Well, Elizabethan, really. “I know. I’m not much up on the current styles.”
Molly went to her and began to remove the pins. “Do you mind?”
“No, please.”
She took them all out and smoothed Cassandra’s hair over her shoulders. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you. I’m sure it needs a wash.”
Molly fetched a brush and brushed it out. It was a wonderful feeling.
“After you wash it,” the younger woman said, “I can cut it if you like, into a bob. You’ve got to get up with the times. You’re dress is spiffy and all, but you can’t go around with that hairstyle.”
“Cut it? No, I’m not ready for that. But maybe you could help me style it into something more modern for tonight.”
While Cassandra soaked in the rust-stained, claw-footed tub, crackly jazz music emanated from the other room. When she emerged, dressed again in her same clothes, she found Molly scrubbing away at her shoes.
“There,” the young woman pronounced, showing Cassandra her handiwork. “Pretty splendid if I do say so myself.” The stain was barely visible.
“Gosh,” said Cassandra, trying out the lingo, “great job.”
“Thanks.” Molly tapped her foot to the music. “You heard of King Oliver? They’re American. I’m crazy about them!”
“No. That’s the name of the band?”
“King Oliver’s jazz band. They’re the bee’s knees. Do you Toddle?”
“I’m…not sure.”
Molly jumped up and grabbed Cassandra’s hand, leading her into a dance made up of a series of hops and kicks, while Cassandra did her best to follow.
“You’re not half bad,” the erstwhile flapper declared. They danced and laughed until they were breathless. Molly skipped into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle and a couple of filmy glasses from a cupboard. “How ‘bout a snort before the meeting?” She poured the brown liquid into both glasses and danced one back over to Cassandra.
The redhead took a swig. Whisky. “Ah, that goes down good!”
“Now let’s do something with that hairdo of yours.” Molly sat Cassandra down and tucked her hair under at the back of her neck, fussing over it with pins and a comb. “How’s that?” She held a mirror up. “You look like a regular doll.”
It resembled Molly’s own short hairstyle. “It’s ducky!” Would that pass for jazz-era slang?
“Thanks. Okay, we better get to the meeting.”
Cassandra put on her shoes and they went downstairs to open up the theatre. Soon people were filing in. In all, about twenty gathered: women of every age from bohemian flappers, to housewives in aprons, to grandmothers. There were even a couple of men in the mix, a pale, young, bespectacled man, and an older fellow with an unruly beard. Molly took Cassandra around and introduced her, asking each guest about Mrs. Slye’s boarding house. Finally, one of the housewives declared she knew her, and supplied the address, jotting it down with some directions on a scrap of paper from Molly. Not at all far from the theatre. With that information acquired, Cassandra was suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue, and perhaps the effects of the whisky.
“Do you mind if I don’t stay for the meeting?” she whispered to Molly. “It’s been such a long day.”
“No, of course not! Go on upstairs and make yourself at home. You can take my bed, I’ll take the couch. Just leave me a blanket and pillow from the chest at the foot of the bed.”
Cassandra knew there was no point arguing with her about the sleeping arrangements, so she went up to the flat and made the sofa up for herself. Hopefully, she’d be asleep when Molly came in, leaving the girl no choice but to retire to her own bed. The voices from downstairs, sometimes erupting into cheers, lulled Cassandra into drowsiness. Not much would keep her awake now.
Dim morning sunlight crept in through the thin drapes. The clock on Molly’s wall read five till eight. Cassandra got up and dressed quietly. Hopefully it wasn’t too early to find Mrs. Slye up. She spread some butter on a piece of bread and drank a little milk from the icebox. She dug in the pocket of her coat to look at the money she had. There was a gold half-crown, and a few silver coins including two shillings, and two half-pennies: a fair amount of money by Elizabethan standards. Who knew how much the gold and silver, plus the collector’s value of the coins, was worth now? Maybe she should leave the gold for Molly. The suffragette would probably know where to sell it and it might help her stage her next play…or at least buy a few meals.
Cassandra found a pencil and a piece of note paper and scribbled a note.
Dear Molly,
Thank you for your kindness, and generosity toward a soul who needed it. I’m off to see if I can retrieve my necklace. I’m not sure if I should come back here since I’m basically on the lam. If I do, it will not be to impose on you long. Take this gold coin, about three hundred years old, and see if you can get some money for it. If I do come back, maybe it can serve as rent for a few weeks until I get on my feet. If I don’t, it’s yours for whatever it’s worth. Don’t worry about me. No matter what, I’ll be all right because I have my skills. I’m not going back to Stratford though, that’s for sure. From here, it’s only forward.
Fondly,
Cassandra
If the time traveler did find her way back to 1598, the silver that remained would easily be enough to rent a room, eat for a few weeks and even buy some humble clothes.
She slipped on her shoes and coat, and popped her hat on her head, the hairdo still more or less intact from the night before. She let herself out and tiptoed down the stairs, through the theatre and onto the street.
The people out and about seemed to be intent on getting to their jobs, and more or less ignored her. It was Lavington Street she wanted, and followed the directions there, arriving in just a few minutes. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no answer, until an elderly lady with suspicious eyes finally appeared, opening the door a crack. “Can I help you?”
“Um, do you rent rooms?”
“You want to rent a room here?” The woman looked at Cassandra doubtfully.
“No, but I think I left something in a room my husband and I rented last night.”
“Are you those theatre people?”
“Oh, yes!”
The woman’s tone turned defensive. “Your husband left me a note sayin’ you wouldn’t be comin’ back. I sold your costume to a lady up in Cheapside who does plays. She said it was real good quality.”
Now Cassandra had to revise her story. “No, I don’t want the costume. But I did have a necklace I thought I may have lost here.”
“I didn’t see no necklace.”
“It may have fallen behind the bed. Do you mind if I go up and look?”
“I s’pose not.” The woman stood out of the way and let Cassandra pass.
“I don’t know how you two got in last night. I was sure I locked the front door and the bedroom door. Guess I didn’t.” The woman followed Cassandra up the stairs.
“No, we found them unlocked. It was so late, and I was so tired, I don’t remember which room it was, could you show me?”
On the second floor, the woman opened a door. Cassandra recognized it instantly when she went in. “Do you mind if I have a look around? You don’t have to stay with me, I’m sure you’re busy.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t do it ‘cept your husband paid me good to keep it empty for three weeks, and then you only used it the one night. I guess it would be alright for you to have a look-see on your own. Just let me know when you leave so I can lock up.”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Slye eased out the door and closed it behind her. The fact that Cassandra and Nick had gotten into the building without a key confirmed her belief that the portal was in the room. A swift glance around made it clear that if there was a portal there, it could only be one place―but how could Nick be sure no one else would climb into the armoire, a child playing, perhaps, and be accidentally whisked
away to 1598? There had to be a fail-safe of some kind.
She opened the armoire and found it empty. She stepped into the cramped space holding her breath. Nothing happened. She felt around the wooden back and sides. Maybe there was a doorway in there that led to the portal. Wait a minute. What was the matter with her? This wasn’t The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. The armoire couldn’t be the portal, it would have had to have been in the same spot for the past three hundred years, then another two hundred into the future. These last couple of days had left her feeling addled. Just to be sure, she felt around for some kind of hidden door but found nothing. She stepped out again.
If the portal wasn’t in this room, or in the building somewhere, she was sunk. With a deep sigh, she glanced around. The walls were covered with print wallpaper, badly applied. In one place, it was peeling off at the seam. She went to examine it more closely. She pressed it, finding the wall solid. She was running out of time. The woman wouldn’t let her poke around in there forever. She turned and looked in the direction of the armoire again. There were scrape marks on the floor in front of it! She hurried back to it and shoved it away from the wall, finding it heavy, but not unmanageable. The wall looked the same as it did everywhere else except the wallpaper was peeling away even worse. She knocked lightly on the wall. It sounded hollow. She pressed it and it sprung open: a narrow doorway cut into plaster and wood. Within, was a small space like a closet, barely big enough for two people to fit into together. It was unremarkable looking, but then it would have to be. On the inside of the makeshift door was a handle that could be pulled closed. She yanked the armoire as close to the wall as possible, leaving herself just enough room to slip behind it into the tiny space. She crawled in and pulled on the handle. As soon as the door clicked into place, the floor seemed to give way. She was falling. Cold air whooshed around her. No, not falling, traveling. This was a feeling she knew. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. If Nick had told her the truth, there was only one place would end up.
A minute later, solid ground rose up beneath her feet. She opened her eyes. It was pitch black. She reached out her hands to find wood. She pushed and it gave way. She stepped out into the room Nick had brought her to the night before, immense relief flooding through her. She’d done it; she was back in Elizabethan London.
There was the bed she recognized from last night―she hadn’t had the chance to notice much else. The walls were made of a thin wood paneling. She closed the portal door behind her, and any noticeable opening was sealed off. Nick must have rented this room for several weeks as well, not knowing when exactly he’d end up there with Cassandra because there was obviously no one else staying in it.
Yet here she was in 1598, wearing clothes from the 1920s. She would be considered indecently dressed, and could not afford to be picked up by the authorities, for word would get back to Elizabeth that Duchess Von Schell had somehow returned to London. At least she had the coins in her pocket.
She creaked the door to the room open. A variety of squeaking and moaning sounds greeted her in the corridor. She crept down the hall. More grunting sounds―unmistakably people having sex. Was this place a brothel? Rounding a corner brought her practically face to face with a woman pressed up against the wall and a man with his pants down around his ankles, his flabby buttocks jerking back and forth as he took his pleasure.
“Oh, excuse me,” Cassandra uttered, rushing away from their stares.
“What was that?” she heard the man say.
Cassandra hurried down the nearest stairway. At the bottom of it was a doorway. She burst through and ran into a beefy, red-faced, red-haired man coming in.
“Pardon me,” Cassandra said, trying to squeeze past him.
“Hold on,” the man grabbed her by the arm. “What have we here?”
“Let me go,” Cassandra exclaimed, wrenching her arm away.
The man grabbed her again with both hands. “Be you a woman or a man?”
“It matters not to you.” Cassandra writhed to free herself.
The man snatched her hat off. “A wench, dressed as a lad: very alluring idea.” He breathed his foul breath into her face.
“Release me, knave,” she cried.
“Care you not for making two bits?” His dark, beady eyes leered at her.
“No!”
“Then why do you haunt a bawdy house showing your legs like a harlot?”
In answer to his question she slammed her knee into his groin. He released her, doubling over in pain. She grabbed her hat from his hand and dashed out the door. The street was not a busy one, more of a back alley, definitely not what Lavington Street would become three hundred years later, humble as it was. There was no one else about. She jammed her hat onto her head, completely disoriented, and hurried toward what looked to be a more well-traveled street at the end of the block. A few yards beyond the corner was a building with people milling about and a sign: Bear Garden. Fortunately, it was a popular enough place to attract a couple of hackney coaches which hovered nearby awaiting fares. Ignoring the cat calls that came from the men waiting to get inside for the entertainment, she leapt into one of the coaches, calling out to the driver: “The Curtain theatre, Finsbury Fields, Shoreditch!”
“Show me you have the means, young sir,” the driver called back to her.
She held a two-penny coin out the window and he responded with a cluck to the horses and a snap of the reins.
She leaned back against the seat and took a deep breath. Hopefully she would find Shakespeare at The Curtain, or some member of the company who would be willing to help her; help her how, she wasn’t quite sure. What she would need was shelter―a headquarters of some kind where she would be safe and hidden from curious eyes, and where she could plan how to extract James from the palace without the Queen finding out she was at large. Maybe Shakespeare would let her stay with him, though what he might want in return remained to be seen.
Wait a minute. Was that St. Thomas Street they were passing? Her own portal exit was right there! She should go now, have Shannon make her some new Elizabethan clothes, rest a little, get some more money, talk over the situation, get some advice, and take time to figure out her next move more carefully. As she raised her arm to knock on the roof and alert the driver, she stopped, noticing the sleeve of her light blue coat. She lowered her arm again. If she went into the future now, she would have to explain to the team what she had been doing in the 1920s, and that would mean telling them about Nick. Suhan was sure to be there―they were all living in the portal house for the time being. To deal with her betrayal, and explain all that had happened, would take too much time and she had none to spare. No, she wouldn’t go back through the portal yet. No one there had any more power to help James than she did at the moment.
The carriage continued to make its way through the throngs on London Bridge, and across the city. All the while, Cassandra invented a tale to tell Shakespeare about her escape. Eventually, they emerged from the bottleneck of Bishopsgate, and trundled on to Shoreditch. There, the welcome sight of The Curtain greeted her.
She paid the driver, and turned away from his blatant stare. Finding the doors of the theatre open, she boldly walked in. One person sat in the seating area beyond the pit, reading through a stack of papers. He looked up. “What can I do for you, boy?”
“It is I, Cassandra.” She removed her hat.
Shakespeare stood, almost dropping the papers from his lap. “Duchess Von Schell?”
She felt as if her legs would give way from the sheer relief of finding him there. He flung the papers onto the bench and ran to her, grabbing her hand. “Milady, how goes it with you? I heard you were gone, banished to Austria. How come you to be here again?”
“Let me first say, Master Shakespeare, that whatever you may have heard, the Queen’s information is wrong. My husband was indeed Duke Von Schell―”
“I take you for your word, milady. I would never doubt you for a moment. But why are dressed like…”
“A gypsy boy?”
“I think I would have said…a fairy.”
She smiled. “Yes, as if I have escaped from the service of the fairy king himself. In fact, I was taken from the Queen’s guards by a band of gypsies who dressed me in this strange clothing and brought me back to London in their caravan.”
Shakespeare’s brow furrowed. “They overpowered the Queen’s men?”
“’Tis an extraordinary tale. The Gypsies set upon us, using some magical potion of theirs to render the guards unconscious. They took me and my chest of belongings back to their caravan. So joyful were they to have such wealth in their possession they disguised me in these clothes as a favor, brought me back to London and set me free, making me promise to tell no one about them. It is our secret.”
“Why, this is fantastical! An incredible tale!” He felt the fabric of her coat. “This is very fine cloth. They were generous to give it you.”
“Truly.” She took a breath. “Sir, I am far from out of peril. As you know, if the Queen finds me, she is likely to have me killed. I put you at great risk by asking you to help me, but I need you. I have nowhere else to go. Can you hide me, Will?”
“My name on your lips is music to mine ears. Of course I will, my dear Cassandra, of course.”
Elizabeth had said she would send a messenger to Cornwall to find James’s supposed family and ask them to vouch for him. How long would that take…three, four days, maybe a week? Then she would know James was a fake and she would take him for a spy, absolutely. “There is more. You were not there, Will, when the Queen issued her sentence. She was terribly angry. She sent James to the Tower, for she no longer trusts him.”
“I know not how we can free him then. The place is impenetrable.”
“Nor do I, but if you can give me refuge, for a short time at least, we can determine a plan.”
“I cannot impose my humble abode on you. It is not befitting a person of your rank.”
“I do not care how humble―”
“No, we will go to Lord Oxford’s house. Though I sense I am his rival for your heart, he is my good friend, and I know he will provide you with safe lodging, worthy of your station.”
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 17