The Time Travelers: Volume One

by Caroline B. Cooney

  The topic was whether young ladies should be educated.

  “I am going to college,” said Devonny.

  “Nonsense,” said Walk. “Too much knowledge is not good for the health. A woman’s place is in the home, obedient to her husband or father. You wouldn’t let Devonny go, would you, Strat?”

  Strat seemed to reach the topic from afar. Eventually he said, “I believe they’re quite strict at a female college. Chapel every day, of course. Chaperons. Harriett has also talked about it. She yearns to learn more.”

  “Harriett has learned too much already,” said James grumpily.

  Miss Van Vleet mentioned the newly formed Red Cross. She expressed a shy interest in helping the downtrodden.

  “Oh, Gertrude!” cried Devonny, forgetting education. “That’s so wonderful, I would love to do that! I am so impressed. I would—”

  “No,” said Strat sharply. “Neither Father nor I would permit such a thing.”

  How astonishing that Strat thought it was his business. Even more astonishing that pretty Miss Van Vleet was actually Gertrude. These people did not know how to pick names.

  The gentlemen discussed how much control brothers should exert over their sisters.

  Should her brother, Tod, ever dream of taking charge of Annie, he would end up in the emergency room, she decided. And then, less proudly, realized that Sean controlled her as fully as the Stratton men controlled Devonny. And I let him, she thought.

  The others romped on ahead.

  She was blessedly alone with Strat.

  How dark it was. The moon was a delicate crescent, the way everything here seemed so delicate, so polite.

  Strat was like a perfect toy. A birthday gift. How delightful that Time had given him to her!

  She flung her arms around this wonderful boy, and Strat became real: the whole thing became real; he was not a toy, but a frantic young man who simply adored her.

  Strat stopped himself from kissing her and stepped back. “We cannot,” he said, all self-control. “People would say things, Miss Lockwood. I cannot allow them to say things about you.”

  The way he said that pronoun, you, took Annie Lockwood over the edge. When she had fallen through time, she had felt a roaring in her ears, but now the roaring was within. Heart and mind collapsed. The falling, this time, was into love.

  If she had had a fainting couch, she would have used it, and pulled Strat down on top of her. “Who cares about people’s opinions?” She began laughing with the joy of it. “I love you, Strat.”

  He touched her cheeks with shy fingers. Then he took her hand, the glove between them delicate cottony lace that was barely there, and yet completely there.

  I, too, thought Annie, am barely here. Don’t let midnight come! Don’t let this be a magic spell that ends. I love him. Love is for always. Please.

  Strat, who wore no canary cage, was having as much trouble finding enough oxygen as Annie. They gasped alternately, like conversation.

  “I care about their opinions,” said Strat finally. “And I care about you. There are rules. You must obey the rules.”

  Strat’s rules made him keep walking to join the rest of the party; it would damage Annie’s reputation, perhaps, to be alone with him in the night even for a minute.

  “Do you have a choice?” said Strat suddenly. “Coming and going? If you have to return, and return quickly, can you choose to? How did it come, the time traveling? Please tell me about yourself.” His voice ached like a lover’s. He needed details.

  “Oh, Strat, I have a wonderful family but they’re not doing very well right now. My father loves somebody else and I don’t know what to do.”

  Strat nodded. “My father nearly always loves somebody else, and his wives never know what to do either. Then he tells them they’re being divorced and that settles that.”

  “Will you be that kind of husband?”

  He shook his head. He mumbled things, words of love and marriage, rules and promises.

  He wants to marry me, thought Annie Lockwood, dumbfounded. I am actually standing with a man who is thinking of marriage. To me.

  For Strat, a promise was made of steel, and a rule of iron. How beautiful. He had virtue. He followed the rules in order to be right. To be righteous. Men and rules. If Daddy had obeyed the rules, if he had restricted himself the way these people do, my family would be all right.

  The clippy-cloppy of horses’ hooves and the metallic clunking of high thin-spoked wheels interrupted the night.

  “It’s the police cab!” shouted Walk joyfully, running back toward the Mansion. He whopped Strat on the back as he loped past. Some things didn’t change over the century. Boys showed their friendship by hitting each other. Annie was never going to understand that one. “They think Matthew was pushed, you know. Utter tripe, of course, that sort of thing would never happen here, but some immigrant with a hot temper might have done it. They’re letting anybody into the country now.”

  Strat said they couldn’t go back if the police were there, they had the ladies to think of.

  If he knew the cop shows I watch on TV, thought Annie, what would he think? I who probably know a thousand times more about violence than he does.

  “The ladies, thank you,” said Devonny, “are just as interested, and this lady happens to be the one who telephoned the police. So there.”

  “You used the telephone?” said her brother, equally impressed and furious. “You spoke to the police? Did you have Father’s permission?”

  “Of course not. He wasn’t interested. He said it was an unfortunate accident and even if it wasn’t an unfortunate accident it was going to be an unfortunate accident.”

  Annie grinned, liking Devonny, thinking what friends they could be.

  “What are we talking about?” demanded Miss Van Vleet. “Who is Matthew? Why was it not an unfortunate accident?”

  “Matthew,” said Devonny, “is a servant. His little girls get my old dresses. Matthew died on the stairs. I felt, from the force and violence of the wounds to his skull, and the fact that there was blood above the body, that it was not caused by gravity. Matthew was murdered.”

  “Oooooh!” said Miss Van Vleet, thrilled. “I’m sure you’ve been reading too many novels, Devonny. But let’s hurry.”

  They hurried, while Strat and Annie hurried a little less, and were momentarily in their own dark world again.

  “I love you, Miss Lockwood.”

  “Annie,” she corrected him.

  “Annie,” he repeated softly, the intimacy of that name a privilege to him. “I’ll take care of you, Annie. I won’t let anybody hurt you. I won’t let anything happen. I promise.”

  He kissed her cheek. It was not the kiss of a brother or friend. It was definitely not the kiss of movies or backseats. It was not conversation, and yet it stated such intent, such purpose.

  If anything had ever been “sealed with a kiss,” it was this moment between this boy and this girl on that lane by the sea.

  I won’t be going back, thought Annie.

  I’m here.

  And I’m his.

  CHAPTER 7

  He had disobeyed. Sons had been disinherited for less. How was he going to make up to Harriett for this, and still have Miss Lockwood, and not get in trouble with his father?

  Anna Sophia danced her way up the Great Hill. Strat had told her not to worry, everything would be all right, and she had believed him. If I can get her by Father and Ada, thought Strat, then in the morning … In the morning, what?

  No solutions came to mind.

  When the young people reached the porte cochere, the police cabriolet still there, tired horses quiet and motionless, the police themselves were not in evidence. Mr. Hiram Stratton, Sr., was not about to allow his houseguests to be concerned with a nasty and trivial affair. The police had been sent to the basement and kitchens, which, after all, were Matthew’s domain. And Hiram Stratton, Sr., thank the dear Lord, was also in the basement, telling the police what to do and w
hen to do it.

  Strat’s stepmother fluttered and dipped in front of him like a chicken losing feathers. Her corsage drooped and her hair was falling out of its pins.

  “Hullo, Florinda,” said Strat. “Which room have you given to Miss Lockwood?”

  Florinda swooped and worried. “Which room?” she repeated nervously.

  “The French Room, of course,” said Devonny, glaring at her brother. “Come, Miss Lockwood. I’ll show you the way. Florinda, you needn’t think about it again.”

  Florinda was relieved. So were Devonny and Strat, because Father wouldn’t know. “Until morning, anyway,” Devonny muttered to her brother.

  “Did Father tell you what my orders were?” whispered Strat.

  “Of course not. But I live here, Strat. I know what your orders were, and I agree with them. You should have escorted Harriett. But I don’t want Miss Lockwood sleeping on the sand, so I’ll put her in the French Room, and in any event, I expect when I confess that mine was the unidentified female voice telephoning the police, Father will be too angry with me to remember you. It’ll pass by as long as you send Miss Lockwood home in the morning.”

  Things always look better in the morning. Father can’t do anything to or about Anna Sophia now. I don’t have to worry till morning.

  He wanted a good night kiss, the kind lovers give each other behind closed doors, but he was in the Great Hall, and Walker Walkley was watching, and Florinda was fluttering, and James was curious, so Strat merely smiled in a detached way and Devonny whisked Miss Lockwood up the great stairs.

  Miss Lockwood’s fingers grazed the bulging eyes of the walnut gargoyles, and Strat shivered, for his father could just as easily graze her life, and change it. For the worse.

  The second floor was dark and wondrous. Chandeliers of yellow gaslight illuminated walls papered in gold. Niches were filled with feather bouquets and stuffed birds and marble statuettes. The pretty little maid reappeared. Her apron was stained now, the starch out of it. Bridget looked exhausted.

  “Miss Lockwood,” said Devonny crisply, “will need the loan of my nightclothes. She will use the French Room. You may retire when Miss Lockwood and I are abed. And you are not again to wear a soiled uniform in my presence, Bridget.”

  “Yes, miss. I’m sorry, miss.” Her voice sounded as whipped as her body looked. Bridget escorted Annie into a huge and utterly fabulous bedroom, fit for a princess. Bridget shut the door neatly behind them and matter of factly began to undress Annie.

  The clothing Harriet had loaned her was not one-person clothing. You could not undo fifty tiny buttons down your back. You could not untie your own laces. You could not lift your gown over your head by yourself. It was like a wedding gown; you needed bridesmaids to deal with the very dress.

  Bridget now lowered a nightgown over Annie, soft ivory with tucks and ruches and pleats. It was fit for a trousseau, but then, so was everything Annie had seen.

  The private bathroom was surprisingly similar to her own at home, but immensely larger, with fixtures of gold. The tub could have held an entire family. The marble sink did have hot water, and the toilet, bless its heart, flushed.

  Bridget brushed Annie’s hair over and over: a massage of the scalp and the soul. Everybody should be pampered like this, thought Annie. Of course, nobody will do it for Bridget, and that’s where it all breaks down, but I might as well enjoy it anyway.

  Every stroke of the brush moved her closer and closer to sleep. Bridget tucked her in as if she were two instead of sixteen. The bed was so thickly soft she expected to suffocate when she reached bottom. What if I fall back home again while I’m asleep? she thought dimly. What if I don’t wake up at the Mansion, but a century later?

  What if—

  But sleep claimed her, and she knew nothing of the night at all.

  She did not hear the police leave.

  She did not hear Bridget staggering up to the attic after an eighteen-hour day.

  And nobody heard Harriett weep, for she smothered her tears in her pillow.

  * * *

  Devonny had a morning gown sent to her room. Annie loved that. You had your evening gowns, so of course you had to have your morning gowns. Why hadn’t she ever had a morning gown before?

  Her morning gown was simply cut, waist higher and sleeves less puffy. She coaxed Bridget not to lace her up so tightly. Breathing was good and Victorian women did not do enough of it. Florinda did practically none at all, which was doubtless why she kept fainting.

  Breakfast was quite wonderful.

  This, thought Annie, is the way to live. Everyone should have a screened veranda high on a hill, with views of the ocean and a lovely soft breeze. Everyone should have servants too. You snap your fingers and they bring anything you want. I approve of this world.

  It seemed odd to have no radio: no morning talk show, no traffic report, no news of the world.

  There was a newspaper, but only for the men. The gentlemen had chosen to have breakfast indoors, in the formal dining room. Annie caught a glimpse of them, but they had not bothered to catch a glimpse of her. Women had their moments of importance, but not now.

  How little Strat resembled his father—thank goodness. His father was corpulent, big rolls of him sagging beneath his great black jacket and white pleated shirt, with a mustache that crawled into his mouth and eyebrows that crawled on his forehead. Annie tried to imagine the pretty little cloud wisp that was Florinda actually choosing to marry this gross man. How very badly Florinda must have needed the shelter and money that Hiram Stratton provided.

  Miss Van Vleet, Mr. Innings, Mr. Walkley, Florinda and Genevieve were not up yet. The four of them, Harriett, Devonny, Strat and Annie, were dining together as if they always did.

  Harriett was having coffee and a single waffle. She had poured maple syrup on her waffle. Annie was absolutely sure the coffee was Maxwell House. She had not expected them to have brand names a hundred years ago.

  Strat was having coffee and waffles and bacon and potatoes and biscuits, which seemed like enough.

  Devonny was having oatmeal.

  Annie had asked for cereal, meaning Rice Krispies or Cheerios, and had received the sturdiest oatmeal in America. Devonny had added brown sugar and raisins and milk to hers, but even when Annie copied her, it was pretty revolting.

  Bridget was right there. She looked thinner this morning, and very tired. Annie felt guilty because Bridget was working so hard while Annie was doing absolutely nothing to help, a situation Annie’s mother would not have tolerated for one split second, but a houseguest named Anna Sophia Lockwood of course did nothing.

  “Would you prefer something other than oatmeal, Miss Lockwood?”

  “May I have a piece of toast?” Nobody was having toast, and perhaps they hadn’t gone around singeing their bread in 1895.

  But Bridget vanished, down into the bottom of the Mansion where the kitchen was, and came back quickly with thick-cut toast slathered with butter, and adorable little jars of jam to choose from.

  Annie was happy. What would they do today? She could hardly wait. She and Strat were communicating by eyelash, by chin tilt and by coffee cup. She memorized him across the table. All this and love too. She could not believe her luck.

  Strat kissed the air lightly when nobody else was looking and she kissed back, but her timing was off. Harriett had been looking.

  Harriett poked her waffle with her silver fork and seemed to come to a decision.

  “I have some news,” said Harriett. “I should like to convey this while just the four of us are dining.” She took a deep and shaky breath. “Mr. Rowwells proposed marriage to me last night.”

  Harriett’s heart hurt.

  It was as if she had laced her stays inside her chest, crushing her very own heart. Please jump up, Strat. Please cry, No, No, No! Tell me you love me and you don’t want me to do this.

  For Harriett did not want to do it.

  Mr. Rowwells had turned out to be twelve years older than she. H
arriett was unsure of the mechanics of marriage, and would like very much to know how children were produced, but nobody seemed to know that if they weren’t married, and if they were married, they seemed determined to keep it a secret.

  Whatever it was, you did it in the same bed.

  Harriett was pretty sure you did not wear all of your clothing.

  She did not want to imagine Mr. Rowwells without all of his clothing. She certainly did not want to imagine herself without all of her clothing while Mr. Rowwells was standing there.

  Bridget hurried in with more hot coffee. This was usually Matthew’s job. Harriett was terribly sorry for the little babies who had lost their father and chastised herself. She should be thinking of charitable things to do for the widow instead of whimpering because Hiram Stratton, Jr., had a fickle heart.

  Harriett had always hoped that her friendship with Strat, their history together, their easy comfort with each other, would override the beauty of houseguests who came and went.

  Well, she’d been wrong.

  Strat cared only for looks, and he was sitting here throwing kisses to Miss Lockwood as if she, Harriett, did not exist.

  She had existed for Mr. Rowwells.

  Mr. Rowwells, when they sat together in the library, did not want to hear about books, or college, or education, or even about the games and activities planned for summer.

  He wanted to marry her. Now. He was deeply deeply charmed by her, he said. She was perfection.

  Harriett tried not to remember that she was also wealth. Immense wealth. Which her husband, when she had one, would control.

  But without a husband, was anything worth the bother? You had to be married. And she had been asked, and might not be asked again.

  Strat was stunned. Mr. Rowwells! Marry Harriett? It was indecent. Strat had assumed that Aunt Ada had assigned Mr. Rowwells to be kind to Harriett last night. A proposal of marriage went beyond kindness.

  He tried to read Harriett’s expression. Was she in love with Mr. Rowwells? Did she want this to occur?

  Everybody had thought he would eventually marry Harriett. It had sort of been there, expected and ordinary. Not marry Harriett? It was terrible and lonely to think that he would not always have her in his life.