by Tamara Gill
Catherine started to tremble. Why was this girl saying these things? Who was she, anyway? “I . . . I think perhaps you had better leave,” she finally said shakily.
“You don't believe me, do you?” asked Annette. “Well, I'm not sure I believe you, either.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “Look. We're not going to solve anything until we're both convinced the other is telling the truth. It should be pretty easy for me to prove this is 2013. Can you prove you're really Catherine Prescott? I mean, is there anything you can tell me that Kathy couldn't have known about?”
“What kind of things? And how could you verify them?”
“Hmm. I guess if I could look something up, Kathy could have, too. And if you are Kathy, you'd only tell me the things you know are online or in a book somewhere.”
“A book . . . my diary! Only I would know what I wrote in my diary. I wonder . . . That certainly looks like my writing desk. Perhaps my diary is still in its place.” She jumped up and went over to the desk.
“How odd! Here it is, on top of the desk. I know I put it away earlier this evening.” She reached for it, but Annette stopped her.
“Just a minute! Shouldn't I look at it first?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. Here you are.” She handed the small, leather-bound book to the other girl. “The last entry should be dated March 13, 1825.”
Annette looked up from the diary. “In case you're interested, this is March 13.” She turned the pages until she reached the date specified. “I've found it. But it's not the last entry. Oh!” She read silently for a few minutes, while Catherine watched with growing perplexity.
Finally, Annette slowly set the book down on her lap, her face pale. “I . . . I believe you now,” she said in an odd voice. “And I know what happened to Kathy.”
“What are you talking about? I've not yet told you what I'd written. It was about the ball tonight, and how I didn't wish to marry Ryan James—How can it not be the last entry?”
“See for yourself,” replied Annette, handing the diary back to her.
Catherine's words were written there, just as she had penned them barely two hours earlier, but the ink looked strangely faded and the pages, yellowed with age, crackled as she handled them. But that was not what held her attention. On the next page, in the same faded ink, was another entry in an entirely different hand. It was dated March 14, 1825.
I don't dare tell anyone in this time what seems to have happened, but I decided it might be a good idea to write it down here, for posterity or whatever. Maybe, if Catherine and I have switched places like I think we have, she'll be able to read this in my time. If we switch back before that happens, at least I can use this diary as proof I'm not crazy.
Sometime last night, just before Mother's party, something very strange happened and I gradually realized I was no longer in 2013. Thinking back carefully, I believe the time shift occurred after I left my room but before I got downstairs, maybe while I was on the landing. I figured I was dreaming for most of the evening, especially since I'd just been reading Catherine's diary—this diary—before I left the room. But my experiences today have finally convinced me this is real.
I don't know if I'll still be here tomorrow, but in case I'm not, I wanted to write this now. If I stay here for long, I'll try to keep a record here. I'm not very good at journals, though, so forgive me, Catherine (if you read this), if I forget. I'm sure this strange situation won't be permanent—we both have our own lives to get back to. Somehow we'll figure out how to switch back.
In the meantime, I plan to enjoy myself, and I suggest you do the same. Maybe when we switch back you can get rich trading on your knowledge of the future.
Catherine looked up, her face as white as Annette's. “I certainly didn't write this—it's not even my handwriting.”
“I know,” said Annette. “It's Kathy's.”
“How . . . how did you manage this? Why are you doing this to me?” Suddenly Catherine was furious that her fate had somehow been taken out of her hands, and she found herself directing that fury at the only person available. “Get out of here! And take this with you!” She threw the diary at Annette, who caught it and tucked it into her reticule.
“Look, I know this is a shock to you. It is to me, too. I've suddenly lost my best friend.” Annette stood there studying Catherine. “Look, you've convinced me of your side, or rather Kathy has. Now it's my turn. It's pretty late now, but what do you say first thing tomorrow I come pick you up and show you what the twenty-first century is like?”
Catherine's anger evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. “I . . . I apologize. You are right, of course. This has been a shock, but it is hardly your fault and I had no right to shout at you. You may have your chance to convince me tomorrow, though I find I almost believe you already. No other explanation seems to fit. Suddenly I am very tired. Will you ask Mama to send up my maid?”
“I'm not surprised you're tired. But . . . I don't think you have a maid now. Do you need me to help you get ready for bed?”
“Oh! And . . . and I suppose that is not really my mother, either, though the resemblance is almost perfect.”
“Yes, she's shown everyone that portrait of her great-great-however-many-greats grandmother. That must be your mother. Mrs. Sykes-Monroe had herself done up for tonight to look just like her. Try not to be too shocked when you see everyone in regular clothes tomorrow.” While she spoke, Annette was opening drawers and pulling out what appeared to be wisps of sheer fabric. “You might not consider any of Kathy's stuff decent to sleep in, but it will have to do for tonight. I'll take you shopping tomorrow.” She handed Catherine an almost transparent garment.
Catherine regarded the tiny thing dubiously, but nodded. “All right. I'll undoubtedly have dozens of questions to ask you by then.”
“I hope I can answer them.” Annette smiled, apparently regaining her composure more quickly than Catherine could. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I'll manage,” said Catherine firmly, fingering the skimpy nightgown.
“G'night, then. See you tomorrow!” Annette smiled encouragingly and left.
Alone, Catherine sat heavily on the bed and tried to organize her thoughts. Could it really be true? Could she have been suddenly, magically, whisked into the future?
As she seriously considered the possibility, Catherine realized that she was becoming more excited and less frightened by the idea. What was the world like now? New inventions, such as the cotton gin and the steam engine, had been sweeping the country in 1825. What other inventions might there be now?
She looked up at the light fixture on the ceiling. Annette had somehow turned it on from the doorway when they entered the room. Examining the walls around the door, she saw the switch in its ornate brass plate and experimentally moved it. The light went out. She moved it back to its original position and the light flared on again. What a wonderful device! No more searching for candles in the dark or fumbling with matches. These new lights probably did not start fires so easily, either.
Inspecting the little bedside lamp, which, at first glance had looked like an oil lamp such as she remembered, she noticed that it had the same thin glass bulb under its shade that the chandeliers downstairs had sported. She twisted the little heart-shaped brass handle and the bulb glowed with light. Marvelous!
In spite of her fascination with the lights, Catherine was feeling more tired by the minute. Yawning, she looked around for her basin and chamber pot. The ornate china pitcher on the dressing table was filled with flowers and plainly not intended for washing.
Catherine remembered that Nancy sometimes set the chamber pot just inside the dressing room if she planned to entertain a girlfriend in her room, thinking it more genteel that it be out of sight. She opened the dressing room door to look and gasped in amazement.
This was not at all the dressing room she remembered. Feeling along the wall by the door, she found another switch and flooded the small room with light. “Aahh!” she
breathed.
The room was carpeted in pale green and the walls glistened with ceramic tiles of white peppered with tiny green specks. A gleaming white bathing tub, apparently built right into the wall, peeped at her from behind a peach-and-green curtain, and a long white marble counter with a built-in basin ran along one side. The entire wall above the counter appeared to be one huge mirror. Catherine advanced reverently into the room and hesitantly touched the golden knobs and faucet over the basin.
First she tried to move the faucet, as it rather resembled a pump handle, but found it firmly fixed in place. She then gingerly twisted the knob on the right and a trickle of clear, cold water splashed into the basin, draining out through the hole at its base. Experimentally, she twisted the other knob and the stream of water became stronger and warmer. She turned off the cold water and increased the flow from the left-hand knob and produced a stream of steaming hot water.
Oh, heaven! No more fires to light or pails of water to carry. Catherine luxuriously washed her face in the hot water and dried it on one of the soft peach towels hanging on a rod by the basin. She then began exploring the rest of this room of magical bathing delights.
Between the tub and the counter was a large ceramic bowl with a carpeted green lid. When she raised the lid, Catherine found that the basin was half full of water and had what could only be a seat along the top.
A chamber pot of the future! It had to be. There was a gold handle on the tank above the basin. When she twisted it the water in the basin swirled away and disappeared with an alarming “whoosh,” to be replaced in moments by more water from an unknown source.
Catherine was dubious about this device, but her need was great by then, so she gingerly seated herself on the automatic chamber pot and made use of it. She considered the roll of soft, peach-colored paper a great improvement over cloths that had to be washed and reused.
Next, she experimented with the bathing tub. The right- and left-hand knobs worked just as those on the countertop basin had, she found. But what did the one in the middle do? She twisted it, then jumped back with a squeal when a stream of water hit the back of her head.
“I should have asked Annette to demonstrate this room before she left,” murmured Catherine as she toweled off her hair. She was sorely tempted to take a bath, but decided she was just too tired.
Changing into Kathryn's negligee, Catherine had to admit it was comfortable, if not decent. Telling herself that she would work out the answers to her incredible plight tomorrow, she slipped between the satiny-smooth sheets on the hard bed and fell instantly asleep.
***
CHAPTER THREE
As the tremors in her body gradually subsided, Kathryn sat very still on the stairs by the clock and tried to think. The most logical explanation, of course, was that she was dreaming. She'd been getting into her role, reading that old diary, and had fallen asleep in her room. Now she was dreaming that she was back in 1825, with her subconscious using information from the diary to fill in the details. She just hoped she would wake up in time for her mother's party.
Experimentally, Kathryn tried pinching herself. It hurt, and her dress was still apricot silk. Maybe that pinching thing was a myth. Taking a deep breath, she suddenly noticed an uncomfortably tight girdle of some sort under her dress that made deep breathing difficult.
Pushing away panic, she stood to look into a small gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall near the clock. The same deep blue eyes and heart-shaped face she'd always had looked back at her, though her dark hair was styled differently. She smiled at herself in relief. She'd half-expected to see a stranger or, worse, no reflection at all. Dreams were strange things.
Since none of this could possibly matter, anyway, she decided to look for that annoying but interesting Ryan James. If she couldn't wake up, she might as well have some fun. Going back downstairs, she found Ryan at the door to the gallery. “You must excuse me for running off earlier, Mr. James. I thought something was wrong, but it turns out I was mistaken.”
He regarded her with apparent surprise. “I am pleased that you returned, Miss Prescott. Dare I hope that your opinion of me has improved on further acquaintance?”
Kathryn treated him to a bewitching smile, reminding herself that this was all fantasy—her fantasy—no matter how real it seemed right now. “Let's become better acquainted, and I'll let you know,” she said teasingly.
“Of course, if that is what you wish,” he replied without hesitation, though she thought he looked startled.
The Catherine he knew would never have answered him like that, of course. Or rather, she amended quickly, the Catherine she was dreaming he would know.
“Shall we dance?” he inquired as the musicians began to play. She nodded. Dancing might be safer than trying to carry on a conversation until she could get herself firmly in hand.
The first dance was a waltz which, fortunately, Kathryn knew how to do, since she'd studied both modern and classical dancing as part of her theater arts degree. She tried to remember when her dance instructor had said that the waltz became popular, hoping to find an anachronism that would prove she was dreaming once and for all. Unable to dredge that detail from her memory, she decided to ask her partner.
Kathryn suspected Ryan was holding her more closely than was required by the dance, but since she was used to modem slow dancing, it seemed silly to object. “How long has the waltz been popular in America?” she asked, keenly aware of his strong arm around her waist.
“Not for very long,” Ryan replied. “In fact, I've no doubt many of the matrons present are thoroughly shocked at its being played. Your mother has obviously heard that the General is fond of the waltz and began with it in his honor. I must say that I share his preference.”
“The General?” asked Kathryn in complete confusion. Some mention had been made in Catherine's diary about a guest of honor, but she was positive it had not been a general.
“Lafayette, you know.” He looked at her strangely. “I suppose in England they would refer to him as the Marquis, if they refer to him at all. But in America the honor of an earned title is higher than that of an hereditary one, I assure you. You weren't there long enough to exchange American values for British ones, I hope?”
“No, of course not,” she said weakly. “I was just daydreaming.” A daydream inside a dream?
The dance ended and Kathryn suddenly remembered her promise to her mother—or was it Catherine's mother? Either way, it gave her an excuse to leave this disturbingly real man for a few moments. She was finding herself more flustered than amused by their conversation, despite her intentions. But when she reached the front door, she found that her mother had deserted her post to take a place on the dance floor. Her mother had always had a passion for dancing.
Making her way back through the ballroom, she saw Mrs. Sykes-Prescott dancing with an elderly gentleman whose air of elegance set him apart from the other men present. Kathryn realized at once that this must be General Lafayette. His manners seemed somehow too polished for an American—at least, for an early-nineteenth-century American.
When the music stopped, she approached her mother and found her guess was correct. The French nobleman declared he was charmed to make her acquaintance and requested the next dance. In spite of her wavering conviction that this was all a dream, Kathryn couldn't help but be honored by his notice. During the dance, General Lafayette conversed in almost flawless English, relating an incident that had occurred the day before.
“Would you believe, mademoiselle, that old Pompey Fortune, my body servant from the days of your country's fight for independence, rode all the way from Winnsboro to see me? Thirty rough miles on a donkey, and he as gray as I. He is a free man now, in reward for his faithful service; I wish such were true for all his unfortunate brethren in America. But no—with such a charming young lady I will speak only of pleasantries.”
The conversation turned to other topics, but Kathryn couldn't help remembering the reference to slavery in C
atherine's diary and the comments made by Mr. Prescott on the subject. How long would it be? She vaguely recalled from high school history that the Civil War would still be some forty years in coming—a very long time for someone living as another's property.
Even though it had all been so long in the past, Kathryn felt a stirring of indignation against a society that would allow such a thing. Thank heaven things were more civilized in the modern world. She'd protested plenty of injustices over the years, but none came close to human bondage.
The evening was long but fascinating to Kathryn. Several times, though, she wondered where she could ever, even subconsciously, have absorbed enough history to provide the wealth of detail in this dream. Her mother's long-winded lectures on this time period hadn't included the vials of smelling salts she saw more than one lady resort to during the evening, nor the tiny flasks of what had to be some sort of liquor that many people carried.
The first time she saw a man take something from a little box and sniff it with a flourish, she was shocked. Someone snorting cocaine in her mother's house? True, she'd seen it at theater parties in college, but here . . . ? After seeing several others do it, however, she figured out that it must be snuff. She'd heard of it, but never seen it actually used.
Then there were the details of the house itself. As the evening wore on, she found several things that were definitely different than they'd been earlier. The most obvious things were the chandeliers, lit by candles rather than electric bulbs, and the gallery, which contained completely different paintings than it had last night.
And, of course, there was Ryan James. Try as she might, Kathryn could think of no one she'd ever met that he might be based on. She mentally reviewed every man she knew, slightly or intimately, but came up with no parallel. And she was positive she would have remembered anyone remotely resembling that unsettling gentleman. She was not sure the term “gentleman” even applied. In many ways, he seemed as out of place in this genteel, antique setting as she was. His speech was authentic to the period, in form if not always in content, and his dress appeared to be appropriate, but his manner was mercurial, varying from a polished drawing room beau to a back-alley rogue.