In Death - 24.50 - Dead of Night

by J. D. Robb

  Carriages? Amy’s anxiety blossomed into excitement. She ignored the fear.

  “You are making excuses, Martha,” a young female voice answered. “This is not the last century. It is 1805 and the roads are in much better repair.”

  1805? Either she had time traveled or she was in a very elaborate reality stunt. The docent hadn’t seemed like the reality show type, and wouldn’t she have had to sign some kind of consent form? Besides, the Regency House Party reality show had been a bomb. It wasn’t likely anyone would try that again.

  Amy opened one eye and then the other. She was in some sort of small room, on a narrow bed tucked under a window. The sky was the bright gray of dawn or bad weather. The room was filled with three large chests and a trunk that was open. There were hooks on the wall, but they were all empty. Is that how Regency people stored their clothes? She knew they did not have hangers then. And she thought she knew so much. If the first thing she saw confused her, this time-travel visit would be full of pitfalls.

  “The earl came home last night, my lady.”

  “Weston is here? Not in London?”

  “He is to sit to have the last bits done on his portrait.”

  Weston? Portrait? Wow.

  Her doubts vanished.

  Amy Stevens—from Topeka, Kansas—was in a nineteenth-century room, in a nineteenth-century house with two nineteenth-century people talking in the other room. Where was Simon? Had he come home with the earl?

  Amy’s first impulse was to leap from the bed, make her presence known, then find Simon as quickly as she could. And be sent to the nearest insane asylum.

  Keep still, look around, figure it out. It took four repetitions before she was able to do more than lie still. How long before someone found her here? Wherever here was. She forced her eyes open. Keeping them closed was like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

  “Not only do I have to deal with Mrs. Braintree’s idea of a companion, but now Weston will nag me endlessly about sitting for a portrait.”

  The well-bred voice sounded acerbic rather than petulant.

  “Where is my new companion? The bed in the dressing room was made up for her. Was she not supposed to arrive yesterday?”

  “Yes, my lady, but the roads, you know. From the rain, you understand. It could be—”

  “Weston is home,” the other woman interrupted. “He found the roads passable.”

  Amy sat bolt upright in her bed. She’d bet this was a dressing room. Was she supposed to be the lady’s companion they were talking about?

  Amy decided to get up and tiptoe to the door.

  As she pushed back the thin blanket, she drew a deep breath and sneezed. Then sneezed again. Her dreams had been as filled with the scent of lilacs as the air was now. Too sweet and too much of it.

  A girl popped through the door, vital, animated. Not at all constrained by the sober dress and apron she was wearing.

  Hell’s bells, she thought. Nothing like jumping right into the story with no idea of anything other than that she was confused. And scared. Not paralyzed by it. Not yet. But it wasn’t far off.

  “Thank heaven, you have arrived, miss. Mrs. Braintree promised you would be here by this morning. When I went to bed and there was no sign of you I had my doubts.”

  Amy nodded.

  “You must have arrived so very late. The night porter should have told Mr. Stepp instead of sending you off to bed. Sorry, but could you please dress quickly. Lady Anne is working herself into a state. She has been so anxious about your arrival.”

  Amy nodded again, trying to take in the names at least. Stepp must be the butler. Lady Anne, the woman she would be working for.

  “Come on now. Up, if you please, miss. Let me help you with your stays and dress.”

  Amy got up, her chemise a mass of wrinkles. At least it was a chemise and not the jeans and T-shirt she had been wearing in the twenty-first century. “My name is Amy Stevens. I beg your pardon, who are you?” And wasn’t that an odd thing to be asking somebody who was helping you put on the Regency version of underwear?

  “Martha. My name is Martha Stepp. How could I not tell you? I do beg pardon, Miss Stevens.”

  “You are related to the Mr. Stepp you mentioned?”

  “Yes, miss, my father,” the maid said as she laced the stays. It was not as uncomfortable as she had expected. Of course, Martha was not lacing it tightly. Was that because tiny waists did not matter in the empire-style gowns that were so fashionable now? As Martha finished the lacing, it occurred to Amy that the coin had been in the pocket of her jeans. Where was it now?

  “My mother is Mrs. Stepp, the housekeeper.”

  Pay attention, Amy, she commanded herself. You can worry about the coin if they don’t kick you out. Would her accent give her away completely? She’d done her best to sound English. Even after a year she sounded anything but.

  “The Earl and the Countess Weston have had Stepps in their service for more than a hundred years.”

  “That’s impressive. It’s not very often you hear of such loyalty. That never happens where I’m from.”

  “Well, of course not. Your work lasts only a Season or two. Once the young miss is engaged, you have to move on to the next one who needs what you can give.”

  And what exactly was that? Amy wondered. Before she could ask, the maid spoke again.

  “I beg your pardon, miss. Do you come from Scotland? Or Wales? Your accent is,” she paused, and Amy waited for her adjective, “a bit different.”

  How could she explain it? She closed her eyes and wished for inspiration. “I spent my childhood in the Orkneys and have been working in the Midlands for the last five years.” Wow, her imagination must be working overtime.

  “Oh, the Orkneys.”

  Martha made it sound like it was the North Pole. Amy was pretty sure the Orkneys were in Scotland.

  “You must miss your family terribly.”

  “No, I’m an orphan.”

  “Oh.” Clearly Martha Stepp could not decide if that was more fortune or misfortune.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting Lady Anne,” Amy said. Definitely better to steer the conversation away from her background.

  “She’s a lovely young woman,” Martha said, then leaned closer to whisper, “though she has been given to megrims lately, ever since her governess left and her brother took so long contacting Mrs. Braintree for a companion.”

  Amy had read that word “megrim” dozens of times and always wondered exactly what it meant. Now she would find out. The recollection of those romances gave her a boost of confidence. Clearly they were expecting someone who would help the young lady of the house prepare for her first Season. From her reading she had a good idea what a companion did. Though she had always associated them with older women. Plucking a storyline from one of the books, she forged ahead. “My most recent client in Leicestershire decided to marry her childhood sweetheart, so she had no need of me for the Season. When Mrs. Braintree called I was only too happy to find another position so quickly even if it meant a move to Sussex.”

  “Indeed, Miss Stevens. It worked out like magic.”

  Yes, it certainly had. What would she do when the real companion arrived? Like Scarlett O’Hara she decided to worry about that tomorrow.

  “If Mrs. Braintree went all the way to York to call on you that certainly is a sign of how highly she regards you.”

  As she watched Martha rummage through the small bag at the foot of the bed, Amy made a mental note. No phones in the Regency. “Call” means something entirely different in 1805.

  Martha pulled out a lovely lilac dress, sadly wrinkled, and then an even prettier dress, this one a pale green, its wrinkles not quite so noticeable. And no magic coin. Maybe it was in the bottom of the bag.

  “You must have been exhausted not to have shaken out your clothes. If you wear the lilac, I will iron the green for you to wear at dinner.”

  “Thank you.” She bit her lip to keep from asking a dozen que
stions.

  “No need to thank me, Miss Stevens. I am not the housekeeper yet, though I hope to be someday. Let me introduce you to Lady Anne and then I will see what is keeping the chocolate.” She scooped up the wrinkled dress as she spoke.

  “My hair!” Amy exclaimed, raising her hand to what she knew was bed head at its worst.

  “The knot at your neck has held quite nicely. I will help you with it later.”

  Another bit of magic, Amy thought, mightily relieved. She followed the maid into the bedroom. Where was the coin? Where was Simon? She must have looked as nervous as she felt. The maid patted her arm and added, “Not to worry, miss. Lady Anne is nervous, too. She won’t even notice what sort of accent you have.”

  The girl awaiting them was small, not much bigger than a preteen. Fine-boned with wispy blonde hair that was cut short and framed her face. Her dress was white, too white for her very fair skin. It made her look pale and sickly. Her nervousness, or at the very least shyness, was betrayed by her hands. She was twisting them in an anxious rhythm that Lady Macbeth would have admired.

  Amy had to push panic to a deep, dark corner as she realized that they did not shake hands in the Regency era. She would have to curtsey. Where was the Regency version of Miss Manners?

  She decided against a deep, royal curtsey. One thing she had learned this year is that royal was different from aristocrat. She went with a medium curtsey, like she’d seen on the Austen videos, more than a bob but not much more than that.

  The next twenty minutes were no more awkward than they would have been between any two strangers. If one was barely interested and the other was trying to make a good impression. If Lady Anne was being “quite lovely” Amy did not want to see her when she was bitchy.

  It took only a few questions from Amy and the rather limiting “yes” and “no” responses from Lady Anne before the girl/woman raised her head with an imperious frown. “Where are you from?”

  Martha gave a long explanation of the Orkneys, her lack of family, and ended with a reminder that Mrs. Braintree had considered it a rare stroke of good fortune that Miss Stevens was available.

  “Thank you, Martha,” Lady Anne said in freezing tones. “Do your job and go find our chocolate.”

  Martha took no offense at her mistress’s rudeness and excused herself. Amy felt abandoned by her only ally.

  “Martha is new to her work as a lady’s maid and I have little hope that she is teachable. Too spoiled by her parents.”

  Having dealt what sounded like a death blow to Martha’s aspirations, Lady Anne took a step away from Amy. “You have no connections and no money?”

  What a snot. Remembering Simon’s arrogance she wondered if maybe all the Wests were like that when you first met them. Swallowing her pride, Amy bobbed a half-curtsey just because it seemed the humble thing to do. “I am sure my background is a disappointment, my lady. May I remind you that no one will ever see me? I am like Madame d’Aulnoy’s fairy godmother who wants only to help.” Amy never knew she was so good at sucking up. What was Simon putting up with?

  “A very young fairy godmother. I do hope you have brought a magic wand.” Lady Anne smiled a little.

  If I had one I’d turn you into a flower seller. With that thought it struck Amy that Lady Anne was trying to make her feel incompetent. She’d had enough psych classes to know that Lady A’s aloofness was rooted in fears of her own inadequacy. “I have no need of a wand, my lady, as you are far from a hopeless case.”

  While her ladyship tried to figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, Amy pushed on. “May I ask what you are most looking forward to this Season?” She mentally ran through a list of possibilities, completely missing the one that made Lady Anne’s eyes shine.

  “Oh, the music, of course,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “I assumed Mrs. Braintree had told you of my specific interests and needs.”

  “Yes, she did,” Amy said. Had she ever read any novels with heroines who loved music? None came to mind. “It is only that I wanted to know how to make time for the other aspects of the Season. Of those items you will need to have in order to appear to your best advantage.”

  “Oh, you mean clothes, stockings, bonnets. All of that.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You can handle that. I am much more concerned about what kind of pianoforte is at the town house and whether Weston has secured a box at the opera and managed to make my wishes known regarding musicales.”

  They talked, or rather, she let Lady Anne talk. When it came to music the woman had plenty to say. Amy considered it a crash course and wished she could take notes.

  Martha came back with the chocolate and handed a cup to Lady Anne and one to her.

  “Miss Stevens,” Lady Anne said, before Amy had a chance to take one sip of her chocolate. “Would you find the earl and ask him if he was able to secure the items from the list I gave him?” She looked at Martha.

  “I do believe he is in the conservatory,” the maid said.

  “Good. Since you are going there, please find the music sheets I left on the music stand and bring them back here.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Amy rose.

  “Oh, finish your chocolate first.” An impatient sound allowed Amy to sit down again. “I am not that selfish.”

  How interesting, Amy thought. She always thought self-awareness a facet of modern life.

  “Tell me why you enjoy the Season so much.”

  Amy felt like she had been given the cue for her soliloquy to begin. She crossed her fingers, hoping she would not commit some revealing faux pas. How she wished she could remember more of what she had read. I am so out of my element here.

  She took a sip of the chocolate and almost swooned at the fabulous taste. It was so much better than the add-milk variety she drank at home. And the caffeine didn’t hurt either. It was like a boost of confidence. Here goes, she thought.

  Five

  “The Season is all about new adventures, new acquaintances, new sights, my lady. And new clothes.” She added the last in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “I suppose so. Not that there is anything truly new. It has been the same for years. The dress styles have changed and not much else.”

  Lady Anne sipped some more of her chocolate, patted her lips daintily with a serviette while Amy wondered if she would be looking for new employment before she even had a chance to look for the coin.

  “Tell me why you so enjoy being a ‘fairy godmother,’ as you call it.”

  “Because, Lady Anne, the lesson I teach is very simple and does not require a magic wand at all.” Good save, Amy thought.

  Lady Anne leaned forward and Amy took another sip of the chocolate. It was as good as the first one. Yum. Now what is the lesson? She hoped the pause seemed dramatic rather than desperate. Fear was too damn distracting so she pushed it aside. The success of this was in her control. No one would ever guess who she really was or where she was from.

  And that was her answer. It was all about control.

  “The Season and its success are entirely in your control, my lady. If there is one thing that I want to convince you of, it is that.”

  “In my control.” Anne sat back with a puff of disappointment. “Nonsense. I live in my brother’s house, meet the people who are our social equals. Men will court me after my brother gives them permission and we will stay as long as Parliament is in session or the weather permits. None of that is in my control.”

  Lady Anne’s answer only made Amy more certain she was right. It was exactly like her year abroad. “No matter what the constraints, you can make choices and enjoy the Season on your terms. Yes, there are some invitations that you must accept—I am sure your brother will insist and, for a fact, so will I—but you can balance them with all the music you want. You will find like-minded friends and what now seems so overwhelming a spectacle will be the most fun you have ever had.”

  “You make it almost sound bearable.” Her admission was grudging, but her frown lines eased even
when she added, “I hate crowds.”

  Aha, thought Amy. Those psych courses pay off once again. Here was the heart of it. The woman was an introvert and just thinking about the size and scope of the Season was exhausting.

  “It will be more than bearable, I promise you.” Amy hoped that was enough about Lady Anne’s expectations. Translating twenty-first-century self-help talk into Regency English was hard work.

  It’s in your control, Amy, she reminded herself. “Lady Anne, you said before that there is still so much to do. Does your brother have a firm date for leaving Westmoreland?”

  “Not really. We will go when Parliament demands more of his attention than his horses do. Until then, we are close enough to town that he can go back and forth in a day if he chooses.”

  “Very well. For now we will look at the fashion books, decide what must be ordered here and what can wait for town, and practice your music so that you will be ready for all the invitations for you to sing.”

  Lady Anne shook her head, still not convinced.

  Martha had been bustling about the room, tidying and listening to every word that was said. Her smile and gesture must be the Regency version of two thumbs-up. It looked like she had done something right.

  Amy stood up, deciding it was best to leave and call this a victory. Although she had a feeling this was a mere skirmish in her battle to convince Lady A to make the most of the next few months.

  “If you will excuse me, Lady Anne, I will refresh myself and then go to find the earl, collect your music. Where shall I meet you?”

  “The small music room.”

  With a curtsey, Amy went into the dressing room and grabbed the bag that was still on the floor. She emptied it out on the bed, but all she could find were the sorts of things a Regency lady might need when traveling. Not a coin in sight. As a matter of fact, no money at all. That could be inconvenient. Surely Simon had the coin. What was the point of their time travel if the coin had not come with them? It was not lost. That simply was not an option. Mr. Arbuckle had been very specific about giving the coin to the earl.

  Amy fussed with her hair and her skirts and made her way through Lady Anne’s bedroom one more time. Her ladyship ignored Amy’s passage as she was once again berating Martha. This time for not cleaning the hair from her brush. Martha appeared to be attending though not particularly upset by the reprimand.