A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Who is your Lady?” Miss Stanton asked her.

  “What? Oh. Um. I’ve got two—Georgette Knox and Sarah Rawdon.”

  “Oh, dear.” The other woman’s expression turned sympathetic.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I daresay it could be worse.”

  Great. Kendra wondered if Mrs. Danbury had deliberately given her the worst of the bunch, hoping she’d quit.

  After a time, at the head of the table, the butler—Mr. Harding, Kendra had learned during the course of the meal—and Mrs. Danbury rose in quiet formality. Another signal. Everyone pushed themselves to their feet. Kendra followed the other lady’s maids into the kitchen, and five minutes later, was bearing a tray laden with two dainty cups and a pot of hot chocolate, trudging up two flights of stairs to the Blue Room shared by Miss Georgette and Miss Sarah.

  By the time she located the room, with the help of several footmen en route, she’d finally, reluctantly, begun to consider the third possibility regarding her predicament, as unbelievable as it may be.

  Somehow, in some freaking way, she’d slipped back in time.

  9

  Because she felt shaky, Kendra made sure she had a firm grip on the tray when she eased open the door to the Blue Room. It took every ounce of her self-control to not think about her circumstance, to concentrate only on the duties assigned to her. Once she’d taken care of this lady’s maid stuff, she’d find a quiet place to think, to figure a way out of this bizarre situation—if she could find a way out of this bizarre situation.

  That uncertainty sent fresh panic skittering through her. But goddamn it, she wouldn’t go there. Since she’d turned fourteen, she’d managed to take care of herself. She could handle this. She just needed to think.

  She drew in a deep breath, and then let it out, focusing on her surroundings. The room was still semi-dark, and four times as big as the one she’d shared last night with Rose. Two canopied single beds draped in thick velvet curtains, partially drawn, revealed its sleeping occupants.

  Not entirely sure what to do, she set the tray down on a nearby table. When nobody stirred, she crossed the room to push open the heavy drapery. The fog, she saw, had lifted, and the flower garden below was gilded in the soft light of the morning sun.

  Finally, a bed squeaked, and someone yawned. Kendra turned to see one of the girls push herself into a sitting position. She wore a nightgown buttoned primly up to the neck and a nightcap on her head. Blond hair, twisted in rag curlers, stuck out below the cap’s lace.

  “Georgie—wake up,” she ordered the other bed’s occupant. She glanced at Kendra. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Kendra Donovan. Your lady’s maid.”

  “I want my chocolate.”

  The imperious tone scraped Kendra’s already raw nerves, but she went to pour a cup of the hot chocolate.

  “I shall wear my yellow muslin,” the girl said as she accepted the cup and saucer.

  “I want my chocolate, too,” the other girl—Georgie—said, when Kendra made a move toward the wardrobe.

  Veering back to the pot of chocolate, Kendra poured another cup. She brought it to the girl, who was wearing a similar nightgown and cap as her roommate.

  “What shall I wear this morning, Sarah?” she asked as she sipped her chocolate. “I thought the blue morning dress Papa bought me. It’s ever so fine.”

  “Hmm. I think you ought to wear the green muslin.”

  “Oh. But what of Lady Louisa? She has a prodigious fondness for green.”

  “Lady Louisa looks like a toad when she wears green.” Sarah dismissed the unseen woman with cool contempt. She lifted the china cup, and her blue eyes gleamed maliciously as she took a sip. “Speaking of toads, I can scarcely believe that Lady Rebecca was bold enough to show herself at dinner last night. I nearly cast up my accounts when I was seated opposite her!”

  Georgette giggled. “I believe she’s the Duke’s goddaughter.”

  “Nevertheless, they should be more considerate of their guests.” Sarah shifted her gaze to Kendra and arched a brow. “Pray, what are you doing, standing there like a simpleton? I told you—I want my yellow muslin.”

  This had to be real, Kendra decided, as she walked to the wardrobe. Or she was a masochist to create such a delusion.

  Opening the wardrobe’s heavy doors, she scanned the numerous frothy gowns crowded inside on hooks. Odd, how something as insignificant as the absence of coat hangers could send her heart hammering again in her chest. But a memory—something she’d read or heard—surfaced on how wooden hangers hadn’t become commercialized until 1869. And wire hangers wouldn’t put in an appearance for another ninety years. If she were having a mental breakdown, would her mind be so historically accurate?

  Oh, God, she didn’t know. She pulled out the first yellow dress she saw.

  “I said the yellow muslin—the yellow muslin, you stupid girl!”

  Keeping her temper in check with an effort, Kendra replaced the yellow gown, and skimmed through the rest of the clothes. Finding another bright yellow dress, she pulled it out. “Is this the one you want?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Naturally. What kind of lady’s maid are you? You’re not even French.” She looked at her roommate. “One would think someone as powerful as the Duke of Aldridge would hire a French lady’s maid for his guests. At the very least, a Swiss one.”

  Georgette made a sound of agreement. “And I shall wear the green muslin.” While she couldn’t pull off the same imperious tone as her friend, it was close enough.

  If the situation weren’t so serious or bizarre, Kendra would’ve laughed at the irony. Here she was—onetime child prodigy, the youngest agent ever to make it through Quantico—taking orders from two snobby debutantes.

  The girls got out of bed and disappeared behind the privacy screen. When they emerged, Kendra had found the green dress. She waited until they discarded their nightgowns and put on their undergarments, stockings, and garters. She had to lace up both girls’ stays before helping them into their dresses. After she finished buttoning them, Sarah flounced over to sit in front of the mirrored dressing table.

  “Well?” She glanced at Kendra in the mirror. “For heaven’s sake. Stop woolgathering! I need my hair put up.”

  Kendra froze. Put up? What the hell did she know about being a hairdresser? Her own hair, thick and straight-as-a-pin, required very little maintenance. Before the shooting, she’d worn it in a ponytail. Afterward . . . well, she hadn’t done anything except wait for it to grow, and then have it styled by Mr. Gerry at his swanky salon in Georgetown.

  “What are you waiting for, you stupid girl?”

  Where are the manners in this era? Kendra wondered, jaw tightening. She went over to Sarah, and began unwrapping her hair from the rag curlers. How hard would it be to pin up a few curls, for Christ’s sake?

  Forty-five minutes later, Kendra admitted to herself that she was no Mr. Gerry, and would rather face a dozen psychopaths than endure another session struggling to subdue wayward curls with only a few ribbons and old-fashioned hairpins that were little more than long, thin wires, all the while suffering verbal abuse from a girl who probably couldn’t do basic math.

  Goddamn it, she cursed mentally when one more wispy strand escaped the Grecian knot she’d been attempting on Sarah.

  “Lud! What kind of lady’s maid are you?” Sarah declared angrily. “If you were in my household—”

  “Shut up.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it. Although talking back probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, some of the tightness eased from the center of Kendra’s chest.

  Sarah’s eyes bugged out of her head. “How dare you! How dare—”

  “I said, shut up.” In for a penny, in for a pound, Kendra decided. “If you want to make it down in time for your breakfast, you’ll keep quiet so I can finish this. And for God’s sake, stop squirming!”

  “Ouch!”

  “I told you to stop squirming.”
>
  “I—”

  “There!” Kendra stabbed in the last pin and eyed the hairstyle grimly. Maybe it was a little lopsided, but if the idiot didn’t jiggle around too much, it should stay put. “I’m done!”

  Sarah stood up with a swish of skirts. “You shall be done,” she promised, eyes flashing. “After I speak with the countess—”

  “I told you to shut up.” She pointed the hairbrush at Georgette. “You, sit.”

  Georgette stared at her wide-eyed.

  “Now!”

  The girl sat.

  “How . . . how dare you speak to us like that!” Sarah sputtered.

  Kendra ignored her as she removed Georgette’s rag curlers. “I’m out of pins so I’ll tie your hair back with a ribbon.”

  “But—”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “But—”

  “This is outrageous!” Sarah crossed her arms, toe-tapping furiously, glaring at Kendra.

  Kendra ignored her, concentrating instead on brushing out Georgette’s curls. When she snatched up a ribbon, the girl whined, “But that doesn’t even match my dress!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Kendra dropped the ribbon, grabbed a green one, and tied the girl’s hair back into a ponytail.

  “The countess shall hear about this!” Sarah threatened. “You shall be dismissed—without references! You shall be begging in the streets! You shall be sent to the workhouse! You—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Your breakfast is probably getting cold,” Kendra snapped, and felt a petty satisfaction at watching the girl’s bosom swell in indignation. Her face was so red with temper that if she’d been older and heavier, Kendra might’ve worried about a stroke.

  “Come along, Georgie!” Sarah practically snarled, and stormed out, her hair bobbing precariously.

  Kendra waited until the girls had left before sinking into a chair. She put her throbbing head in her hands. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare. Now.

  “Miss Donovan?”

  She lifted her head, glancing around to meet the sympathetic eyes of Miss Stanton as she poked her head into the room.

  “Oh, dear,” she clucked her tongue, and came all the way into the room. “I saw the girls leave. Were they simply horrid? You look done in.”

  Kendra threaded her fingers through her hair in agitation. “It probably could’ve been worse.” She didn’t know how. “But I’m glad it’s over.”

  Miss Stanton lifted her brows in surprise. “Over? My dear, Miss Donovan, it’s only begun.”

  Kendra’s stomach sank. “What do you mean?”

  “Your duties, Miss Donovan. The day has scarce begun. If the ladies want to stroll in the garden, they undoubtedly shall need to change into their walking dresses. At the very least, they’ll need their bonnets and shawls. If they want to go riding, they’ll need you to assist them with their riding habits. Then they shall most likely wish to change into their afternoon gowns before the full dress of evening.

  “And you, Miss Donovan, will need to assist them,” continued Miss Stanton. “You will be required to mend and press their clothes, and redress their hairstyles.”

  Kendra shuddered as what Miss Stanton was saying hit her with the force of a baseball bat between the eyes. For a horrifying moment, she envisioned being a lady’s maid for days, weeks . . . years.

  No fucking way.

  “Where are you going, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra hadn’t even realized that she was up and moving until she felt the doorknob under her hand. She glanced back at the lady’s maid—God, how did she live like this?—unaware of the stark desperation darkening her eyes.

  “Home. I need to go home.”

  Thankfully, the study was empty. Kendra made a beeline for the hidden door. Her hands shook as she pushed aside the tapestry. It was only when the door swung open that she found herself hesitating, a spidery sense of fear crawling up her spine.

  Time travel. It was absurd. Unbelievable. Yet here she was, smack in the middle of the unbelievable. Having ruled out a brain tumor, psychotic break, or hoax, Kendra had to believe that she’d just spent the morning in the early nineteenth century.

  In theory, time travel was possible. Albert Einstein had theorized if gravity was strong enough, it could conceivably cause a curvature in the space-time continuum, forcing time to literally loop back on itself. There were some science fiction freaks who even believed that there were natural gravitational hot spots in the world that could create such a vortex of space-time, allowing people to travel through time. But that was science fiction, for Christ’s sake.

  Of course, there’d been experiments that had basically proven that time travel was possible. In 1971, scientists J. C. Hafele and Richard E. Keating had placed amazingly accurate atomic clocks—each with the capacity to measure time to the billionth of a second—on jets flying at 600 miles per hour. Using the atomic clock at the U.S. Naval Observatory as a reference point, they’d documented that nanoseconds of time had been both gained and lost on the clocks onboard the jets. In effect, anyone onboard the jets had leapt a nanosecond into the future and back to the past.

  But there was a big difference between traveling nanoseconds in time and centuries. This shouldn’t be possible. But since she was standing here, maybe she’d encountered one of those alleged gravitational hot spots. Could that explain the unnatural darkness, the vertigo, the pain . . . the way her flesh seemed to bubble, dissolve, disappear . . . ? And if the passageway housed one of those vortexes, this would be her ticket home.

  There were a lot of things wrong with that theory, Kendra knew—like, if there was a vortex beyond this door, one would think the Duke would’ve encountered more people appearing suddenly, or inexplicably going missing. She didn’t want to think about it. I just want to go home.

  Still, Kendra hesitated before stepping through the door. Greasy knots of anxiety made her stomach clench. Physically, the experience had been agonizing. Excruciating. But that wasn’t what made her vacillate. She’d endure the pain if she knew she’d return home.

  That was the problem: would she return home? Or would she be flung deeper into the past, or even further into the future? The future she could handle. But what if she ended up in the seventeenth century? The fifteenth century? This century, at least, was the beginning of the modern era.

  Again, Kendra was struck by the sheer absurdity of her thoughts. Yesterday if anyone had told her that she’d worry about being transported somewhere in time, she’d have laughed and wondered about their sanity. Now it was her sanity that was in question.

  She raked her fingers through her hair, and then straightened her shoulders. Stop stalling. She inhaled deeply and walked through the door.

  10

  The stairwell was dark.

  But not the absolute, unnatural darkness that she’d encountered last night.

  It was also cold.

  But not unusually so.

  Slowly, she climbed the stairs, willing the darkness to thicken, the temperature to drop, the stairwell to take on that strange supernatural element that she’d sensed, but hadn’t really understood, before.

  Feeling a little like Dorothy clicking her ruby red slippers, Kendra closed her eyes and held her breath.

  There’s no place like home—yeah, right. She’d given up her home when she’d created new identities and bank accounts for herself, when she’d made it her mission to kill Sir Jeremy Greene. Was this some sort of karmic payback?

  She was beginning to feel a little light-headed. Hope surged . . . until she realized the slight buzz in her ears wasn’t caused by some paranormal electromagnetic charge in the air, but because she was still holding her breath. Feeling as stupid as Sarah had accused her of being, she let it out with a whoosh, sagging against the cold stone wall. Anger replaced the dizziness.

  “This is insane! Absolutely fucking insane!” She climbed more stairs, and then slapped a frustrated palm against the stone wall. “Goddamnit!”

 
; She pushed herself upward, paused. Closed her eyes. Nothing.

  “Where the hell is that damn vortex? C’mon!” She thought of her mother, Dr. Eleanor Jahnke, currently trying to unveil the secrets of the universe in Switzerland. “Oh boy, oh boy . . . Mother, I’ve got a doozy for you. You’d love this. You’d—”

  “Ahoy. Who’s there?”

  Kendra froze. The voice echoed from above. Footsteps approached.

  She considered the odds of escaping. Not good. A second later, light bounced off the wall, and then the Duke of Aldridge rounded the curve, holding an oil lamp.

  “Miss Donovan?” He stopped, raising his brows as he studied the young woman poised on the spiral steps below. Because she looked frightened, he gentled his voice. “This is a surprise.”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .” Kendra wondered how she could explain her presence in the passageway. Once was bad enough. But twice? That was bound to raise suspicions.

  Aldridge looked at her curiously. “Do not apologize. ’Tis serendipity. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Kendra blinked in confusion. “What?”

  “Tea. I rang for some. Come along, my dear.” He didn’t wait, but began ascending the stairs. “Don’t dawdle, Miss Donovan,” he said cheerfully, not looking back.

  A little bemused, Kendra followed him through the doorway. The last time she’d been in this room, she remembered, it had been empty, save for the fireplace. Today, the hearth was filled with burning logs, adding a hint of smoke to the air. Above the mantel were two oval paintings, portraits of a woman and child. The same woman and child, Kendra realized, that graced the oil painting in the study.

  Except for the mullion-paned windows that allowed in natural light, the other walls were lined with bookshelves. There was a desk, less elegant than the one downstairs, its surface smothered beneath stacks of books and sheaves of papers. A couple of wooden chairs were positioned around it. Yet it wasn’t the desk, but the two long worktables that drew the eye. They carried an odd and untidy assortment of equipment, instruments, and tools. Kendra caught the gleam of brass, the polish of bronze.