A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “’Is Grace ’imself ’ired you?”

  From the girl’s thunderstruck expression, Kendra deduced that wasn’t normal. Yet Rose recovered quickly, shrugging as she donned her heavy apron, tying it behind her back, “Ah, well. The Duke’s known for ’is peculiarities. Oh.” She glanced back at Kendra as she headed for the door. “I didn’t mean no insult, miss.”

  Was it possible to be insulted by a hallucination? “Right now, Rose, being called peculiar,” she managed to say truthfully, “is the least of my worries.”

  The human mind can handle only so much stress. It’s why men, women, and children eventually resume their daily business in war zones, shopping while bombs dropped. So it didn’t surprise Kendra when the terror and sheer disbelief shrank and transformed into sort of a surreal amazement as she followed her new roommate down the backstairs to the servant’s hall. Still, she was grateful that she wasn’t required to make small talk as Rose chattered excitedly about the house party. Kendra didn’t bother to follow the thread of conversation, but she made the appropriate noises to encourage the girl. Better to have Rose talk, she figured, than to start asking questions. Besides, the one-sided conversation freed Kendra up to concentrate on the problem at hand, which, as she saw it, was one of three possibilities: someone was playing an elaborate hoax on her, she’d had a complete psychological break, or she’d actually been sucked back in time or into another dimension, à la string theory.

  She’d almost ruled out the first possibility. Not only couldn’t she come up with the who—CIA? MI5? KGB?—but she couldn’t decide on the why. Why would anyone go to the trouble? Why, for Christ’s sake, would anyone do it? The conspiracy of people involved and the implementation of such precise details made the whole idea preposterous.

  The second possibility, some form of psychosis, sent a shudder through her. The mission she’d given herself—to dispense justice on Sir Jeremy Greene—had been stressful, certainly, and had, in many ways, gone against her own moral code. Had her mind snapped in response? Could she be sitting in some psychiatric ward, her body confined to a straitjacket, while her mind conjured up this alternative reality?

  Even as she considered that horrible prospect, everything inside her rebelled. If she’d had some sort of psychotic break, could her mind actually fill in the minutiae that she was seeing now? The young maids busily sweeping the carpets—with whisk brooms, for the love of God—and polishing the heavy furniture in the hallways. Or the footmen in their embroidered, deep blue uniforms and white powdered wigs, carrying in kindling for the fireplaces. She’d concede hallucinating about this period given the costume party, but could she cull from her imagination the sights, the sounds, the smells—lemon, linseed oil, and beeswax—that she was experiencing now?

  “What’s a tweeny?” she asked abruptly, cutting Rose off midsentence.

  “Pardon?”

  “What is a tweeny?”

  “Oh. I told you—I’m a tweeny.”

  “I mean, what do you do as a tweeny? We, ah, don’t have that position in America.”

  Rose appeared to find that difficult to comprehend. “’Tis a between maid. I ’elp Cook and the kitchen maids, and the upstairs maids with their duties. ’Owever do your grand ’ouseholds go on without tweenies?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Kendra remembered that there’d been a line yesterday for tweenies, but she hadn’t known what they were. Could her brain access information that it didn’t have? Assuming, that is, the information was correct, and she wasn’t simply making it up along with the girl who was supplying the information. This kind of thinking would drive her crazy—if she wasn’t already there.

  She could feel her chest tighten, the flutter of hysteria in the pit of her stomach. With an effort, she pulled herself back from a full-scale panic attack, and concentrated on breathing. In and out. Keep calm. You’re not crazy. There has to be a logical explanation.

  She focused on her surroundings. They’d entered the servant’s wing, where she’d been yesterday. Like the study last night, the area was both the same and different. The same walls, the same flagstone floor, the same flurry of activity with people running around. But the fixtures and furnishings had changed here, too. The faces had changed.

  She paused abruptly in the doorway of the room that yesterday had been converted into the temporary girls’ locker room. Today, it had cupboards and shelves filled with what looked to be pressed linen, a long table, and a few odd looking pieces of equipment.

  “What’s this room?”

  Rose glanced back, frowning. “’Tis the linen room. Don’t you ’ave that in America, either?”

  “Not where I live,” Kendra answered truthfully.

  A moment later they entered the room that yesterday had been ground zero for Stark Productions. Today, it was exactly what it once had been: a dining room. There was still no fire in the enormous fireplace. The long sweep of table was covered by a crisp white tablecloth, which probably had been in the linen room only minutes before. Two maids, dressed in a similar style as Rose, were in the process of setting the table.

  “And Oi ’eard, as bold as brass she was, calling ’is Grace Duke,” one of the maids was saying.

  “Go on!” The other girl sounded deliciously horrified.

  “’Tis true! And she ’as hair as short as a boy’s—” She broke off suddenly as she spotted Kendra and Rose in the doorway. A fiery blush swept up her cheeks. “Oh, Oi didn’t see yer there, Rose.” Her eyes met Kendra’s, and then flitted guiltily away.

  “Good morning, Tess, Mildred,” Rose greeted easily. “This ’ere’s Kendra Donovan. She’s a lady’s maid ’ired for the party.”

  “Mrs. Danbury’s looking for ’er.”

  “Thank you, Tess.” Rose cast Kendra an apologetic look once they were out in the hall. “Never you mind them. Tess is an ’orrid gossip.”

  Kendra suspected it wouldn’t only be Tess gossiping about her, but kept quiet as they walked down the hall to a short flight of steps. After descending, Rose stopped to knock at the first door on the right. Mrs. Danbury’s crisp voice invited them inside.

  Again Kendra was reminded of her former college instructor. Dressed in similar attire to that which she’d worn the night before—white cap and black gown—Mrs. Danbury sat behind a large oak desk, its surface polished and everything on it arranged in such a precise way that it made more of a statement about the housekeeper than anything else in the small, tidy office. They stood waiting while she ignored them as she carefully dipped a quill pen into an inkstand, scribbling on a thick sheet of paper. Silence pooled in the room, broken only by the scratching of nib against parchment paper, and the slow, steady tick of the pendulum clock in the corner of the room.

  Kendra found herself holding her breath. Mrs. Danbury finally laid the pen down in a wood stand. Still she didn’t look at them. Rather, she picked up a small glass vial, tipping it and lightly sprinkling the parchment with sand, before blowing the grains away.

  Ritual done, she lifted the sheet of paper to Rose. “Please give this to Monsieur Anton, Rose. We have a change in the dinner menu.”

  Rose went pale. “Ooh, ’e’s not gonna like that one bit, ma’am.”

  “No, he’s not,” Mrs. Danbury conceded. “The chef is temperamental and difficult. One must expect such a disposition from the French, Rose. Nevertheless, Lady Atwood herself made these particular changes. Monsieur Anton must accommodate the countess’ wishes, regardless of his own personal desires.”

  Rose did not look any happier with that announcement, but appeared resigned. “Aye, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Danbury nodded. “Thank you, Rose. You may go—close the door behind you.”

  Rose exchanged one quick look with Kendra before bobbing a curtsy, and, list in hand, leaving the room. Mrs. Danbury waited until the door snicked shut before turning those cool, appraising gray eyes on Kendra.

  “Well, Miss Donovan . . . you’ve certainly put me in an awkward position. His Grac
e is under the impression that you are at Aldridge Castle as a lady’s maid. Of course, we have several lady’s maids currently under our roof, but most arrived with a Lady. Did you arrive with a Lady, Miss Donovan?”

  Even though her heart had begun thudding, Kendra looked the woman in the eye and managed to say calmly enough, “No . . . ma’am.”

  “I could attribute your presence here as being part of the temporary help,” she went on. “As you may know, several lady’s maids were hired to accommodate our guests who were not fortunate enough to bring their own. However, as I was the one who hired the temporary lady’s maids, this leaves me baffled, Miss Donovan. I do not know you. I did not hire you. If you did not arrive with a Lady, and I did not hire you to be a lady’s maid, how did you come to Aldridge Castle? It fairly boggles the mind.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you, Mrs. Danbury.”

  “Indeed.” The housekeeper’s lips tightened. “And yet you had an answer for His Grace last night. You insisted that you were hired as a lady’s maid.”

  “I was hired as a lady’s maid.”

  The expression in Mrs. Danbury’s gray eyes turned even more glacial. “That is not possible, Miss Donovan. As I have stated, Mr. Kimble gave me the responsibility to hire the temporary female staff. And I did not hire any Americans. I did not hire you.”

  “I was hired by another woman.”

  “No other woman has that authority! What is her name—this woman who hired you?”

  Kendra thought of the woman from Stark Productions. “Mrs. Peters.”

  “There is no Mrs. Peters at Aldridge Castle.”

  Why didn’t that surprise her? Because she could offer no other explanation—how do you explain the unexplainable?—Kendra remained silent, staring at the housekeeper.

  Mrs. Danbury studied the young woman who met her eyes so brazenly. If it had been her decision, she would have sent the bold creature packing—without references. But earlier, Mr. Kimble had knocked on her door with orders from the Duke himself that Kendra Donovan was to stay. It was galling, simply galling.

  “Miss Donovan, I do not believe you. Moreover, I do not trust you.” Noticing the grains of sand across the desk, she swept her hands over its surface, clearing away the letter-making debris. “I shall, however, give you a temporary reprieve. As it so happens, we do have two ladies staying with us who could use your assistance. Miss Georgette Knox and Miss Sarah Rawdon. You will attend breakfast, and then see to your duties.”

  Relief loosened the tight knot of fear inside her chest. Whatever was happening, Kendra knew that she couldn’t leave the castle. This was ground zero. “Thank you, Mrs. Danbury.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “I shall be watching you, Miss Donovan,” she warned. “That will be all.”

  Dismissed, Kendra moved out into the hall. There she paused and pressed a hand to her stomach. Her present emotional state appeared to be swinging between incredulity and full-on fear. She straightened when she heard someone coming: a young maid, no more than nine, carrying a bucket. The little girl gave her a curious look as she passed.

  Composing herself, Kendra made her way to the kitchen. The room was much larger than the dining area, with high ceilings and high windows that allowed natural light to flood in. A chandelier, its tapers unlit, hung from the center of the ceiling on chains as thick as a man’s wrist. Below the windows, long shelves carried the gleam of pots and the soft sheen of cookware.

  It reminded Kendra of a hotel kitchen, albeit one placed squarely in what she understood to be the early nineteenth century, with at least a dozen helpers busy in several workstations. There were two fireplaces, both lit, the flames heating the blackened bottoms of bronze cauldrons hanging within. A monstrosity—a black cast iron range—took up a good portion of the other wall. An iron grid above the stove dangled with copper pots, big and small, and an assortment of utensils. A small, dark-haired man wearing a chef’s hat was stirring two large pots simultaneously, muttering angrily in French. From the snippet she overheard, Kendra ascertained that the changes in the menu had not, as Rose predicted, gone over well.

  Kendra spotted Rose at one of the tables, peeling, coring, and chopping apples. Moving in her direction, she caught the scent of sizzling meat steeped in savory spices. Overlaying that was the strong yeasty smell of baking bread. Kendra realized suddenly that she was hungry. Could you be hungry in a delusion?

  The paring knife Rose held flashed as she sliced fruit into a bowl. The last slice, however, she popped into her mouth, which drew a snort from the woman next to her, who was pummeling a shapeless blob of dough roughly the size of a deflated basketball.

  “Wicked girl—ye’ve eaten at least two apple pies by yer thievery,” the woman admonished, wagging a finger dusted with flour.

  Rose giggled, apparently unconcerned with the woman’s reprimand. Spotting Kendra, she smiled. “Miss—over ’ere! Cook, this ’ere is Miss Donovan. She’s sharing me room now. She’s a lady’s maid.”

  “Ah. Ye’re one of the temporary lasses hired for Lady Atwood’s party, then?”

  Kendra judged the woman to be around Mrs. Danbury’s age, but, thankfully, she did not seem to share the housekeeper’s disposition. She was short, with a comfortable figure that filled out her pale blue dress and white apron. Her face was round and pleasant, with pale wisps of light brown hair escaping the mop cap she wore. The dark blue eyes took Kendra’s measure, but without any animosity.

  “Yes. Please call me Kendra.”

  The woman’s lips curved into a smile as she continued to shape the dough. “Me name is Mrs. Acker, but everyone calls me Cook. Who will ye be looking after then?”

  “Um . . . Georgette Knox and Sarah Rawdon.” Kendra wondered if she could ask for a cup of coffee. Preferably one strong enough to wake her from this nightmare.

  “Ye’d best have yer breakfast then,” Cook said. “The ladies will be wantin’ their chocolate and tea soon, I expect.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Rose intercepted her glance, and shook her head. “Not ’ere, Miss. You’re to ’ave your breakfast in the upper staff dining room.”

  “What about you?” asked Kendra.

  One of the other girls nearby giggled. “Ooh, la, Miss Rose. Shall I serve ye tea?”

  “’Tis the upper staff dining room for upper staff. I’m a tweeny.”

  It was protocol, Kendra realized. She understood the need for protocol, for procedures and practices. Hell, she was an FBI agent. You couldn’t get through the FBI without understanding protocol. But why would her mind separate the upper staff from the lower staff servants? It was crazy.

  She was crazy. Or she wasn’t. And for just a moment, Kendra didn’t know which terrified her more.

  The dining room was already crowded with people of varying ages. Mrs. Danbury stood ramrod straight near the head of the table, next to an older man who appeared almost as stiff as the housekeeper.

  Kendra walked to one of the empty places at the table. Since everyone remained standing, she stayed on her feet as well, aware of the curious eyes that were trying not to openly stare at her. A sharp-featured woman, apparently less polite, appeared at her side, frowning.

  “You’ve mistaken your seat, miss,” she informed Kendra with an air of condescension.

  “What?”

  “Miss Beckett is Lady Atwood’s personal maid, Miss Donovan,” Mrs. Danbury explained in frosty accents. “At Aldridge Castle we maintain the proper hierarchy at our table. As the highest-ranking lady’s maid, Miss Beckett is entitled to sit in that chair. You may sit down the table.”

  Protocol, she reminded herself. Like the military. A private wouldn’t sit next to a four-star general during a meal.

  Ignoring Miss Beckett’s smug look, Kendra moved down the table to another seat. Mrs. Danbury and the man sat down. Apparently it was a signal, because everyone followed suit.

  Conver
sation was a low murmur around her as porridge was slapped into earthenware bowls. Cream was poured from clay pitchers. Hot cross buns, bigger than a fist and lighter than helium, were passed around the table. Honey, butter, and jam also made the rounds to the tune of clicking spoons and knives.

  Kendra sampled the porridge. Although it wouldn’t have been her first choice, she found it unexpectedly delicious, especially with a dab of honey and a dollop of cream. She would’ve preferred coffee, but the tea, she had to admit, was strong and fragrant. And the golden brown bun, smeared with butter and marmalade, was the best she’d ever eaten.

  “Where do you hail from, Miss Donovan?” asked the pretty brunette seated on her right.

  Kendra hesitated. “America.”

  “Where in America, Miss Donovan?” the woman on the other side of the brunette asked, and Kendra found herself again the focal point of everyone at the table.

  “I live in Virginia.” Maybe she was there right now, in a psych ward, in a catatonic state. Maybe she’d never recovered from being shot the first time. Maybe—

  “I’ve never met anyone from America before,” admitted a young man in footman livery, sitting across from her.

  “How’d you ever get to England, Miss Donovan?” inquired a woman seated on her left.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you I flew?”

  The woman laughed. Despite the length of the table separating them, Kendra felt Mrs. Danbury’s disapproval like the lash of a whip.

  “Only if you show us your wings, Miss Donovan!” the woman declared.

  “You must have arrived late last night, Miss Donovan,” the brunette commented. “I never saw you yesterday. Of course, we were in such a mad state to settle everyone. These parties are quite exhausting, are they not? I’m Miss Stanton, by the way. And this is Miss Burke.” She nodded at the other woman. Her introductions opened up the door for others to chime in. Kendra nodded politely, but her head was spinning. Even though she’d never had a problem with her memory, she wondered if she’d remember anyone’s name in five minutes. Was that a symptom of mental instability?