by Tamara Gill
By the time she finally made her way up the stairs to her room, Kathryn's faith in her dream theory had been badly shaken. And she knew for certain that even if this was a dream, she'd never forget one particular impossible man named Ryan James.
***
Kathryn awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the many-paned window and sat up in alarm. She'd slept through the night and missed her mother's party! And she'd had the strangest dream. Maybe she should write about it before she forgot. What a story she'd have to tell her mother.
Glancing around for paper and pencil, her eye lit on the desk and she remembered the diary that had started the trouble. Suddenly she was curious. Had Catherine gone on to marry Ryan James? Kathryn wasn't sure what answer she hoped for, but she somehow needed to know.
Stretching, she rose and went to the desk, but the diary was not where she'd left it last night. Could she have put it back in its recess without thinking? Fumbling a little, she managed to release the secret panel, and there, sure enough, was the diary. She opened it to the place she'd left off reading the night before, only to find the next page blank.
Riffling through the rest of the small volume, she discovered that all the pages were empty. Nothing had been written after March 13, 1825.
Sinking dazedly down onto the softness of the bed, Kathryn tried to remember. She had glanced ahead in the book before going downstairs, and had seen several more pages of writing, though there'd been something different—familiar, almost—about it. Could that have been part of her dream? Obviously the diary itself wasn't, since she held it firmly in her hand.
Casting back in her mind, she struggled to recall the start and finish of that strange and so-vivid dream. Try as she might, she could not remember where waking left off and the dream began. Mentally retracing every step and action, she found no point where she had lain down or even closed her eyes. Finally she gave up and concentrated on the ending.
After the party, she'd come upstairs to prepare for bed. She'd discovered, to her dismay, that the apricot gown was fastened down the back with intricate little hooks instead of buttons, and that she couldn't seem to undo them herself. Just as she'd been about to resign herself to sleeping in the dress, a black maid she'd never seen before had appeared to help her, acting as though it were a nightly occurrence.
Kathryn had said little, not wanting to look like an idiot, while the maid helped her out of the dress and into a cotton nightgown that was equally unfamiliar to her. After the maid left, she opened the door to the adjoining bathroom only to find the fixtures gone and a mirror and hooks in their place. It was apparently a dressing room now, which left her with a problem.
Glancing back into the bedroom, she noticed a china pitcher and a large bowl on the dresser. The pitcher turned out to be filled with cold water, and on the floor next to the dresser she found a copper kettle of hot water and an empty pot with a lid. Wishing her dream included modern conveniences, she managed to wash and relieve herself, and finally crawled under the quilts on the down-filled bed to sleep.
Kathryn pressed her hands into the mattress beneath her. It was still down-filled! Wildly, she looked around. Yes, there were the pitcher and bowl on the dresser, with the chamber pot beside it. Who ever heard of going to sleep and waking up inside a dream? But it couldn't be real . . . could it?
Now Kathryn noticed details she'd been too tired to observe last night. The room was the same one she had occupied her first night in Columbia, but some things had changed—the bed for instance, with its down-filled mattress. The spread was still white, as she remembered, but the blanket seemed to be made of wool. The desk was the same, though it looked much newer, without the darkening around the carvings she remembered from last night.
Some things were missing, like the pull-down shades on the windows and the overhead light fixture. Nor was her phone where she’d left it on the night stand, though she knew it was the last thing she'd looked at before going downstairs last night.
She couldn't see her purse or her overnight bag, either. She got up quickly to check the bathroom only to find it was still a dressing room, and none of the clothes hanging on the hooks were familiar to her. Fear rose up in her throat, almost choking her. What was she going to do?
At that moment there was a light tap on the door and the maid from last night entered. She looked plump and motherly, her smiling chocolate-colored face framed by a ruffled white cap that completely concealed her hair. “I heard you movin' 'round, Miss Catherine, and thought you might be ready to dress. Or d'you rather have a tray in your room after such a late night?”
“Yes, that . . . would be nice,” replied Kathryn faintly, wanting to postpone leaving the relative security of this room for as long as possible. She wished she knew the maid's name, but couldn't think of a discreet way to ask before the woman was gone.
Alone again, she quickly availed herself of the chamber pot, wrinkling her nose and thinking that if this aberration, whatever it was, lasted very long she was really going to miss flush toilets, not to mention good old everyday toilet paper. Splashing her face with the cold water in the basin, she went back to the dressing room to choose an outfit.
The clothes were gorgeous, she had to admit. She'd always loved sumptuous dresses. She chose a rich plum velvet gown, laying it on the bed for the maid to help her into when she returned, since there was no way she'd be able to manage the row of tiny buttons down the back.
A moment later the maid reappeared, bearing a steaming tray of something that smelled like a bit of heaven. Kathryn hadn't realized how hungry she was—last night she'd been too disoriented even to think about eating. The maid set the tray on a low table near the bed and removed the covering cloth.
“Goin' riding again this morning, are you, Missie?” she asked then, lifting the purple folds of the dress Kathryn had laid out on the bed. “I'll come help you dress when you're done eating.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room.
Oops. That was a riding habit, and Kathryn hadn't realized it. She'd chosen it simply because she loved the color and fabric. She certainly hadn't intended to ride a horse in it. In fact, it seemed pretty impractical for any sort of exercise—she'd be burning up after ten minutes.
At least she knew how to ride, though she'd given it up along with meat and animal products, when she'd become spokesperson for the Animal Rights Foundation last year. The Foundation held horseback riding to be a form of animal enslavement—but here horses would be the only form of transportation available. Surely it would be okay to bend such high-flown principles for the duration of her stay?
Turning her attention to the breakfast tray, she found it contained two soft-boiled eggs, a thick slab of fried ham, and toast that was obviously cut from a home-baked loaf. A lump of what had to be fresh butter sat on the edge of the plate. The toast was the only politically correct item on the plate, she realized in dismay. Conscience fought a quick, hopeless battle with hunger before she dived into the meal with a vengeance, guiltily thinking it was the best she'd ever had.
True to her word, the maid reappeared seconds after Kathryn rose from the little table, making her wonder if the woman had been listening at the door. Another maid, a scrawny black girl of perhaps fourteen, entered behind her but stayed only long enough to collect the tray and the chamber pot. The older servant began pulling things from a chest of drawers.
Kathryn had no problem with most of the underthings, though she'd never been used to wearing so much, particularly under such a heavy dress. She supposed brassieres hadn't been invented yet, and was glad she was still young enough not to need too much support. When the maid held up the corset, though, Kathryn frowned, remembering how uncomfortable it had been last night. To her surprise, the woman spoke before she could open her mouth.
“Now, Miss Catherine, I know what you be thinkin', but it's no use. Your mama would have your head and mine too if you went down without it. I promise not to lace it too tight. Last night was special—I didn't want y
ou shown up by any of them other girls.”
Could the woman read her mind? Kathryn wondered incredulously. As she allowed the maid—she must find out her name—to lace her into the dreadful thing, she realized that a bra would have been superfluous. The corset did the job more than adequately, pushing up her ample bosom almost flagrantly. Maybe there was something to be said for these things, after all, she thought, admiring her profile. But why did they have to be so damned uncomfortable?
Next, the maid seated her at the dressing table and went to work on her hair. While she brushed and pinned, Kathryn had an opportunity to examine her reflection. It was her face, and yet it wasn't. Her hair was the same brown-black, falling in waves past her shoulders, and her eyes were still blue, fringed with long, dark lashes. But her complexion was extremely pale. And where were her freckles?
The face staring back at her also looked somehow younger than her own, with an openness, an innocence, that seemed to imply that this face had seen less of the world than she had. She raised a skeptical eyebrow at the thought and suddenly it was her own face, after all—or at least she was in control of it.
Mindful of the maid behind her, she resisted the urge to experiment in the mirror. She was going to look crazy enough trying to adjust to this new—or rather, old—culture without being caught making faces at herself.
“There you go, miss,” said the maid finally. Kathryn was sure she was wearing at least a pound of hairpins, but she thanked the woman graciously. Time to face the world, she thought grimly, following the maid out of the room and down the wide staircase.
Voices emanated from the large front room that had been a living room yesterday and now seemed to be a formal salon or parlor. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she entered. If ever she needed acting talent, it was now. She had no idea what would happen if anyone here suspected that she wasn't Catherine.
“Good morning, darling,” her mother or, rather, Catherine's mother, greeted her as she stepped through the archway into the sunny parlor. The blue-striped curtains were pulled back from the tall windows to display the front lawn and drive beyond. The claw-footed divan and slope-back chairs were similar to what her own mother had decorated with, but in different colors.
Today Mrs. Sykes-Prescott was wearing a less formal dress of deep rose, though her hair was still upswept as it had been last night. The morning sunlight was less kind than the candles had been, however, picking out the gray. “I hope you slept well,” she continued.
“Oh, yes, very well,” replied Kathryn, trying to appear calm and collected while feeling anything but. “I was so tired after the dancing last night that I dropped right off.” Did they use that expression in the 1820s? she suddenly wondered—she was really going to have to watch the slang. But Catherine's mother didn't seem to find anything odd in her phrasing.
“I'm so glad, since that nice Mr. James asked if he might take you riding today. I accepted on your behalf, but I see from your attire that he must have spoken to you as well.”
Something in her voice told Kathryn that Mrs. Sykes-Prescott had been prepared to cajole or even bully her into riding with Ryan James.
“No, he didn't,” Kathryn heard herself saying. “Is it so strange that I might want to go riding by myself?” She waited, actually needing to know the answer to that question.
“Hardly that!” Mrs. Sykes-Prescott said with a laugh. “But I would have thought after yesterday you might wish to refrain for a while. By the way, I fear your father was quite displeased this morning when the groom told him of that escapade.”
Oh, no! What kind of trouble had Catherine gotten into now? It dawned on her that she had a lot more than social customs to contend with. She was missing a whole lifetime of memories. “I . . . I suppose I did overdo it,” she said tentatively, fishing for more information.
“That, my girl, is quite an understatement!” exclaimed Mrs. Sykes-Prescott, in a tone Kathryn's own mother hadn't used since she was twelve. “You knew perfectly well you were not to ride that horse again. It is much too high-spirited for a lady, and simply enormous. I vow, I would not go near it myself! And now that it has been sold, 'twas doubly wrong. Suppose the horse had been injured during that gallop?”
“The horse—?” Kathryn began indignantly, but was interrupted by an authoritative knock on the front door.
A black man, tall, thin and balding, who Kathryn remembered from the night before, hurried to open it before she could embarrass herself by rising. She realized, belatedly, that this must be the butler.
“Mr. James,” he intoned.
Kathryn looked up eagerly. She liked Ryan James better than anyone else she'd met here so far, even if he did seem to be mocking her half the time. If anything, that only added to her fascination, since the men in her life had generally either flung themselves at her feet or avoided her, finding her self-confidence threatening. Ryan, so far, had done neither.
“Good day, ladies,” he drawled as he sauntered into the room. He looked every bit as handsome as he had last night, though now he was clad in trousers, boots and a tailed riding coat of deep green. “I see you are ready for our ride, Miss Prescott.”
“Yes, let's go,” said Kathryn quickly, not particularly caring if this woman who was not really her mother thought her rude. Ryan appeared equally unconcerned, merely smiling at Mrs. Sykes-Prescott before bowing Kathryn out of the room ahead of him.
The butler silently held the door for them and they walked down the broad front steps where a black groom was waiting with two horses. After the breakfast she'd eaten, she saw no point in balking at riding. The Foundation would never know. Then—Oh, Lord, she thought in sudden panic, is that a sidesaddle? How on earth was she supposed to get into it?
“You are quiet today, Miss Prescott,” said Ryan. “I hope you are not repenting of your unwonted friendliness to me last night.”
“Not yet,” replied Kathryn, as lightly as she could. “Would you be so kind as to help me onto my horse?” She moved toward the silvery-gray mare wearing the sidesaddle, wishing that she could ride the other horse instead. She stifled a laugh at the thought of Ryan in a sidesaddle, but her amusement abruptly evaporated when he suddenly grasped her around the waist and tossed her onto the mare's back.
Kathryn gasped, wondering desperately if this was the normal method of getting a lady into this ridiculous contraption. The groom's face was impassive, and nothing in Ryan's expression indicated that he had taken a liberty, so she rather shakily turned her attention to arranging her legs.
“Oh, dear,” she said innocently. “My skirts seem to be tangling up my feet.” As she'd hoped he would, Ryan stepped quickly back to her side, deftly pulling the velvet folds out of her way so that he could fit her foot into the stirrup. One hand brushed her ankle and she regarded him suspiciously, resolutely ignoring the tingle she felt at his touch.
“My presence isn't flustering you, is it Miss Prescott?” he asked with a grin.
“Of course not,” she snapped before remembering that the real Catherine would have had no such trouble arranging her feet otherwise. Kathryn's knee was already hooked over the pommel and there was no other stirrup, so she tucked her other foot behind the knee of the leg in the stirrup. It felt like a secure enough position, if rather awkward, and she hoped she'd gotten it right. She was going to be sore later, though.
“Your parents tell me they've no objection to announcing our engagement immediately,” remarked Ryan offhandedly as they trotted up the drive and turned left onto Laurel Street.
Kathryn glanced at him sharply. She knew from the diary that Catherine's parents were pushing this match. She also knew that Catherine herself wanted no part of it. Her safest course, she decided, was to hedge—and to get back to her own time as quickly as possible.
“I had no idea you were in such a hurry.”
Ryan's deep chuckle vibrated through her. “I'll take that response as a good sign. At least you didn't rip up at me. I am willing to wait, but not foreve
r, Catherine.”
His use of her first name was almost insolent, and she knew instinctively that her counterpart would not have liked it. “Miss Prescott to you, sir,” she correctly primly. “We're not engaged yet.”
With that, she flicked the reins to urge her mount into a canter and was pleasantly surprised to find her seat as secure as she'd hoped, though she had to tense her stomach muscles to avoid falling backward. The groom, she noticed, accompanied them, though he stayed a discreet distance behind.
Kathryn decided that this was no bad thing; she probably needed a chaperon in Mr. James's company. She stole a sideways look at him, admiring the strength of his handsome profile. It was just possible that later she would want to dispense with the groom for a while.
Turning onto busier Richardson Street, they were forced to rein to a walk, as the horse-and-carriage traffic was fairly heavy. Kathryn looked around her with interest, taking in the planked sidewalks, the quaint brick-and-wooden-frame storefronts, the pedestrians in their period clothing. History in books had always bored her, but living it was entirely different.
Even in her time Columbia was hardly a large city, but now, in 1825, it seemed barely more than a village. Water pumps on occasional street corners were being plied by maidservants, making Kathryn wonder whether these were the only sources of water in the town.
“Here is a dry goods store,” said Ryan abruptly, breaking into her silent observations. “Why don't you do some shopping? I have some business to attend to at the warehouses.”
Kathryn glanced at him in surprise, but his gaze was directed across the street, where a voluptuous blonde leaned seductively against the doorway of a three-story brick building labeled Nagel's Hotel. Her red and black dress was cut low even by modem standards, with one side of the hem hiked up to show a shapely expanse of calf and ankle. She smiled invitingly at Ryan, and he turned his horse in her direction, apparently anticipating no interference from Kathryn.