Mesmerist

by Pam McCutcheon

  “That’s the girl,” Miss Sparrow said in a bracing tone as she steadied her elbow. “Now that you’re here, everything is all right and tight.”

  “Here? Where’s here?”

  “Why, the past of course,” the woman said as if it were obvious. “You’ve traveled back in time.”

  Gina grew totally still. Back in time? Was the woman loony? Gina blinked, then focused on a nearby sign. The Chesterfield. Slowly, the facts penetrated her fogged brain. This hotel remarkably resembled the ruins she had entered, only now they appeared to be restored to their former glory. And the people at the end were dressed in a fashion peculiar to Victorian times. Gina blanched. No, it couldn’t be. Either this woman was perpetrating an elaborate hoax, or Gina was stark, staring mad. Either way, one thing was for certain—the other shoe had finally dropped.

  Bad Thing Number Three had arrived with a vengeance.

  Chapter 2

  Gina’s common sense returned. No, it couldn’t be. Time travel wasn’t possible—it existed only in the strange, twisted minds of science fiction writers. Then again, she hadn’t believed in ghosts until yesterday, either. . . .

  There must be some other explanation. A movie set? That didn’t fit—everything had changed too fast. An elaborate hoax? That didn’t jibe either—who knew she’d be here? Her fogged brain couldn’t come up with any other logical explanation save one—she was dreaming. So, she’d just have to go along with the strangeness until she woke up.

  Gina became aware that Miss Sparrow was tugging gently but insistently on her arm. “Come along, dear,” the woman said. “Before someone sees you dressed like this.”

  Gina glanced down at her jeans and T-shirt. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Nothing, for your time, but in 1885, it just isn’t proper.”

  “Oh,” Gina said, feeling as if her head were still stuffed with mush. “Uh, okay. What’ll I wear?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Miss Sparrow renewed her pull on Gina’s arm. Gina checked to make sure Scruffy was behind her as the woman towed her into a secluded part of the hotel.

  Suddenly, Miss Sparrow came to a complete halt and muttered, “Oh, bother.”

  Gina glanced up. Coming toward them was a middle-aged woman in a severe black outfit that left her looking like a deformed “S.” A bustle stuck out behind her, making her small chest curve out in front, and a ridiculous feathery hat perched on her head like a bird about to fly off. She looked like a skinny pouter pigeon. Only, no pigeon ever wore such a sour, pinched expression.

  Good grief. What on earth had caused her to dredge up this image from the tortured depths of her imagination? And why was the woman carrying a fur muff in the middle of the summer? It didn’t matter—dreams weren’t meant to make sense.

  Miss Sparrow seemed to be trying to shove Gina behind her, so Gina cooperated. She didn’t know why the Wicked Witch of the West had shown up in her dream, but it was probably a good idea to avoid her. She glanced around, wondering if a house was about to fall on the sourpuss.

  “Mrs. Biddle,” Miss Sparrow said in a calm tone, “how may I help you?”

  Mrs. Biddle looked down her nose at Miss Sparrow, no easy feat since she was at least two inches shorter. “I thought this was a respectable hotel,” she said in a nasal tone. “What is this young person doing here dressed in such an outlandish costume?”

  Jeez, look who’s talking. Slowly, it dawned on Gina that the woman was referring to her. She opened her mouth to give the old biddy what-for, but Miss Sparrow forestalled her.

  “Miss Charles has just arrived from . . . the Far West, where she was brought up in a family of men. I’m afraid she never learned to dress like a lady. She’s here to work and learn.”

  So that was the explanation her mind had dredged up for her appearance in this dream. Okay, it worked.

  Mrs. Biddle just sniffed. It was obvious she had far more to say on the subject, but just then, Scruffy, who had been sitting calmly at Gina’s feet, looked up and growled at the furry muff.

  The muff opened its protruding eyes and growled back.

  Startled, Gina realized the muff was really a dog—a plug-ugly Pekingese. Suddenly, her belief that this was a dream wavered. She would never willingly dream about a Pekingese—she found the yappy dogs with their smashed-in faces repulsive.

  Maybe this wasn’t a dream. Miss Sparrow and her iron grip had certainly felt solid enough. . . . What about Mrs. Biddle? Experimentally, Gina reached out and poked the woman in the side. Odd—she was just as solid as the rest of them. More so, for she appeared to be wearing some sort of heavy-duty girdle underneath to hold her assets, meager as they were, rigidly in place.

  Mrs. Biddle gasped in affront. “Young woman, what is the meaning of this?”

  Maybe this wasn’t a dream after all. Then . . . What was it? Could she have really traveled in time? Or had she somehow made it to Oz? She glanced around, looking for a yellow brick road, or a contingent from the Lollipop Guild, but they were nowhere in sight. So, where was she? Her question would have to wait, for Mrs. Biddle was expecting an answer.

  “Uh, sorry,” Gina said. “You had a bug crawling on you. Don’t worry, I got it off.”

  The witch sniffed in disbelief and glared down at Scruffy. “And what is that creature?”

  No sense in giving the muff the advantage. Gina picked Scruffy up so the dogs were face to face, and shushed him. Scruffy obeyed, but the Peke continued growling. “He’s a cairn terrier.”

  “Never heard of them,” Mrs. Biddle pronounced. “But my Princess here has a royal pedigree from China.” She stroked the ugly dog who lolled its tongue in bliss.

  “So does Scruffy—his real name is Reginald Scruffington the Third, and his line goes back to—” She broke off. Scruffy’s line went back to the first cairn terrier admitted to the American Kennel Club . . . in 1913. “Well, they’re very well known where I come from,” she finished lamely.

  Mrs. Biddle gifted her with a condescending smile—the sort she might give a child. “I daresay. But a mere westerner’s claims cannot compete with the glory of a Pekingese who has been bred by royalty for generations, hmm?”

  The Peke chose this moment to demonstrate its glory by lunging and snapping at Scruffy.

  At a single word from Gina, Scruffy magnificently ignored the provocation while the so-called Princess disregarded all its owner’s pleas for it to be a “good little doggy.”

  Smugly, Gina said, “Too bad Princess’s behavior doesn’t reflect her breeding.”

  Mrs. Biddle puffed up, obviously prepared to do battle, but Miss Sparrow took the wind out of her sails. “It’s been nice chatting with you, but we really should be getting along. The Major is expecting us.”

  Those magic words effected an immediate change in Mrs. Biddle. Though her dog continued yapping, her stiffness melted away and she smiled, simpering. “Well, now, I wouldn’t want to keep the Major waiting. Give him my best, will you?”

  “Of course,” Miss Sparrow said, then dragged Gina off before the woman could detain them any longer.

  Gina whispered, “Good boy,” to Scruffy and gave him a quick scratch between the ears. He’d earned it.

  As they moved swiftly down the great hall toward their destination, they garnered many odd looks from other women dressed just like Mrs. Biddle, though with more color and more pleasant expressions. Gina received a blurred impression of the ornately decorated hotel, though the only thing that registered was the truly atrocious wallpaper reminiscent of the worst of the Victorian period.

  It seemed impossible, but . . . maybe this time travel business was true? With a feeling of dread, she realized everything certainly seemed real.

  But Miss Sparrow didn’t give her time to think as she whisked her into a room before anyone else could stop them. “Well, that was unfortunate,” she said with a sigh. “Of all people to run into, Birdie Biddle must be the worst.”

  Birdie? Well, it fit, but what was
with the avian names around here?

  Miss Sparrow continued, “But I suppose it couldn’t be helped. We’ll just have to get you into something more suitable before anyone else sees you.”

  As Miss Sparrow sorted through a rack of navy skirts the same shade as her own, Gina realized they were in a storeroom of sorts. Miss Sparrow pulled out a skirt and a white blouse and held them up measuringly to Gina. “I think these will fit. Why don’t you try them on?”

  “Now wait a minute. Before I do anything else, I want an explanation. Where am I and how did I get here?” She set Scruffy down and, like the good dog he was, he went to a corner and lay down to watch the proceedings.

  Miss Sparrow smiled. “As I said before, you have come back in time to 1885. You’re at The Chesterfield Hotel and Resort.”

  “And how did I get here?”

  The woman’s eyes slid away from hers and she plucked unnecessarily at the skirt she held. “You came through a time portal that operates only on the solstices,” she said briskly and held the outfit up to Gina again. “Have you ever waited tables?”

  “No, and don’t change the subject.” Gina suspected there was far more to this than Miss Sparrow let on. “Who are you? And why do you seem to be the only one here who understands what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, didn’t I introduce myself?” the woman asked with aplomb. “I am Esmeralda Sparrow, the head housekeeper of The Chesterfield. And it’s my job to know everything.”

  That answer wasn’t quite complete, but before Gina could ask more, Miss Sparrow added, “But please, call me Esme.”

  “Okay, Esme, but I want to know—”

  “However, I caution you to do so only when we’re alone. It wouldn’t do to have others thinking you are acting above your station.”

  “My station?” What the heck was she talking about?

  “Yes. You’ll have to work in the resort, of course, which means you’ll report to me—all the girls do. The only question is, where best to put you?”

  Gina was swept along by the housekeeper’s efficiency as she questioned Gina thoroughly about her work history. No, she’d never worked as a waitress, maid, hostess, or in any other capacity a hotel would find useful.

  “Well,” Esme said, “I’ll just have to teach you, then.” She offered the outfit again, complete with a contraption that could only be a bustle. “Why don’t you try this on?”

  Gina balked at the thought of tying a bustle onto her back end. “Why in the world would I want to make my butt look bigger?”

  “It is the fashion,” Esme said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Good grief, why?”

  “Men find it . . . attractive,” Esme said. For once, her no-nonsense tone took on a hint of embarrassment.

  Gina just shook her head. “Fashions sure have changed since then . . . now . . . whatever,” she said, impatient with the confusion of describing the time changes. Worse, she was dismayed by the realization that she had finally accepted the inevitable—she really had traveled back in time. But there would be no ruby slippers to take her home. It made her want to cry.

  “Why do I have to change at all?” I just want to go home.

  Some of her inner turmoil must have shown, for the housekeeper’s expression softened. She led Gina to a chair. “Let me explain. This resort caters primarily to invalids and those seeking a cure for their ills. So, we have a doctor on staff, and Dr. Ziegler is very interested in diseases of the mind. I’m afraid if he sees you in these clothes, speaking as if you’re from the future, he’ll think you mad . . . and commit you.”

  Fear shot through Gina. She’d heard horror stories of what mental institutions were like in these times. “Can’t I just go home?” she asked plaintively.

  “Yes, you’ll have that option. But first, there is something you must do here.”

  “What?” Gina asked desperately. “Tell me—I’ll do anything. Just let me go home. “ Suddenly her messed-up life didn’t seem so bad, so long as she could wear sensible clothes and not have to hide from overzealous doctors.

  “That is something you’ll have to discern for yourself,” Esme said, not unkindly. “In the meantime, you’ll need some way to occupy yourself. I suppose I could train you to wait tables, but don’t you have any talents we could use?”

  “I can train dogs—that’s my best talent.” She also had a talent for picking losers as fiancés, but Gina doubted that was the kind of job qualification Esme was looking for.

  “Well, then, we shall just have to make this work.” Esme pulled a dark gray dress from the rack. “Here, put this on. It’s a maid’s uniform but it will have to do for now. The Major will be calling for me shortly.”

  Well, at least it didn’t have a bustle. As Gina put on the awkward heavy dress with the housekeeper’s help, she wondered just who this Major was, and even more, how the woman knew the Major would soon be calling for her.

  “Who is he?”

  “Major Payne is the hotel manager,” Esme said as she twitched Gina’s dress into place and had her put on some sturdy shoes. “Though all the girls work under me, he has to approve all the hiring.” She gazed at her handiwork with satisfaction, saying, “We just need to put up your hair. Come, I’ll do it for you.”

  Gina allowed the woman to manhandle her hair into a style similar to the one Esme wore as Gina tried to make sense of everything. It was too much to take in all at once, so Gina decided to concentrate on the one thing she could do—find out what her task was so she could return to her own time and some semblance of normality.

  Just as Esme finished Gina’s hair, a tall beanpole in a navy uniform with maroon trim stuck his head in the door. He grinned at the housekeeper, saying, “The Major’s looking for you.” His speech was directed at Esme, but his gaze was all for Gina, speculative and appreciative.

  It wasn’t lost on the prim housekeeper. “Thank you, Rupert. I’ll be right there.” At her obvious dismissal, Rupert withdrew. Seeing Gina’s grin, she added, “Rupert is one of our bellboys. He means well, but I suggest if you have any dealings with him, you count all your pennies before you leave—and your fingers and toes. Twice. Rupert is a very . . . enterprising young man.”

  Gina nodded. Rupert was kind of cocky and cute, but he was too young for her and she had no intention of dating anyone anytime soon anyway—especially not in the past. Esme swept her out of the room and Gina made sure Scruffy followed so she wouldn’t lose him—he was her only link to the life she’d left behind. Forward. Whatever.

  Saying, “Let me handle this,” Esme knocked lightly on a door labeled “Manager.”

  “Enter,” a man bellowed from inside.

  As they did so, Scruffy hid beneath Gina’s skirt, evidently wary of entering the room where the parade-ground command had come from.

  A man rose from behind a desk and nodded at them, harrumphing. He clasped his hands behind his ramrod-straight back and twitched his handlebar mustache at them. “Miss Sparrow, I wished to speak to you about Mr. O’Riley—” He broke off, staring at Gina. “And who do we have here?”

  “A new employee for your approval, Major. This is Miss Charles.”

  The Major smoothed his mustache and ran his gaze over Gina’s form, inspecting her thoroughly. “A new maid, eh?”

  “Not exactly,” the housekeeper said. “I have finally found a solution to the problem of unruly pets running about in the hotel.”

  “How so?” he asked, scowling.

  Gina watched in wonder as Esme skillfully and subtly convinced him it was his idea to hire a dog trainer, adding that Gina could also take care of pets when their owners were indisposed.

  Gina balked at the idea of being a dog sitter, but, realizing it was better than being a waitress, she kept her mouth shut.

  The clincher to Esme’s argument was her reminder that no other hotel in Virginia could offer this service.

  “Quite right.” Major Payne looked thoughtful, then said, “How do we know she is qualified?”

>   Calmly, Esme asked Gina to demonstrate her prowess with Scruffy. Major Payne looked surprised to see the small dog appear from beneath Gina’s skirt, but watched intently as she put Scruffy through his paces.

  “Very good,” he pronounced, but evidently felt the need to deliver a lecture. Frowning at Gina, he admonished her to do her best to keep the guests’ animals under control while simultaneously not offending them and their pets.

  It was quite clearly a dismissal, but since Esme didn’t move, Gina was uncertain what to do.

  “Wait outside,” the housekeeper said gently. “I believe the Major has something else he needs to discuss with me.”

  With a sense of relief, Gina left the room with Scruffy in tow, hearing the Major say, “That blasted O’Riley is drunk again,” before she shut the door.

  She leaned against it for a minute, and all the strangeness washed over her. There was no doubt about it—somehow, she had traveled back in time. And, according to Esme, the only way to get back was to complete some task. But what could it be?

  What could Gina Charles, who knew nothing of Victorian times, accomplish that would possibly be so important that she would be sent back in time? As she pondered, she stepped away from the door and walked smack into a man hurrying down the hall.

  She stumbled, and the man grasped her arms and steadied her. “I beg your pardon. Are you all right?”

  She glanced up at him and froze.

  Magnetic dark eyes gazed down at her out of a handsome face . . . a face she knew well. Her gaze rose higher. The dramatic white streak in his dark hair confirmed her suspicions. This was Drake Manton in the flesh—very warm and very firm flesh.

  He repeated, “Are you all right?”

  She nodded stupidly, and he shot her a reassuring smile, then hurried off again.

  Suddenly, her task became crystal clear. She had come back in time to save Drake Manton’s life.

  Drake admonished himself to be more careful. In his single-minded rush to meet Dr. Ziegler, he’d almost run down a maid.

  But surely he could be excused for a bit of abstraction. Finally, he had arrived at the culmination of months of searching for just the right place to put Dr. Mesmer’s theories into practice. The Chesterfield seemed ideal. Not only was it a popular convalescent spot for invalids, but the resident physician, Dr. Ziegler, was well known for his interest in the diseases of the mind.