossed her arms and surreptitiously rubbed her elbow, still tingling with the warmth of his touch.
“Meeting you is a … unique pleasure,” Shermont said with a wicked, teasing smile that sent her blood racing.
“Here now,” her erstwhile cousin said. �
��I’d heard of females throwing themselves at you, Shermont, but I never thought to witness it myself.”
“Mind your manners, Digby,” Shermont said in a low, just-short-of-threatening voice.
The younger blond man only laughed at the reprimand. “This is the Age of Sensibility, and man must follow his penchant. It is my nature to be too honest and forthcoming.”
“Also known as rudeness.”
Digby frowned. “If that comment had come from anyone other than you, Shermont, I might be obligated to defend my honor.”
Surely Regency men wouldn’t duel over such a silly reason. Eleanor felt she should say something, but she had no idea how to diffuse the situation she’d inadvertently caused. Quick, quick, what would Jane Austen do? The scene that came to mind was when Knightley criticized Emma after the picnic where she had treated Miss Bates so badly.
“Gentlemen, isn’t the essence of good manners to make sure no one is uncomfortable?” Eleanor asked.
Shermont quirked an eyebrow in recognition of her riposte.
She continued, refusing to acknowledge the heat his tacit approval ignited. “Please don’t compound my embarrassment by turning my clumsiness into an affaire d’honneur.”
Both men were immediately contrite, verbally stumbling over each other in attempts to absolve her of any responsibility and to assure her their sparring was only good-natured jibes between friends and of no consequence. The impromptu competition of flowery apologies was thankfully cut short by the arrival of Deirdre and Mina. The sisters looked exactly like their ghostly counterparts, only the live ones were more vibrant in coloring and manner—more … alive.
Lord Digby interrupted the girls’ enthusiastic greeting of Eleanor to present his sisters to Lord Shermont.
“Haven’t I had the pleasure previously? You both seem quite familiar,” Shermont said. He rubbed the spot where a faint one-inch scar marked his forehead.
“I don’t think so,” Deirdre said. She made a slight pout with her lips as if trying to remember.
“No doubt we would—”
“Highly unlikely that we have met,” Deirdre said, interrupting her excited sister. “Neither of us has been presented at court as yet, and therefore we have not been in attendance at any functions of London society.”
Mina rocked forward on her toes. “Our brother promised next spring we—”
“Perhaps you have been a guest at another country house in the area?” Teddy offered. “Perhaps last summer?”
“Unfortunately, my affairs usually keep me in London year-round,” Shermont said.
“Then I insist there will be no discussion of business this entire week.” As Teddy spoke the footman closed the front door. “Where is Uncle Huxley?” Teddy turned to his sister. “Didn’t you delay your homecoming so he could accompany you?”
“He went with the coach to the stables,” Deirdre said as she removed her bonnet. “He brought his new filly along and wanted to see her settled properly.”
“I dare say he thinks more of horses than people,” Mina said as she handed her bonnet to the maid who waited nearby.
“Then we shall go to the stables to welcome him,” Teddy said.
“And perhaps take advantage of the opportunity to show off your new stallion,” Shermont said.
“I have been caught out,” Teddy admitted with a laugh. He turned to his sisters. “I’m told the fairest of our guests are in the parlor, and I’m sure you would prefer their company. If you will excuse us?”
“You are excused, but only because you are not properly dressed to be considered desirable company,” Deirdre replied to her brother. She turned to Shermont. “A dancing master has been engaged to demonstrate the latest steps. I do hope you will join us later this morning, even though you probably know all the new dances from London.”
Shermont gave a slight bow. “One can never be too well-versed in the pleasures of the dance.”
Though his answer was noncommittal, Deirdre smiled and preened under his direct attention. Eleanor easily decided Deirdre must be the sister who was seduced.
When the gentlemen were gone, Deirdre turned to Eleanor. “Dear Cousin Ellen,” she said. “We are so pleased you have arrived safely. I can hardly believe it’s been eleven years since your father took you off to the Colonies.”
“You look just the same,” Mina said. “Well, maybe a little older, but your teeth are still good. That’s an advantage in the marriage mart, believe me.”
“I’m not—”
“We won’t talk about marriage just yet,” Deirdre said. “Ellen just arrived.”
“Such a long time-consuming journey,” Mina said.
She didn’t know how right she was. “Actually, my name is Eleanor Pottinger, and I must tell you—”
“And we want to hear everything, absolutely everything. You’ve had such a terrible time these past three years, losing your father, your house, your fortune, and your husband to the war. May God rest Captain … what was his name again? Oh, yes, I remember. May God rest Captain Pottinger’s soul.”
Eleanor blinked at the list of woes. Poor Ellen.
“But you must consider this your home now and stay as long as you want.” Deirdre hooked her arm through Eleanor’s. “You’ll share our suite until after the ball because we have so many houseguests expected. We will have a long cozy chat later. Just now I am parched and cannot bear another moment without a cup of tea.”
Mina took Eleanor’s other arm. “Dear Cousin Eleanor, you are not to worry. Deirdre and I will take care of everything.”
Her words had a familiar echo. Inside the parlor, Eleanor was presented to their aunt, Patience Aubin, whom she was supposed to recognize, but, of course, didn’t.
Patience was in her mid-forties, at least, and dressed in the fashion of a woman half her age. Her neckline was cut too low and her corset laced too tight, resulting in the danger of her ample breasts popping out of her bodice. A few stray wisps of unnaturally orange hair escaped her old-fashioned turban headdress.
The older woman gave her an assessing glance. “Welcome back to Twixton,” she said.
Although the words were correct and polite, Eleanor detected no warmth or sincerity in her tone.
Deirdre introduced Eleanor to the other guests present, starting with Mrs. Holcum and her daughter Beatrix. The mother was elegantly attired with not a hair out of place. She gave Eleanor a condescending nod and immediately turned back to her previous conversation. The daughter was a walking advertisement for aristocratic breeding: flawless complexion, small straight nose, rosebud lips, flaxen hair, and an attitude of entitlement.
“Always a pleasure to meet Teddy’s, I mean Lord Digby’s, relatives,” Beatrix said, although the sentiment didn’t reach her icy blue eyes. “I’ve heard so much about you from his dear sisters.”
“All good, I’m sure,” Eleanor said with a smile.
Beatrix blinked, apparently unable to think of an appropriate put down. She turned and flounced away.
Deirdre pulled on Eleanor’s elbow, directed her to the woman sitting on the sofa next to Aunt Patience, and introduced her to Mrs. Maxwell, who was in attendance with two daughters. Fiona and Hazel, still in their teens, stood by the large bay window. Both willowy girls had dark hair, lively brown eyes, delicate features, and sweet smiles, obviously taking after their paternal lineage. After curtseying gracefully, they returned their attention to whatever was outside the window.
Deirdre took an empty seat next to the table with the tea service. Mina dodged a pacing Beatrix and joined the others by the window.
Eleanor grabbed the arm of a chair in the corner and eased herself down. As chitchat regarding various journeys and the weather swirled past her, she tried to wrap her mind around what had happened. Even though she knew time travel was impossible, she now had no choice but to believe. If the ghosts brought her here, could they send her back? She intended to ask them—no, demand that they …
Suddenly she realized someone stood
directly in front of her, blocking her view of the rest of the room.
“I know why your cousins invited you to live with them,” Beatrix Holcum said softly, her voice a sneer. “You can forget any notion of marrying Teddy, because he and I have an understanding.”
“I hadn’t—”
“Shhh. Don’t play the innocent with me,” she whispered, crossing her arms. “I know your sad little story, but I am not responsible for your troubles. You and your cousins may expect their brother to marry you, but Teddy is already promised to me. You will have to look further afield for the rich husband you so desperately need.”
Even though Eleanor didn’t have any designs on Teddy, she didn’t particularly like the way Beatrix was attacking her. “An understanding? What exactly does that mean?” she whispered back. Tipping her head to one side and putting her finger on her chin, she added, “Oh, yes. That’s the same as not engaged, isn’t it?”
Beatrix dropped her arms to her sides and curled her hands into fists. “We are engaged. We are only waiting to make the formal announcement until after his sisters are presented this fall during the Little Season. We will be married in January.”
“Really?” Teddy hadn’t told his supposed fiancée that he wasn’t going to take his sisters to London until spring. Not only did the beloved Teddy sink in her estimation, she suddenly felt a kinship to poor Beatrix, another woman who would get cruelly jilted. Of course, even if she told Beatrix, she probably wouldn’t believe her. “My grandmother always said, don’t give the milk away for free if you want to sell the cow.”
Beatrix looked confused. “Your grandmother was a dairymaid?”
“Of course not.” Before Eleanor could explain her advice, they were distracted by the commotion near the window.
“It’s him. It’s him,” Fiona cried out. She leaned forward, nearly knocking the vase of flowers off the table. “They’re coming back from the stable.”
“Let me see,” Hazel said, squeezing in next to her sister to get a better viewing angle. “He’s so handsome.”