by Susana Ellis
“He’s no gentleman, and yes, he is accosting me,” Helena stated, nostrils flaring. “He’s been following me around everywhere I go, even though I’ve told him repeatedly to get lost. He won’t take no for an answer, and I’m getting damned tired of it!”
“Helena!” He turned to the hotel manager and shook his head. “I apologize for my wife’s language. She's American, you see, and—“
“I’m not your wife, you bloody creep!”
Helena looked at the hotel manager with over-bright eyes. “Look, I’m going to my room and I’d appreciate it if you would make sure he does not follow me. Can you do that for me? Or I swear I will call the police!”
“I don’t know exactly what is going on here, but I can promise you that this man will not follow you to your room, Miss Lloyd.” He shrugged toward the elevators and put a firm hand on Richard Earskine’s shoulder as he bulldozed him toward the hotel entrance.
“But you don’t understand—” Helena heard him protest as he was escorted out of the hotel.
She collapsed against the back of the tiny elevator as the doors closed. She’d escaped him for now, but she knew he’d be back. He was a man used to winning. Power. Dominance. She’d seen it more than once in her foster home days. She’d fought off such predators before, as a child, and was not about to stop now.
But this man was not in his right mind. He was determined to stalk her, and suddenly London was not a safe place for her. In fact, 1817 was looking more appealing all the time.
At the very least, an adventure to a time long past. At the very best, she would be reunited with her family and have a home at last.
It sounded incredible. It was incredible. But what harm was there in trying? It wasn’t like she had anything to lose.
Did she?
4
June 18, 1817
Hyde Park
London
“Move away from her, you blackguard! The girl is clearly unwell and in need of assistance.”
“I'll assist 'er well enough!” came a boastful voice, accompanied by the approval of a handful of other drunken sots in the crowd.
Helena was alarmed enough by the threat in their voices to open her eyes and force herself to wake up from the nightmare. It didn't work. Squeezing her eyes shut, she slowly opened them again, and found herself being examined by a pair of eyes encased in a rounded face framed by a black bonnet.
“The gel's a trollop!” “Wot's she doin' 'ere on the ground?” “Lookit 'ow she's dressed!”
Helena tried to sit up and get her bearings, but the unfamiliar tightness of the corset she was wearing made it difficult to breathe. She heard a faraway voice apologizing for having to lace her so tightly because of the “too-small size of the gown.” Corset? Gown? Suddenly Helena's memory came rushing back to her, and she dropped back to the ground, instinctively clutching the pendant she wore on a chain around her neck.
“Where am I?” she demanded. “What year is it?” “Who are you?” This last to the older woman dressed in black who was bending over her. This couldn't really be happening. Even as she'd followed Mrs. Herne's instructions, she'd still had doubts that it would work. Time travel? It was just too bizarre.
“I am Sister Ignatia from the Church of the True Savior.” The woman swatted at the leering faces of the thugs that surrounded them. “Begone, you debauched sinners, or the Lord Himself will come down from heaven and smite you!”
At that precise moment, church bells began to ring from all sides, and a bomb went off somewhere, startling their would-be attackers, who dashed off in all directions.
“W-What happened?” Helena turned wide eyes to Sister Ignatia. “How did you do that?”
The older woman folded her hands and looked up at the heavens before giving Helena a secret smile. “I did nothing, my dear. It was all the Lord's doing.” She clucked her tongue. “There's some who might call it mere coincidence, but I say it's all the Lord's timing. 'Dost thou know the balancing of the clouds, the wondrous works of him which is perfect in knowledge?'”
Well, if it wasn't the Lord's doing, it was damned lucky was Helena's irreverent thought. After meeting up with a mysterious gypsy and being told a cockamamie story about being snatched out of her own time, she wasn't ready to discount the possibility.
Accepting Sister Ignatia's outstretched hand, Helena sat up and eyeballed her surroundings.
Mrs. Herne had chosen Hyde Park as a landing point; specifically, a wooded area just east of the Serpentine. It appeared, however, that whatever mechanism powered the time travel magic was slightly off-kilter, because it appeared she hadn’t landed in Hyde Park at all, but on the pavement just outside the fence. Directly across the street—was that Knightsbridge Street?—was a massive black gate, beyond which she could see dapper gentlemen smoking cigars and horses being led around a paddock. Behind the paddock was an enormous building with two arched passages lined with horse stalls. The curved letters on the building spelled Tattersall’s. The name she recognized, but the building no longer existed in the London she knew.
Her mouth went dry and she pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Had she really traveled back in time nearly two centuries? Shaking all over, she gave the funereal preacher lady a glazed look.
“What day is it? Why are all the bells ringing? Was that a-a b-bomb?”
Sister Ignatia eyed her critically. “Did you hit your head, my dear? Perhaps I should take you back to the mission and have Brother Jeremiah look at you.”
Helena shook her head and pushed herself up from the ground. “I-I'm fine. Just a little startled, I think.”
“Nevertheless, your wits are still addled, for you speak strangely. You must surely know that the entire city is celebrating the dedication of the Waterloo Bridge.”
“Waterloo Bridge?”
An image came to mind of sleek concrete spans and long lanes of cars and buses zipping along above while tourist boats passed underneath.
“Yes, of course. It's been two years, you know. Since the War ended. You do remember the War, do you not?”
Helena's mind raced back. The War with the French. Napoleon was defeated for the last time in 1815. It must be… “1817. June 18th,” she added with more certainty. “The old bridge.”
Sister Ignatia shook her head. “Your wits are addled, my dear. This is a new bridge they are celebrating.” She helped Helena to a standing position. “Brother Jeremiah is skilled with herbal remedies. He will be able to help you.”
“No, no, I'm fine, truly I am, Sister. Just a little—disoriented, I think. I meant to be in Hyde Park, but everything seems—different, somehow.”
Sister Ignatia's brow lifted. “Hyde Park is just beyond that fence behind you, my dear. If I may say so, you could have chosen a better place for—whatever you meant to do. There are always a few disreputable folk hanging about Tattersall's, you know. Looking for a handout or an opportunity to pick the pocket of a fine gentleman or two.”
"The horse market. I thought that was in Newmarket.” It certainly was in the twenty-first century.
Her rescuer's eyes narrowed. “Fresh from the country, are you? Listen, my dear, girls like you are easy prey for the flesh-peddlers.” She took Helena's arm. “Come with me to the mission house and we'll find you a position as a servant in a respectable household.”
Helena pulled away. “Thank you, Sister, but I have—an appointment."
With a time-traveling lady who lived on Grosvenor Square. Who will no doubt slam the door in my face when she hears the preposterous story I have to tell her.
Grosvenor Square. Helena scanned the area. Hmm. She knew where it should be, but the scene in front of her bore little resemblance to the twenty-first century one she knew.
“Can you point me in the direction of Grosvenor Square?”
The woman looked her up and down. “Forgive me, my dear, but you don't look quite ready for a position at a home in one of those houses. Perhaps we can find you a more suitable frock at the
mission.”
Helena looked down at her crimson gown and grimaced. The red and gold striped, low-necked gown she'd found in a costume shop appeared gaudy and ostentatious to her now, among all the somberly-dressed onlookers. Shades of brown and gray prevailed, sprinkled with blacks and a few young ladies wearing pastels. Practically all wore shawls and bonnets in spite of the warm summer weather, and nearly every eye was focused on her. Certainly there were no other exposed bosoms anywhere in sight.
Having never liked being the center of attention, she wished she could drop down to the center of the earth.
I just have to get to Grosvenor Square. Everything will be fine once I find Lady Pendleton. I hope.
“Grosvenor Square. Is it that way?” She pointed to the left.
Sister Ignatia pursed her lips. “Heed my words, girl. There's nothing for you there but sin and degradation leading to perdition. Brother Jeremiah and I can offer you the lasting salvation of the True Savior…”
“Thank you, Sister, but I do have an appointment, and I mustn't be late. Thanks so much for your help.” Helena started off, but felt a hand on her arm.
“Grosvenor Square is in the opposite direction,” said Sister Ignatia. “And if you must persist on this course of action, please take my shawl to cover yourself.” She threw the black wool garment over Helena's shoulders. “And if you should find yourself in difficulties, you may always count on those of us at the mission to help.” She thrust a tract in Helena's hand. “Do hurry,” she whispered into Helena's ear, as she indicated a group of grubby-looking men eyeing her with interest.
Not again!
Mrs. Herne had warned her that ladies who walked the streets alone were fair game to any men who came along. She hadn't believed that the short distance between Hyde Park Corner and Grosvenor Square would prove to be quite so hazardous. It was a respectable neighborhood, after all. Not like St. Giles or Whitechapel, which she knew had been populated by all sorts of gangsters and criminals at the time.
Number 42 Grosvenor Square.
Two gray horses pulling an open carriage nearly trampled her as she raced across the street, followed by some rude expletives. In her frenzy to get to safety, she stepped in a pile of horse manure. Two young girls watching her giggled until an older lady in gray—their governess?—shushed them and herded them off in another direction.
Helena drew the shawl tightly around her, wishing she could hide herself behind it. Ladies turned their backs to her, while the gentlemen—and she used the term only because of their refined dress—eyed her with open interest. She ignored them and hurried down the street as fast as she could without running. Somehow she felt that running would have them all after her like a bear chasing its prey. She'd been warned about bears growing up in Florida, but never had to follow that piece of advice. Until now, that is.
She didn't have far to go to reach Grosvenor Square. Its appearance had altered over the years as well, but it was easily recognized as a neat little park squeezed in among tall elegant buildings. No cars parked at the curb, of course; instead, a crested carriage pulled away from one residence and rolled away toward Brook Street. A handful of maids—nursemaids?—dressed in gray with crisp white aprons strolled about the park while their charges frolicked among the hedges. An entirely peaceful scene. No predatory scumbags to watch out for. So she relaxed and took her time as she strolled around the square in search of Number 42.
There was a slight smell of smoke, but not like the automobile exhaust ever-present in modern cities. From cooking, perhaps, because there wasn't much need for heat on this warm summer day. The overwhelming odor, however, was horse manure, even in this posh neighborhood. Not only was it rampant on the street, but there was stench coming from the bottom of the shoe that had been immersed in the stuff only minutes ago when she crossed the street. Her stomach clenched as she reflected on the godawful impression she'd be giving of herself upon meeting Lady Pendleton. Providing she ever got to meet the countess. Frankly, it was more likely the butler would slam the door in her face within the first five seconds of opening it.
And then what would she do? No money, no home, no clothes but the seemingly indecent ones on her back. Well, she did have Sister Ignatia's tract. Her fingers closed around it protectively. If nothing else, the Church of the True Savior could get her a job as a servant, she thought with a giggle. And the seemingly immortal Mrs. Herne might or might not be on Gracechurch Street. In any case, Helena had the stone and could return whenever she wished to.
But no, she wasn't about to give up. Not so soon. And not with Tricky Dickie waiting to pounce on her in the twenty-first century. She'd summoned up enough nerve to travel back in time, and now that she was here, she was determined to succeed in her mission. With or without the highfalutin' Lady Pendleton.
Helena Lloyd wasn't a coward. She was a survivor. Before landing in Mrs. Lloyd's home, she'd survived four different foster homes, fought off would-be molesters and bullies, slept in closets, fed scraps from the table, and been tormented by foster siblings. She'd been prepared for more of the same when her caseworker had brought her to Mrs. Lloyd's modest home on the outskirts of Tampa at the age of twelve. “She's an older lady,” the caseworker had cautioned her. “Lonely—never had children and her husband died last year—and she's always wanted a child to love. I think you'll do fine here.”
Helena had been disappointed before, so she had maintained her distance for awhile after settling into the pretty bedroom Mrs. Lloyd had prepared for her. It was by far the prettiest she'd ever seen. Mrs. Lloyd had picked out white wallpaper speckled with pink flowers and bows, and the furniture—a twin bed with a pink bedspread, a nightstand, and a dresser with mirror—was all freshly painted in white. “I found them at a thrift shop,” Mrs. Lloyd had confessed to her later. She visited thrift shops nearly every week and was quite proud of the bargains she found.
“They were so pretty and I knew you weren't a little girl any longer, not at twelve years old, but I couldn't resist. I love pink.” It was true. Mrs. Lloyd had been in her mid-fifties at the time and had a pink bedroom too. Helena grew to love pink just as much—and Mrs. Lloyd as well—and when Mrs. Lloyd adopted her and her name changed from Helena Smith to Helena Lloyd, she finally had a family. A mother who loved her. For awhile, at least, until Mrs. Lloyd had gone to her reward and left her alone again.
Number 42 proved to be a four-story brick building with four white-trimmed windows on each side of the grand entrance. Like every other house on the square, it was very close to the street, surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. If Lady Pendleton owned the entire building, she must be a wealthy lady indeed. Most such buildings in modern London had been divided into flats that were sold for millions of pounds, and the price seemed to increase almost daily. Nobody she knew even aspired to live in such lofty residences. They were for trust-fund babies or CEO's, celebrities or select members of the aristocracy—like the Earskines.
Lifting her chin and thrusting her chest forward, she gave the doorknocker a resounding rap.
Nothing happened, so after a few seconds had passed, she did it again. Nothing.
Scowling, she abandoned the doorknocker and pounded as hard as she could on the heavy wooden door. In a house as grand as this one, there had to be someone at home. Servants, at least. Were they all hard of hearing?
Suddenly the door swept open, revealing a tall woman with white-blonde hair and an irate expression on her face. In a very gaudy gown—bright orange dotted with plum-colored ribbons. The housekeeper? Surely not! Helena was temporarily struck dumb.
“You don't have to knock the house down. We are not deaf here, you know.”
She frowned as she inspected Helena's appearance. Helena's mouth went dry as she tried to find the words to explain her presence. How to begin without seeming to be a lunatic?
“If you are here to apply for the position of upstairs maid, you are most unsuitably dressed, girl.”
Helena swallowed. “I-I-uh-I've come to s
ee Lady Pendleton. Mrs. Herne sent me. She thought Her Ladyship might be willing to help me.”
The woman's mouth fell open. “Mrs. Herne? Ethelberta Herne? From Gracechurch Street? How did you happen to meet her?”
Helena felt a sudden release of tension. “In London. At the sandwich shop across from the street from the Museum of London.” She peered beyond the woman into the elegant foyer. “May I sit down while I wait to see Lady Pendleton? I'm feeling a bit faint.” Her thoughts were jumbled and she had the beginnings of a headache. Caffeine withdrawal. She hadn't had her usual java before setting off on this wild, impulsive journey.
Suddenly all concern, the woman opened the door and waved her into the foyer.
“Of course, my dear. Do come in. I am Lady Pendleton."
Helena grinned. "I knew you weren't the housekeeper," she said triumphantly as she followed Her Ladyship down the hall to a lovely receiving room with sage green walls decorated with paintings. It reminded her of the gallery at Osterley Park, although it was much smaller.
"No indeed," her hostess said with a wide grin. "I don't usually answer the door, but the fact is, I am all alone here after I gave the servants the day off." She gave Helena a speculative look. "It's a holiday, you know. They all wished to see the dedication of the new bridge. Although I believe the real attraction was the carnival in the park."
She waved Helena to an armchair covered in bottle-green velvet.
"I would offer you a cup of tea, but I couldn't begin to manage Mrs. Hunt's stove. I can offer a glass of sherry, however. You do drink sherry, do you not, Miss-uh—?”
“Lloyd,” Helena responded. “Helena Lloyd. And yes, a glass of sherry would be most welcome, Lady Pendleton." And while she waited: "I suppose you did not wish to see the dedication yourself, my lady?"
Her Ladyship shrugged as she finished pouring the sherry into two glasses. "A bridge is a bridge. And as much as I enjoy the privilege of having servants cook my food and launder my clothing, there are times when I long for a bit of solitude. I wonder if you can relate to that, Miss Lloyd?"