“I thought you were about to leave,” she said.
He dropped his hand and she immediately regretted her words. But truly, that’s all he’d been talking about since his arrival yesterday.
“Just because I have to get home, doesn’t mean I won’t be coming back,” he said.
She stopped sorting and turned to face him. Felt the blood boil in her veins. “How do you know that? How do you know that the number of times you can step through that portal isn’t limited? How do you know that you aren’t going to have to make a choice at some point? Now… or then?”
He shook his head, once. “I don’t,” he said softly. “I don’t know. You have no idea how hard I worked to get back here. Here. To you. As a man of means. To be worthy of you. Now here I am. With nothing but the shirt on my back. I have nothing to offer you like this. I’m not worthy of giving you the time of day.”
Her eyes welled with unshed tears. “I don’t care about your wealth. Money can’t buy things like health and love. My father has enough money for anything I could ever need. So I know.”
“You’re right,” he said softly. “Money can’t buy love. But love can’t live without money. I can’t call upon you with nothing substantial to offer.”
“Then don’t call upon me.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Without you, I have no reason to be in 1838.”
She swirled and sat on the settee, overcome with dizziness at his bold statement. Yet she knew he spoke the truth. The first time he had stumbled upon her by chance… or fate. After that, he had purposely sought her out. Risked giving up his way of life to see her again.
“The first thing we have do is to convince my father to let you stay,” she said.
He groaned and sat next to her. “How do we do that?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She stared into the distance, her mind racing. What could she say that would convince her father to allow Bradley to court her without a proper introduction. Suddenly she brightened. “We can tell him I met you while I was at the boarding school in Natchitoches.”
“You went to boarding school? For wayward girls?”
“Wayward? Of course not. It was a finishing school. To make sure we were well versed in dancing, art, poetry, and such.”
“You can do all those things?”
“Of course. All young ladies are required to learn such things. Is that no longer the case?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. Those are considered lost arts.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s unfortunate.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then she picked up the thread of their previous conversation. “So we’ll tell my father that we met and… became good friends. You followed me here. And though you come from a good family, your father fell upon misfortune and you came here to.” She stood up, paced, deep in thought. “You came here to find me, but also to start over without your father’s name pulling you down.”
She stopped in front of him and looked into his eyes. “You came to start your own business.”
Bradley watched Camille pace, unable to take his eyes off her. He was entranced. Her face was flushed from the excitement of concocting a story that would allow him to be here with her father’s approval.
“What business?” he asked, when she stood in front of him, her eyes searching his.
“I don’t know. What skill do you have?”
He coughed. I fly airplanes. “I don’t think I have a skill that would be viable.”
“Surely you did you something in the future that you could use here.”
He knew he had a goofy grin on his face. But he couldn’t help it. No. It was too soon to tell her about the airplanes. Perhaps they had to discuss cars first. He shook his head.
“How did you spend your time?”
Before he was a pilot, he studied a lot. “I studied.”
“You were a scholar?” Her face brightened.
“Yes,” he agreed. He had definitely spent enough time sitting in the classroom to qualify as a scholar. “I was a scholar,” he repeated.
“That’s perfect.”
“Being a scholar isn’t exactly a skill.”
“Hmm. No, but means you can read and write. So we can work with that.”
He stared at her. His mouth must have fallen open.
“You can read and write, can’t you?”
He laughed. A chuckle at first, then all out laughter. He laughed so hard, his eyes teared up.
She scowled at him. She went to the little writing desk in the corner and pulled out a sheet of paper and a feather.
A feather?
“Come here,” she said. “Come write something.”
He wiped his eyes and went to stand next to her. When she handed him the feather, he looked at it. “What do I do with this?”
She groaned and took it from him. “You can’t write.”
“I can too,” he said, reaching for the feather. “Give me some ink.”
She pulled a cork from a little ink well that sat on the table and handed it to him. He pulled out the chair and sat down. This was going to take some concentration. He dipped the quill into the ink and after pulling it out, began writing his name on the paper. He made a mess. There were pools of ink all over the paper.
“Here. See,” he said shifting back so she could see what he had written.
“Anyone can write their own name,” she said.
“Really? OK.” He turned back. Began scribbling again. Had to dip the feather back into the ink. He wrote. I am from 2017.
He held the paper up for her to see.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “Good. You can write. That’s a relief.”
“I don’t know anyone who can’t write,” he said, putting the paper down and laying the feather on top of it.
She grabbed up the paper and tore what he had written into little shreds, then tossed it into the cold fireplace.
He turned and leaned back in the chair to study her. “But how does this help us?”
She put a hand over her mouth and a bubble of laughter escaped.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“You have ink everywhere.”
“Great,” he said and looked at his hands. He did have ink all over his hands. “Where do I wash?”
“You’ll have to use the water in the pitcher, but it won’t come off.
“What do you mean it won’t come off?” he asked, following her to the pitcher and basin on a little stand in the corner.
“It’ll have to fade off.” She picked up the basin of water and gestured for him to put his hands over the basin.
He scrubbed, but it only spread the ink. She handed him a cloth, but it only spread the ink to the cloth. And left him with fingers stained with ink.
“This is good,” she said. “It makes you look like a scholar.”
He shook his head. “It makes me look like an idiot.”
“No,” she said, serious now. She took the cloth and rubbed some ink from his cheek.
“Are you putting ink on my face?” he asked.
“I’m trying to get the ink off of you.”
Nonetheless, his skin burned beneath her touch.
“It’s barely noticeable now,” she said.
“I have to at least try to get back to my time and get the money.”
“You with your money. Go ahead then. Each time your chances of getting back lessen.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Did you notice how long it took you this last time?”
He had noticed. “I want to visit Madame Laveau,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Perhaps she can help me figure this thing out.”
“Men have disappeared while visiting with her.”
“But surely it would be safe if you take me.”
“I suppose. Let me think about it. We can only visit her at Midnight.”
Of course. Legends had to start somewhere. And meeting a vo
odoo priestess at Midnight was as good a place to start as any. “Very well,” he said. “I should put on something more appropriate.”
“Yes!” she said, her face brightening. “Let’s pick out something for you to wear.” She quickly moved to the bed and within minutes had picked out some black slacks – or trousers as she called them, a white shirt, and a black jacket.
“Is this casual wear?” he asked.
“It’s for everyday, yes.”
He stood holding the clothes she’d handed him.
“Oh,” she said, “I’ll just go down the hall to my room for a few minutes.”
After she had closed the door behind her, Bradley sat on the settee, the strange clothes clutched to his chest, and heaved a sigh.
What do I do now?
With her there, distracting him with her deep green eyes and enigmatic smile, he couldn’t think. He needed to think. To figure out the best course of action. He studied his hands, stained with ink.
A scholar. What kind of trade was that?
It seems being literate wasn’t a given in 1838. Nonetheless, what kind of occupation went with being a scholar?
If only there was something he could do with his knowledge of aviation.
If his memory served, hot air balloons were coming into existence about this time, but Bradley had never had any interest in that. Too many uncontrollable factors.
First things first.
He pulled himself up mentally and got into the clothes Camille had loaned him. She was right. They fit perfectly. He would have preferred a little less ruffle on his shirt and he had certainly never worn heels before, except maybe on a pair of cowboy boots he’d bought on a whim and only worn once.
He had only begun to fold up the mounds of clothes when someone knocked on the door. Expecting to see Camille, he went over and threw open the door. Instead, a tall, black man he remembered seeing downstairs stood at the door. “Mistress Camille asked me to invite you to the dining room for breakfast.”
“Thank you,” he said, wondering if he was supposed to go now with Marcus or if it was just a general invitation.
Marcus remained at the door. “Would you like me to lead the way?”
“Please,” Bradley said, closing the door behind him and following Marcus down the hall and down a flight of stairs.
Despite the dining room Marcus spoke of being empty, the sidebar was loaded with fresh fruit, eggs, bacon, and a variety of other breakfast foods.
“Help yourself,” Marcus said. “If you need anything, just tug on that cord hanging there next to the door.”
Bradley filled his plate and sat alone at the dining table. Camille had deserted him, he mused. Not so surprising. She doubtlessly had things to do. Things that didn’t involve him.
The food was fresh and hot, except for the fruit, which was cold. Impressive that they were so efficient, as good or better than most high end hotels and without electricity.
Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear Camille’s father come into the room. Instead of filling his plate, however, the man sat across from him.
Bradley set down his fork and swallowed what had heretofore been a good bite of egg.
“I’m Camille’s father,” he said.
“Yes sir. I know.”
“My name is Adam Lefleur.”
“I’m Bradley Becquerel.”
“I know.”
Bradley wasn’t sure what was expected of him. The man stared into his eyes. Bradley tore his gaze free. This was Camille’s father. He needed this man’s permission to continue to see her, much less remain in their house.
“Camille tells me you know her from finishing school. That you met at Mass.”
“Yes sir.” Was the lie more costly when it involved a church?
“Who introduced you?” he asked.
“I don’t remember. I was too dazzled by your daughter, Sir.”
“So you tracked her here?” Adam asked, ignoring the compliment to his daughter.
“Not at all, Sir. I was in the area on business and stumbled upon Camille by accident. It was fortuitous.” No lies this time.
“You’re on a first name basis with my daughter?”
Bradley choked back a laugh at the smoke that seemed to come from Adam’s ears.
“Miss Lafluer,” he quickly corrected. So many things to remember. He could only hope he didn’t get himself killed by not knowing the customs.
“You seem to be rather close to my daughter.”
“I um.” How was he supposed to proceed? “I would like to call upon Miss Lafleur.”
Adam scowled. “How do you expect to call upon her when you’re sleeping down the hall in the guest room?”
“That’s a good question.” Perhaps he should have gone about this from a different angle. Camille had mentioned that she was working on an idea.
“You seem to be down on your luck.”
“Ha. Yes. I have fallen on some bad luck.”
Adam continued to watch him, his brow creased. “Very well,” he said. “You can stay in the guest room for the time being. We’ll figure the rest out when you’re a little less confused,” he said, standing up, and pushing his chair forward.
Bradley gaped at the older man as he left the room. He looked down at his plate – at the cold food, and shoved it aside. He’d lost his appetite anyway.
As he sat there, contemplating his next move, Camille breezed into the room. She was wearing a light blue gown and her hair fell loosely onto her shoulders.
“My father wants to speak to you,” she said, breathlessly.
“He was just here.”
“Oh dear,” she said and dropped to a chair next to him. “I told him you were disoriented from your travels.”
“Disoriented. That seems accurate.”
“You’re still here, so I guess it didn’t go too badly.”
He shook his head. “I need to go.”
“Yes, I know. You need to go get your money.”
“I can’t be destitute.”
“I’ve arranged for us to visit Madame Laveau at Midnight tonight,” she said.
“How did you do that?”
“I have my ways,” Camille said, smiling sweetly.
“No, really, how do you know her?”
Camille stood up and went to the window. “She’s a hair dresser.”
“Your hairdresser?”
Camille shrugged and turned back to face him. “She’d done my hair in the past. When I went to the balls. It’s been about a year though since I’ve gone, so I haven’t seen her lately.”
“I didn’t know that,” Bradley said, glancing toward the window. He had no watch, so already he was looking to the sun in order to estimate the time of day. He glanced around, but there were no clocks in this room.
“How would you know?” she asked, scrunching up her face. “Only a few people know her. I heard she used to be active in the Catholic church, but now that she’s much older, she only works with a few people.”
“She practices voodoo?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s a healer. But, again, I know her mostly from doing my hair. She’s quite good. And she’s a good listener.”
A few seconds later, the sounds of a grandfather clock drifted through the air and he was instantly reminded of his grandfather’s plantation house with the grandfather clock standing in the foyer. Although the kitchen had burned, the house had been saved by the local fire department’s quick arrival and valiant efforts.
Thoughts of the house, as always, led to thoughts of his sister. Erika. He had a sudden overwhelming desire to see her. Though he missed her terribly, the thought that she could be here, in 1838 was surreal.
But in order to travel, he would need money. His thoughts had come back full circle to the coins left in his hotel room. He groaned.
“You are in pain?” Camille asked, watching him closely.
“No,” he shook his head. “It’s just frustrating. I’m here, with you, and, yet, all I
can think about is the money that I inadvertently left behind. The money that would give me independence.”
He noticed the little flush that spread over her cheeks at his words. She, however, choose to divert the topic. “My father says money is the root of all evil.”
Bradley scoffed. “I don’t disagree. Unfortunately, it’s a necessary evil.”
“Very well,” she said, with a decisiveness to her tone. “You go get your money and we’ll do what it is that we want to do.”
He grinned at her, enjoying her change of conversation. “And what is it that we want to do?”
This time, there was no mistaking the flush on her cheeks. “We, um.” She looked away. “We need to think of a better reason for you to be here.”
“A better reason than the allure of a pretty girl?”
“You, sir, are a rogue.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you’ve found me out.”
“Do you not have a lady in your time?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone whom I fancied.”
“Did you look?”
“I looked in every matchbook and every tinderbox.”
“Those are odd places to look for anyone, even a lady,” she said, she said her brow furrowed. “That may explain your lack of success.”
He laughed. “That’s kind of what I thought.”
“But that’s where you look for potential suitors in your time? We must endure interminable balls.”
“I thought young ladies enjoyed going to balls. You don’t like dancing?”
“I love to dance. But there are so many elderly widowers that my father would have me wed.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Your father would have you wed a widower?” The very thought sickened Bradley.
“He’s under the impression that I need a man to take care of me. A man of means.”
“Ah ha!”
“What?”
“Ah ha, it’s important that you hook up with a man of means.”
“It’s important to my father that I marry a man of means. Not to me. My family has plenty of money. And I can take care of myself. I can mix drinks and I can keep books. Besides, when I do get married, I want to marry someone I like. Not someone who smells badly.”
“Does your father really care who you marry?”
She stretched out her arms, adjusted the lace on her sleeves at her wrists. “I don’t know. I love it here at the townhouse. The plantation is ok, but I prefer the excitement of the city. Marriage would mean I would be tucked away taking care of babies.”
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