The Art of the Swap

by Kristine Asselin

  Even though I promised Hannah I would endeavor to be brave, I needed to find a place to think. I just want to shut out everything that is not from my own world. I pray to be back at my Elms. Not this strange version. Prayer doesn’t seem to work, though.

  I think about what Hannah told me earlier from the other side of the mirror. The portrait Mademoiselle Cassatt has now finished painting of me—stolen and missing for more than a hundred years. And Hannah seeking to speak to that boy in the kitchen! If she’s caught, Mrs. O’Neil will have no choice but to tell Aunt this time. But I certainly wouldn’t want someone blamed for a crime he didn’t commit. If there even is a crime. Oh, mercy! I just want to hide in my room and pretend like I am back in my own time. I pull the musty coverlet over my head like I did as a small child when Father was cross. But back then Mother was around to comfort me and make things right again.

  “Hannah Jordan!” the voice says again. “This is the last straw. You know you are not allowed to touch the furniture.”

  I open one eye and peer at the man framed in the doorway. His short silver hair sticks up at odd angles, as though he’s run his hands through it several times. A group of people stand behind him, looking at me like I’m a canary in a cage. His glasses are askew, and his face is the color of beets. A stray bit of spittle glistens at the edge of his lips.

  With a sigh I stand up and smooth down my dress . . . er, trousers. There is no one here to comfort me. I need to be brave, like I promised Hannah. If I don’t pull myself together, these people will think I’m hysterical, and then who knows what might happen. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re right. I just couldn’t help myself. I do love this room.” I step over the red rope and bow my head, hoping it will be seen as apologetic. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “Well, uh . . .” He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up that much more. “Um, I—I guess I can overlook it this time, but—but don’t let it happen again.” He stammers like he can’t think of what to say or doesn’t know how to react to an apology.

  “Thank you, sir.” I am tempted to curtsy, but I sense that girls in the twenty-first century have lost that particular custom. I push past the tourists and run away from him as fast as my legs will go—even though it is against all the rules. At the grand staircase I pause, before bounding to the bottom. Suddenly the house is stifling, and all I want is to get outside. I know the perfect place for some fresh air to help me breathe and consider my options. I skip across the marble foyer and out the front door, almost crashing into a girl and four adults.

  “Watch it,” one of the men says, grabbing the small girl and pulling her out of the way. A gasp escapes my lips. Never in my life have I ever been so rude to anyone, and it feels wrong. But pretending to be someone I’m not, in a time I don’t understand, feels worse than being rude. I can’t pretend for one more second! I turn and run down the concrete steps. I need to think—and I don’t care how impolite it must look. Skirting around another small group of visitors, I run the length of the mansion to the back of the house. What greets me stops me in my tracks, and my heart sinks even further.

  The gardens! And the trees! The elm trees are all gone. The spacious back lawn is supposed to be lined with elm trees. They’re what give the house its name, The Elms.

  Why would someone remove all the elm trees? There is a row of nondescript trees lining the space between the drive on my left and the vast expanse of green lawn, but they don’t feel right. And then I spot it. One large tree, separate from the others, at the far edge of the lawn, just in front of where I hope the sunken gardens still exist.

  It’s here. My tree.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and make a beeline across the massive expanse of grass for the giant weeping beech, almost falling in my haste to find something familiar. I duck under the canopy of branches that skim the ground. It’s bigger than I remember, but it feels as right as my bedroom. As I sweep aside the soft curtain of leaves, I say a prayer of thanks that no one is under here.

  Normally I sit under the canopy and think or read against the tree. Aunt Herminie has no idea that I sometimes come here, and as long as I keep it secret from Colette, Aunt won’t ever find out. Sitting outside isn’t expressly forbidden, but it is not exactly proper. I look up, wondering if I dare. Climbing a tree would be firmly on the list of things a girl of my station should not do. But . . . maybe girls in this century are encouraged to climb trees? If what Hannah said is true about what girls can do, then I don’t even have to feel guilty for breaking the rules. My heart gives a little thrill as I grip the tree and begin to climb. Higher and higher I go, hoping to reach a place where no one will find me.

  About ten feet from the ground, there’s a sturdy limb. I tuck my feet close to me and hug my knees to my chest. At first when I look down, I’m a bit dizzy and I can’t quite believe what I’ve done. But after a few minutes I get my bearings, and it’s amazing. From this vantage point I can watch people entering the clearing below me, but I don’t think anyone can see me up here. I close my eyes and consider my options.

  How did I end up in this time? How is it possible that I’ve traveled so far into the future? I think about my aunt and uncle and the things I love—my pony, all my books, the smell of the rose garden in the morning. But being able to climb trees, and run, and get dirty? I think of all the things I’m not ordinarily allowed to do, and wonder how many of them girls are allowed to do in this time.

  Out of nowhere, something catches my attention, and I glance up. Between the top branches a small spot of blue sky is visible. I see a sight that almost causes me to fall from my perch. An object that is not a bird soars far above my head. It is glorious. Spectacular! A miracle of technology! Now I understand how Hannah and her father will fly to California. Uncle E. J. would be thrilled to see this.

  I have one day in the twenty-first century. I will be back at my Elms by evening, enjoying the ball given in my honor with Aunt Herminie and Uncle E. J.

  I can do this. I can pretend to be Hannah for the day. In fact, it might be informative to see what the future has in store. Though if a giant flying machine is any indication, I may need to brace myself. And, it occurs to me, I might find out what girls are allowed to do in the twenty-first century that I can’t do in 1905. And maybe I’ll experience a few of them for myself.

  Finished with feeling sorry for myself, I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. It is refreshing not to have petticoats impeding my legs, I think as I scramble back down. I jump the last five feet and stumble at the landing.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” A girl about my age stands with her mouth open, incredulous at my sudden appearance from above. “Are you okay?”

  I brush the dust off my trousers and shrug. “Yes, I am. Thank you. It is amazing what a little tree climbing will do for the heart and soul.”

  She scratches her head. Her skin is tanned brown, and her curly black hair is cropped very short. Her clothing is strange. She’s wearing short pants like my cousin Peter wears, and across her front are the words Newport Girls Soccer. Her socks come up almost to her knees, and she’s holding a white-and-black-checkered ball. “Um. Sure. Whatever you say.” She looks up at the tree branches with a smirk. “You know the director of buildings and grounds would kill you for climbing one of the antique trees.”

  I feel myself go pale at the thought of such violence over climbing a tree, but I tell myself she must be exaggerating. “Well, of course. But I was just checking to make sure no one had already gone up there and broken the rules. Someone has to do it.” I give her a small salute and turn on my heel, wondering if I’ve misunderstood the extent of things girls are permitted to do.

  “Wait. Hannah.” The girl trots behind me, out from under the canopy of the tree, back onto the great lawn, and into the sun. “It’s not like my mother’s rules have ever stopped you before.”

  I don’t slow my pace. Now that I’ve decided to take advantage of this situation, I’ve got no time to
lose. “Your mother?” Because of the way she’s dressed, I assume this girl must be a servant, and for a moment I cannot for the life of me understand her informality. But then I remember, Hannah is a servant as well. I stop to let her finish.

  “What do you mean?” The girl’s smile falters, like she’s not sure if I’m joking. “Wait. Are you still mad? Is that why you didn’t text back last night? I said I was sorry about the thing with your phone. You have to be kidding.” She looks like she’s about to cry.

  I’m such a ninny. This girl is probably a friend of Hannah’s! I try to remember seeing her face in one of the photographs in Hannah’s room.

  “I’m not mad at you. Why would I be kidding?” I ask, walking around the side of the house nearest the kitchen. “What did you do?”

  She laughs nervously. “Now you’re teasing me. I was just joking around. You know, my mother took my phone for a week, so when you left yours at practice the other day, I just thought I’d have some fun. I wanted to apologize when I got mine back last night, but you didn’t answer my text.”

  I don’t understand what she did wrong. But she seems sincere. “Well, then. I accept your apology. I was going to take a walk. Would you care to join me?” It suddenly occurs to me that having a guide from this century might help in making sense of all this.

  She looks around as though perhaps I’m speaking to someone else. “What are you talking about? We have a game today.” She nods at the ball she’s carrying.

  “A what?” I stop to stare at this strange girl.

  “Soccer . . . Duh. Are you sure you’re okay? Why aren’t you changed yet?”

  “Oh, how fun!” I clap my hands. I have no idea what “soccer” means, but the chance to play a ball game is almost too good to be true. Apparently girls play ball games in the twenty-first century.

  Now that I really think about it, her outfit puts me in mind of the boys who play baseball in the dusty field near the harbor. My aunt won’t let me anywhere near their game, but I’ve seen them walking home sometimes. They are usually covered in dirt and muck, but they always sound like they’ve had the most fun. I can only imagine being covered in dirt, since I’m not allowed. If Aunt—and my father as well, for that matter—ever caught me climbing the weeping beech, I’d likely be sent to bed without dinner. The only sport I’m permitted to play is lawn tennis, because Aunt considers it a socially acceptable activity. But only if I don’t exert myself more than necessary.

  And what fun is a game like that if one does not exert oneself?

  The girl tosses the ball, and it bounces off me.

  “Ouch. Why did you do that?” I rub my arm.

  She rolls her eyes. “Sheesh, Hannah. I’ll help you get your stuff.” After picking up the ball, she grabs my arm, drags me into the servants’ entrance, and practically pushes me up the stairs to the apartment.

  What am I thinking? I have no idea how to dress for her game, let alone play it. As much as I want to make an effort, I don’t want to look foolish. I try the ruse that sometimes works with my aunt when I don’t want to accompany her on a social visit. “I’m not feeling well,” I say, putting my hand to my cheek at the first landing. “Look, I’m all flushed. I can’t possibly play.”

  “Not good enough. Coach will throw you off the team if you bail today.” We enter the bedroom, and she scans the floor. “Here’s your bag! Now get your uniform on and let’s go.”

  The girl, whose name I don’t even know, leaves the room and closes the door. I notice she has a large number twelve on the back of her shirt. It seems like I do not have a choice. So, as Hannah said, “When in Rome.” I dump the contents of the bag onto the floor. A shirt and short pants, identical to the girl’s—except this shirt has seventeen on the back—fall out. Even though Hannah told me to pretend to be her, I cannot believe I’m going through with this. But I vowed to myself that I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass. I pick up the shirt between my forefinger and thumb and sniff. “Girls play sports in the twenty-first century,” I whisper to the bear sitting on the bed.

  I cannot believe I am about to break all the rules of civilized society. My aunt thinks any sort of exertion will damage me in some way. She has never been specific, so I’m not sure what she thinks will happen. But when I perspire too much—even if I’m just sitting on the terrace drinking lemonade—she rolls her eyes and tells me that no man will want to marry a woman so immodest.

  The uniform isn’t terribly hard to figure out, so it takes me only a few minutes to change. It’s incredible. There are no fasteners, so I don’t even need any help. I open the door to show the girl, hoping I’ve dressed correctly. “What do you think?”

  She laughs. “You look like you always do.” She runs into the room and grabs the bag. “You’re out of it today! You’ll be in big-time trouble if you forget your cleats.”

  “Of course. Lead the way.” Feeling proud of myself, I link my arm through hers and drag her back down the stairs. At the bottom I remember that I don’t know her name, but I take a chance. “You’re Tara,” I say tentatively, remembering the name that appeared on Hannah’s device the night before.

  She furrows her brow. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” She dips into a low curtsy and then holds out her hand to shake mine, but then pulls it away before I have a chance to grasp hers. She mutters under her breath, “I said I was sorry. You don’t have to drag it out.”

  “Please accept my apologies as well, Tara.” I sigh, not even trying to make up an excuse. “It has been a sort of long morning. I’m not really feeling like myself.”

  I can’t tell if she’s mad or not. I hope she thinks Hannah is just teasing. She sort of winks at me as we come out of the building onto the sidewalk.

  I’ll have to figure out some way to make it up to her. I’m lost in thought when we reach the sidewalk, and for a second I lose my bearings. I have to contain the gasp that threatens to escape my lips. Automobiles like I’ve never seen line the street, whizzing past faster than anything I’ve ever imagined. No horses. No buggies. A few people walking, but they do not look like the ladies I am accustomed to seeing in the coach parade every afternoon.

  How on earth am I going to be able to go through with this?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hannah

  LITTLE TIP TO ANYONE CONSIDERING time travel: it’s super-helpful to be a total history buff on the exact era and location you land in. Super-duper-helpful.

  For example, I know just how to skirt around the Berwinds and their houseguests for now, because I have a pretty good handle on exactly how their day will shape up. It will probably be the same as almost every day, for almost every member of the Four Hundred who spends the summer season in Newport.

  It would normally start with breakfast at eight. Though, after their late night, and judging from how quiet it is in the house, I think the Berwinds slept through this today. I’m also guessing no one went out for the hour-long horseback ride that would usually follow, but I’m not taking any chances. For now I’m holing up in my—Maggie’s—room until I’m sure the coast is clear.

  After the ride, if they end up going for part of it, they’ll change out of those clothes and into their day dresses so that they can catch a horse-drawn carriage to the casino for lawn tennis or a public reading or maybe a play.

  Then they’ll change again into swimming costumes (seriously, these are like wool from neck to toe, and it must be like wading into the ocean in blankets) and head to the beach. The private, only-our-snooty-kind-is-allowed beach, called Bailey’s.

  I’m pretty sure I’m totally off the hook about taking part in any of this, because they don’t drag their kids around to these things. Or anything, really. Children are usually just foisted off on the nannies and tutors, except for maybe an hour or so every day when they might get to hang with their parents (if Mom and Dad aren’t off traveling or doing something more interesting or important than actually, you know, parenting their offspring). I can’t even imagine if tha
t were normal in my time. Dad would basically be a stranger. But that was pretty normal for every kid in Maggie’s class.

  Anyway, it means no forty-seven outfit changes for me. But I’m guessing that British nanny from last night has something up her sleeve for me and Colette today, and I need all the unsupervised solve-an-art-heist time I can get. Hmm . . . I think I might be feeling a little *cough, cough* under the weather.

  Most likely the Berwinds will head off to someone’s yacht from noon to two for a luncheon (meaning another new dress), and then to the polo fields from two to three to watch a match from their carriage. Then another change of clothes so that they can all promenade up and down the streets in their carriages and leave calling cards for their neighbors. I never got the point of that one, to be honest.

  From there on out I’ll have to be more careful to keep to the shadows for my lurking, because they’ll probably be back for tea on the terrace at five, and then into their bedrooms to switch dresses (again) for the ball.

  (I’m pretty sure that if anyone asked any of these people what they did for a living, they’d have to answer, “Change clothes.”)

  I need to quit “regrouping” and find Colette. The sooner I can figure out if Miss Hoity-Toity hates Maggie enough to steal the portrait, the sooner I can work through my list of suspects.

  I creak open my bedroom door again. The house is still almost as quiet as it was earlier this morning, but I can hear the far-off clinking of silverware from the dining room below and light footsteps from the servants’ quarters above. My throat closes as I picture the top floor the way I know it—as my home. In the here and now it’s filled with enough beds for a good percentage of the forty-three people responsible for keeping this household running like clockwork for eight weeks of summer. It still kills me that this crazy-fancy house will just sit empty the other ten months of the year. Maybe I should sneak in a talk with Mrs. Berwind about that before I swap back. (Or maybe not.)