“You seem a bit addled this morning. Perhaps you should rest for a bit. In fact, I insist upon it.”
“I don’t want to rest. I want to know what’s going on!”
Ruth, who'd been silently picking up the worn rag rugs from the floor, looked up from her stooped position. “Forgive me, miss, but you shouldn’t talk to your sister that way. You two have only each other left and you shouldn’t bicker.”
Sister?
Chapter 2
Feeling suddenly lightheaded, I sank into one of the chairs at the little wooden table. “Can I have a cup of coffee?” I asked weakly.
Yes. Java was just what I needed to wake up from this weird dream and figure out what alternate universe I'd landed in.
“We haven’t had tea in a week, and she wants coffee.”
I heard the words that my sister – sister! – spoke to Ruth, but they didn’t really register. My mind spun as I tried to take in the changed cottage, the fact that I'd slept outside, but most of all, the fact that I had a sister. A sister.
I’d been alone in the world except for my Aunt Donna since my tenth birthday, when my parents died. I didn’t have any siblings. I was an orphan.
The familiar swirl of loneliness threatened to bring tears to my eyes. I stuffed them back down to the deepest nether-regions of my mind.
What I really needed to do was find my luggage, get in the little rental car, and drive back to the airport and normalcy.
“I think I’ll go—” I stood and moved toward the bedroom.
Behind me, I heard a soft mutter. “Mayhap she is confounded because she hasn’t eaten in two days.”
“At least she is speaking to you again, even if it is in anger.”
A pause.
“I cannot think what would keep our uncle from sending for us. I’ve written two letters to him, the most recent sent a fortnight ago. If he does not come for us soon, we will be forced into the almshouse.”
I closed the door and the rest of their conversation was lost to me. The bedroom had changed overnight, too. Instead of the king bed with its mounds of pillows, there was a double. With no pillows.
My suitcase and bookbag were nowhere to be seen. Spying a trunk in the corner of the room, I rifled through it, hoping to find some normal clothes to wear. Instead, I found only more gowns like the one I wore, and ribbons. Lots of ribbons, of all different colors and patterns.
At the bottom of the trunk I found a stack of letters bound with a thin cord. They were like no letters I'd ever seen before. Written on thick yellow paper in a calligraphy-style print. I flipped one of them over and admired the waxy seal that someone had stamped into it. Without thinking of the consequences, I opened the letter and read the salutation. It was addressed to “Dearest Minerva.”
If the women in the other room thought I was Matilda, and this letter was written to Minerva…
My pulse pattered in my ears. I sat down on quivery legs.
It couldn’t be.
I inhaled deeply, my airways burning.
God, this can’t be happening. The prayer slipped out before I remembered that I wasn’t on speaking terms with Him.
Somehow, someway… I'd arrived last night at a cottage in England in the twenty-first century. Today, I'd awakened in the nineteenth!
###
Moments later, I strode away from the cottage, determined to find a way out of this mess.
I’d banged my knee and ripped the hem of the dress I wore while climbing through the bedroom window. My head still pounded, but I couldn’t tell if it was from my fainting spell last night or the conundrum that I now found myself in.
It could be a coincidence. The only reason I remembered the names Matilda and Minerva was because my aunt had talked about them once, a long time ago, when she’d been on a genealogy kick.
They were sisters. And sure, my family history was one reason I'd decided to take the honeymoon-trip-turned-trip-for-one to this little berg in the United Kingdom.
But what were the chances they were the only sisters with those names? I mean, it couldn’t be that I'd traveled back in time. Right?
My rental car wasn't where I'd left it last night. There weren't even any tire tracks. And the road wasn't paved.
I rubbed my fists over my eyes. Nope, the grassy lane with two ruts of smashed-down grass had definitely been paved yesterday afternoon when I'd driven in.
Another building stood behind the place where I remembered parking my car, this one smaller than the cottage but its roof was the same thatched material as the cottage.
I really didn’t have time to go exploring if I was going to figure out a way to get out of this mess, but my stubborn feet carried me in that direction anyway.
The heavy wooden door let loose a long creak when I pulled it open. Although the inside was dim, dust motes glittered in slanted rays that shone through a grungy window. Sunlight from behind me illuminated the packed dirt floor and feel like a beam from heaven on a dark, familiar shape. An anvil.
Breath caught in my throat as I stepped to the workbench and ran my fingers over the tools lying in careful rows. The hammers and tongs were primitive, so different from what I usually worked with.
And so dusty.
I wiped my hands on my skirt to get rid of the offending grime. In the center of the room stood the forge. It looked like one I'd admired at a museum, made out of stones and open on the top. A pile of coal in the corner of the room just begged to be used.
What could it hurt to pound a couple of shapes? Maybe it would release some of my pent-up frustration.
I found the tinder box and flint in a drawer, and like the good little Girl Scout I'd been until the seventh grade, soon had the coals glowing with life. It quickly started getting stuffy in the small enclosed space and I remembered why Aunt Donna said she preferred a closed forge – it kept the smoke contained.
The realization that I could easily get carbon monoxide poisoning sent me rushing to the double doors that took up nearly the whole wall opposite the door I'd come in.
Grunting, I slid the two-by-four that latched them closed out of the way and gave a hefty push.
Nothing happened.
The smoke started making my eyes water. I put my shoulder into it.
Still no movement.
A lung-rattling cough surprised me and scratched my throat. I couldn’t see any other options and I sure wasn’t going to give up. So I backed up and ran at the door.
I managed to trip on my skirt and fall headlong into it. It finally gave, which didn’t help me catch my balance, and I tumbled through and landed in a heap on the grass.
Fresh air whooshed through my nostrils and I drew greedy breaths.
Then I looked up. I barely registered the light pants and dark jacket before I was captured by the handsomest pair of sideburns I’d ever seen.
Chapter 3
Okay, the russet sideburns bracketed a pair of ice-blue eyes that squinted just a bit in the harsh sunlight. And a strong, straight nose. But most of all, it was the angular jaw with just a hint of dark stubble that captivated my attention.
Wow.
I must've been staring because one well-shaped brow lifted and the crow’s feet around this stranger’s eyes gained just a bit more definition.
“H-hello,” I managed to stammer, pushing the words past the breath stuck in my throat. I tried to stand, thinking maybe that would give me some perspective.
Somehow my feet were wrapped in the skirt again and I couldn’t get them to obey me. A warm hand under my elbow contrasted with the cool outdoor air and I couldn’t help noticing the strength that easily assisted me to my feet.
At least, my pulse noticed because it hummed in my ears.
“Th-thank you.” Get ahold of yourself, girl.
The man didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. He nodded, unsmiling, and glanced back at the smithy’s building.
His fine clothing, obviously cut and tailored to enhance his muscular build, made me intensely consci
ous of the faded fabric that made up the dress I wore. Who was he? What was he doing here?
Part of me wanted to know if he’d felt the same spark of connection when he touched me. The other part, the part that remembered the look on Jared’s face when he told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore, reminded me not-so-gently of everything I’d lost.
The warmth I'd felt just seconds ago faded away like the smoke that dissipated above the smithy.
“I have a problem that demands the services of a farrier.”
Ignoring the tremble that went through me at the deep timbre of his voice, my mind raced on to the covering of dust covering everything inside the building. No one had worked there in some time. “I—I’m not sure where he is.” I tried to sound firm but my voice came out all breathy. I cleared my throat.
“Do you know when he will return? My gelding has thrown a shoe and I have an errand that must be attended to today.”
A glance behind him revealed a well-muscled bay with a white blaze and stockings grazing in the sweet-smelling grass. I couldn't help but admire it. “What a beautiful animal.”
He waved toward the building. “The forge has been fired. I dare say the blacksmith won’t be gone long.”
I swallowed. There was no real reason to keep stalling. I should tell him I had started the forge.
But…
What if I could shoe the horse and make some cash? The conversation I’d overhead earlier told me that my so-called sister worried about food. If we had some money, it would get me a few more days in the cottage to figure out how to get home. My stomach rumbled as if in agreement.
Now if I could just convince the handsome… well, I didn’t know his name.
“You know, I believe the blacksmith would be happy to shoe your horse, Mr.…”
His broad shoulders straightened and his blue eyes flickered to me, then away again. “Forgive me. I am Mr. Howarth.”
“Matilda—” I struggled for the correct surname, finally recalling the one that graced the notes from the trunk. “Matilda Briggs.”
I stuck out my hand for him to shake. Instead, he bowed low over it.
Oh.
I was probably supposed to curtsy or something. Fear of tripping on my skirt again held me still. I smiled, hoping that would do. He frowned, avoiding my eyes. Was he purposely being stuffy?
Irked, I strove for a professional voice. “If you would be so kind as to leave your horse, I’ll be sure to tell him-- uh, the farrier, as soon as he comes back.”
Mr. Howarth’s frown deepened. What bothered him so much? “I would prefer to stay.”
Intuitively, I knew that if Mr. Howarth knew I would be shoeing his horse, he wouldn’t agree. I needed to get rid of him, and fast.
“He, uh… likes to work without interruption.”
He raised a skeptical brow.
“He's very solitary, you know. He doesn’t like anyone to watch him work.” My neck burned at the untruth that sprang so easily from my lips.
Mr. Howarth looked as if he would make another comment, but to my surprise he nodded and turned to leave. I stood for a moment, watching his slight swagger as he strode away.
With a sigh, I gave a gentle tug on the reins of his horse. The docile animal followed me to the building and stood while I tied him off to a post that seemed to have been built for that purpose.
I found a heavy leather apron beneath the table that held most of the smithy's implements and got lost for a moment imagining who might've used it before me. As I pulled it on, its scent pulled me back home to the last horse I’d shod.
The day before I left for university, an old friend called with a problem horse that I’d dealt with a few times successfully. Jared had shown up as I finished the horse.
We’d dated casually a few times during high school, and I could still remember the shiver of delight that snaked through me as he’d stood watching in the doorway with his arms crossed.
“Aren’t you glad you won’t have to do this for a living any more?”
I shrugged, not sure why his words bothered me. Pretended they didn’t. “I like working with my aunt.”
“Yeah, but you’ll make a killing as a vet. Think of all those people with little lapdogs who need flea medication.”
I swallowed the urge to tell him that I planned to specialize in equine surgery. I desperately wanted a special internship they only offered to one student a year, and had mapped out the next three years of my life in order to get it.
Jared joined me as I loaded the tools into the special chest my aunt used to carry them from job to job. He tossed a small pick into the air and caught it in a fluid motion. “You’re so different from the girls I usually date.”
I couldn’t read him well enough to know if he meant that as a compliment or a concern. So I didn’t say anything.
He brushed a hand against my shoulder, then his fingers came up to caress my cheek. “I just think you’ll be so much happier when you get to be a real woman, not your aunt’s apprentice.”
I shook my head to dispel the memories, tightening my hold on the hammer.
Who was Jared to tell me what I should want out of life anyway? I’d thought he understood me, wanted my dreams to come true.
Obviously, I’d been wrong.
Now, I relished the familiar actions of measuring and filing the gelding's hoof. I was surprised at how clean and well-maintained it was. It appeared Mr. Howarth did an exceptional job at caring for this horse.
The dip and pound of the hammer as I adjusted the horseshoe came back to me as if I hadn’t spent the last four years in a classroom instead of the forge. Although my muscles began to ache more quickly than when I’d worked with Aunt Donna every day.
Midway through the shoe, my hair fell down around my shoulders. I paused to tie it up with a leather thong found in one of the drawers. Fine wisps of hair escaped my makeshift ponytail; I shrugged and reminded myself that I wasn’t trying to look pretty for anyone.
I swung the hammer again. The clang of metal against anvil was a song from my childhood and I found myself humming along. Each time I moved through the arc of the hammer's swing, reused muscles I hadn’t thought of in years, I took back a little bit of myself.
I liked smithing.
And if I couldn’t find a way to get home, I could be happy making a living this way. The realization didn’t stun me. It felt right. Working with horses was my true first love, and it felt good to return to it.
I finished the shoe and was examining the other three hooves to make sure none needed maintenance when a shriek from the doorway made me whirl. My skirt billowed around me. I caught sight of Minerva’s angry countenance at the same time as the horse whinnied and reared. From the corner of my eye I watched the rope I had tied it off with snap. I covered my head with my arm and ducked so I would present the smallest target. Even though I braced for an impact, it surprised me when it came from behind me and sent me sprawling to my knees, out of harm’s way.
“Whoa, boy.”
I looked up to see Mr. Howarth grasp the gelding’s bridle and attempt to calm his horse. Minerva rushed to my side and grabbed my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.
I struggled to my feet, brushing myself off. Not good. I needed to get rid of Minerva before she ruined everything.
“I’d like to know the same thing.” Mr. Howarth’s back remained to us as he rubbed the gelding's shoulder. The gelding’s head bobbed and I could see the whites of his eyes from where I stood. Mr. Howarth’s voice was cool. “Where is the farrier?”
Really, really not good.
Minerva glanced at Mr. Howarth in confusion and back at me. “What on earth were you doing? Why are you wearing that apron?”
Mr. Howarth’s eyes met mine from over his shoulder, shooting daggers.
“That is a most interesting question. I cannot wait to hear the answer myself.”
Quickly, I shirked the apron, tossing it to the side. Well, here goes nothing. “I
was finishing up.”
Minerva frowned. “Finishing what?”
“Shoeing the horse,” I muttered.
Minerva’s gasp echoed loud in the sudden stillness. Before she could say anything else, approaching hoofbeats announced the presence of another.
“Halloo.” A silhouette of a man blocked the sunlight streaming through the doorway. He stepped forward and flashed a broad smile at myself and Minerva. A shock of carrot-red hair fell into his dancing hazel eyes. “There you are, Andrew.”
Mr. Howarth did not respond. He’d already moved to the gelding’s foot and bent to examine it. Pride puffed out my chest.
“I see you’ve made some new acquaintances.” The shorter, stockier man bowed in the direction of where Minerva and I stood. She had the grace to curtsy but I was too focused on Mr. Howarth’s reaction to do anything.
“Won’t you introduce us?”
Mr. Howarth only grunted, now touching the new shoe.
The other man stepped inside and approached us. “Forgive my cousin’s manners. He is a bit obsessive about his horses. Mr. McCullough, at your service.” Upon closer inspection, the family resemblance was visible. Mr. McCullough had the same nose and facial structure as Mr. Howarth. Though he certainly seemed to smile more.
Minerva seemed embarrassed or reserved, I couldn’t tell which. She didn’t offer an introduction, so I did the honors. Mr. McCullough bowed a second time, and when he straightened, his eyes lingered on Minerva, who had gone an interesting shade of pink and now avoided his gaze.
“You did this?” Mr. Howarth’s stern tone startled me and I turned back to where he stood, in front of the gelding. He wasn’t smiling. Hadn’t he looked at the shoe? Didn’t he see the craftsmanship?
I couldn’t help the raise of my chin. “Yes.”
He scratched his head. He lifted the hoof again, squatting this time. What was he looking for? The shoe was perfect.
“Your horse isn’t the first I’ve shod, you know.”
“Matilda!” Minerva gripped my arm so hard that I almost cried out. “She’s not— she didn’t—” She passed her hands over her face. “Our father—”
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