by Bess McBride
“1827,” she gasped. Then inexplicably she began to laugh, a tinkling sound that soon devolved into something resembling a cackle. She clutched her sides and howled unbecomingly. Tears rolled down her face.
Reggie stiffened. “I beg your pardon, Madam. Your raucous laughter is unseemly at best. Please desist. What can you possibly find so amusing?”
Miss Warner stopped chortling, but the tears continued, accompanied by an occasional sob. Reggie was appalled. He had thought her tears to be from laughter but could see now that she wore an expression of alarm. Much as he felt.
“Come, Miss Warner. There now,” he murmured, producing a kerchief for her. “Dry your tears. Forgive my harsh words. I suspected you to be mocking me. I cannot bear to see a woman cry, and have little enough experience with it. I have no sisters.”
Miss Warner pressed the kerchief against her eyes and slumped ungracefully onto the settee. “No sisters,” she murmured inconsequentially.
“No, alas, only a brother and a father, and lately a stepmother, but I have never seen her shed tears, not even at the birth of her first grandchild.”
“You’re not married,” she stated.
“No, Miss Warner, I am not, but I hope to remedy that some day.”
“Oh! Are you engaged?” He almost imagined he saw her mouth droop.
“No, not as yet.”
“Thinking about it?” A small twitch of her lips charmed him.
Reggie grinned. “One always thinks about one’s future. However, I think our most pressing concern should be just that—the future. Either I hit my head when I fell and am now dreaming, or I have somehow been transported almost two hundred years into the future.”
It seemed as if his own legs failed to hold him upright and he slumped into the chair opposite the settee.
Miss Warner straightened. “Did you fall? Hit your head?”
“Yes, I thought I mentioned that. While I was walking Sebastian back to my father’s house, I tripped in a rut on the road and fell. I awakened here on your floor.”
“Okay, but maybe you fell somewhere else, in the present time, and you’ve had a concussion, and you’re kind of delusional.” Her forehead creased as she contemplated her words.
“I think time travel would be preferable to the scenario you describe, Miss Warner. A delusional state of mind does not appeal to me.”
“But maybe it’s temporary. I could take you to a doctor.”
Reggie shook his head. “And have them dispatch me to an asylum? I think not.”
“They don’t do that anymore, Reggie.”
“I am pleased to hear it, Miss Warner, but no, no physician. He would as likely bleed me as anything, and I do not relish the thought.”
Miss Warner stared at him intently, and Reggie squirmed under her gaze. Not so long ago, he had wished for the ardent look of another American woman. However, Miss Crockwell had but smiled at him kindly, having eyes only for William Sinclair.
“Miss Warner? Is there something amiss with my clothing? My hair?” He ran a hand through his thick unruly hair.
She blinked and shook her head. “Oh, no. No, nothing. You’re all zipped up, if that’s what you were asking. I’m just so confused.”
“Zipped up?”
Miss Warner’s cheeks reddened, and she smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’m beginning to think that you really don’t know about zippers...or electricity.”
Reggie shook his head. “I am afraid I fail to understand either word.”
Miss Warner rose from her seat to approach the window. She seemed to stare at the moon.
“How do you think this happened?” She turned to face him, resting on the windowsill. “Because we don’t have time travel in this century, and I don’t think you all did either.”
“Time travel,” Reggie murmured. “No, I have not heard of it. Is it an American notion?”
“Not particularly. In fact, I think a British author wrote the first book having anything to do with traveling through time. Charles Dickens in A Christmas Carol. Somewhere in the mid-nineteenth century, I think.”
“Charles Dickens,” Reggie repeated. “I do not know that name.”
“After your time,” Miss Warner said. “And then British author H. G. Wells wrote The Time Machine, clearly about traveling through time with the use of a machine.”
“I have not heard that name either.”
“Also after your time,” Miss Warner smiled. “Sooo...just supposing you did travel through time, how do you think you got here, and why would you end up here...in 2013, in my apartment?”
“I cannot imagine, Miss Warner.”
“Phoebe, call me Phoebe.”
“Miss Phoebe.”
“No, just Phoebe.”
Reggie raised a dark eyebrow. “It is unusual to address a lady so informally on such short acquaintance, but these are unusual circumstances, are they not, Miss Warner? And perhaps this is customary in your time. Phoebe then.”
“Well, let’s see if we can backtrack. So, you fell and hit your head.”
“Yes.”
“And what had you been doing when you fell? You said you had a horse? Did you fall off your horse? That would be quite a head injury. I got the impression you had been walking.”
“Yes, Sebastian had injured his leg. My fault entirely. I should not have ridden him so carelessly in the dark, but I was angry.” He pressed his lips together and waved a hand. “It is of no consequence. I had been looking at the full moon—as you have tonight in your time—and I misstepped.”
“Oh, me too!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I was looking at the moon, too. Through the binoculars.” She picked up an object which resembled two small telescopes attached at a base. “Want to see?”
He rose eagerly. “Binoculars. Yes, I have heard of binocular telescopes, but I have not seen them. May I?”
He peered through the binoculars and almost fell back as the building directly opposite seemed to leap at him. He lowered the binoculars and peered at the building. The monumental structure had not moved.
“These are quite strong,” he grinned. “Now, where is the moon? Ah! There it is.”
He raised the glasses again to study it more closely. Odd circular shapes and formations dotted the surface of what seemed like a luminous globe.
“Pon my word! What are those formations?” He turned to look at her.
“Craters from meteor impacts mostly, I think,” Phoebe said with a bright smile. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Reggie handed the binoculars back to her, and she raised them to look at the moon.
“Yes,” he said quietly. Indeed, she was beautiful. Shining dark brown hair grazed her shoulders, bouncing when she moved, so unlike the more restrained coiffures of the women of his time. He fought against an urge to run his fingers down the silky length. Her upturned nose delighted him as did her ready smile. Dark brown eyes, almost the color of her hair, dominated her face, and he longed to gaze into them yet again.
She dropped the glasses and looked at him, as he had hoped.
“We were both looking at the moon when you popped in,” she said with a soft smile. “As hokey as it sounds, it’s gotta be the moon.”
“The moon, Miss Warner? How is that possible? I cannot deny that as a child I invested the moon with magical properties following the death of my mother, but I cannot truly believe it is responsible for such a momentous event.”
“Your mother died when you were young?” she asked quietly.
Reggie looked away from the sympathy on her face. “Yes, when I was but a boy of eight. A long time ago.” He cleared his throat. “I wished many a night on the moon for her return, but alas it did not come to pass.” He smiled briefly.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “My mother passed away a few years ago as well.”
Reggie bowed his head. “My condolences, Miss... Phoebe. And your father? Do you have siblings?”
“I never knew my father. He left when I was young.” Phoebe’
s voice hardened, and Reggie thought he never wished to hear that note in her voice directed toward him. “No brothers or sisters.” She shrugged and rose.
“Well, this is quite the dilemma, and I have no idea what to do. I think you’d better stay here though. It really isn’t safe for you out there.” She nodded toward the window.
“Not safe?” Reggie followed her eyes. “In what way?”
“Oh, gosh! In every way, I should think. It’s fast paced, probably much more fast paced that you’re used to. There are cars and people and streetlights and vendors. Just the hustle and bustle of the city.”
“I have spent considerable time in London. London is a large city.”
Phoebe shook her head. “It is now, I know, from the movies. I’ve never been there. But you have to trust me when I say the London you knew can’t be half as chaotic and, well...as dangerous as New York is today.”
“But how do you manage when faced with such peril? Or do you never leave your apartments?” Reggie approached the window again and looked out. “You reported your cousin was ‘out’ and would soon return. How does she fare?”
“I’m confusing you, I think. The city isn’t that dangerous on a daily basis, not if you’re careful. It’s like any big city. There are good people and bad people. But I just think it would be very dangerous for you, Reggie, because you don’t know your way around. So, I think you should stay here—while you’re here—where I can help you.” Phoebe paused. “And to be honest? I lied about my cousin returning. She lives in Switzerland right now with some young ski instructor.”
“I see,” Reggie said. London had its unsavory elements as well, and he thought he understood her concern for his safety. He noted she had a tendency to mother him, and he was not quite sure how he felt about it. Since he was as lost as a babe in the woods at the moment, her nurturing attentions were welcome, but he had fought too hard over the past few years to gain autonomy from his father’s overbearing parenting to submit lightly to the dictatorial commands of a strange, if charming, young woman.
“I am uncertain how I arrived in your time, Phoebe, and even less certain how I shall return to my time. Just prior to leaving my father’s home this evening...or then, I should say, I had argued with him as I told him I planned to leave England and move to America for an indefinite period of time. And now, here am I! In America, albeit in a different era than I had thought. My first instinct is to attempt to return to my time, yet that would be contrary to my expressed desire to come to America. Therefore, I shall not worry unduly about how I arrived here, and I welcome your assistance in settling in. As I...em...traveled without luggage and my pockets are empty, I must impose upon your generosity until I am able to secure funds for myself. Perhaps I could visit a bank tomorrow and arrange to draw upon my account. If I have not touched my money in two hundred years, it must have accrued a great deal.”
Phoebe blinked. “Boggles the mind,” she murmured.
“Boggles?” Reggie asked. “Do you think my admittedly impulsive plan without merit?”
Phoebe shook her head and smiled. “I have no idea. I can’t imagine a bank holding onto an account for two hundred years though. My guess is they would close an inactive account after some years and absorb the money.”
Reggie sighed. “Perhaps you are right. Then I must see what has become of my father’s estate. I was due to inherit when my father—” The full scope of what had transpired seemed to hit him at once. His father dead? Samuel? No! Not possible. He knew a moment of horror and thought to launch himself from the window as if to fly home, but the instant passed. He would return home at some point...somehow.
“Oh, Reggie! Don’t think about it!” Phoebe said with firmness. “Don’t even think that way. This will all turn out okay, I’m sure of it. Come on. How about something to eat? Are you hungry? What do you eat?” She took him by the arm and urged him back to the kitchen where he reclaimed his seat on the barstool.
Having spent little time in kitchens, he watched her with interest as she bustled about preparing a meal.
“How about breakfast?” she said brightly. “At night. I don’t know about you all, but we do it all the time here. It’s one of the easiest meals to make.”
“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Reggie murmured. He noted she used no fire in her stove but seemed only to turn knobs and push buttons as she rattled pots, pans, and glassware. She withdrew cold items from a large silver container she termed a re-frig-er-a-tor. She spelled the word out for him.
“Do you have no servants at all then, Phoebe? No cook, no one to serve? Perhaps a maid?”
Phoebe looked over her shoulder and smiled. “No, not a one. Only the wealthy have a full staff, really, and I’m not wealthy.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “The furnishings in your apartment, and the equipment in your kitchen, albeit smaller in scale than an English country home, are tasteful and appear to be of good quality. The kitchen of our townhome in London is not much larger, I think.”
“So, you live with your father?”
“I do,” he said. “I have often thought of purchasing my own apartments in London, but I spend more time in the country than in town. My mother’s inheritance was entailed without land, so I reside with my father. Of course, I could purchase another property. I think I must if I marry. I would not wish to bring my wife to my father’s house, especially now that it has a new mistress. My father’s new wife would not welcome any interference in the household, I think.”
A cacophony of ringing and other sounds resounded from the various machines in the kitchen as Phoebe cooked. Reggie listened to them with interest.
“And that noise stems from which machine?”
“The microwave,” Phoebe replied.
“Mi-cro-wave. An expeditious means of cooking, I see.”
“It is very fast,” Phoebe replied. “So you were saying that if you marry, or when you marry, you think you’ll buy another house for your wife? Like another country estate?”
“Yes, I think that would be best. I had not really given it much thought until now. Somehow, this...distance from England has given me some clarity.”
“Tell me about your brother.”
“Samuel.” Reggie smiled. “Samuel has become an ardent book enthusiast. He reads often. He is not much interested in the running of the estate, which troubles my father not at all. My father is content to handle matters himself.”
“So he doesn’t work?”
“Samuel? No, not at any occupation. Our family do not ‘work’ in the trades. It is not necessary.”
“But what do you do all day?”
“I ride, I visit neighbors. There are dinners and dances and balls and picnics. We are kept very busy in the country. I help my father in matters regarding the estate on rare occasions when he requires it.”
“Wow! Nice life,” Phoebe said as she settled food onto a plate and placed it unceremoniously in front of him. She sat down beside him with a bright smile.
“I hope you like it. Dig in!”
“You are so...American,” he murmured with a smile. “I have known an American woman, and you remind me of her.”
“Uh oh, I hear something in your voice. I take it you like this American? Where did you meet her? In England?”
“It is a long story. Perhaps another time.”
Reggie eyed the pancakes on his plate before turning to see Phoebe pouring what looked like syrup from a container onto her pancakes.
He helped himself to the syrup, marveling at the light feel of the container. He cut his food meticulously and took a bite. Sweetness filled his mouth.
“Do you all eat pancakes?” Phoebe asked. “It seemed the easiest thing to make. I realized after I said I’d make breakfast that I didn’t have a lot of groceries in the fridge. I hope they’re okay.”
Reggie struggled to understand all her words. He deduced “fridge” was a shorter version of refrigerator. “Groceries” sounded like something in which Cook might be inte
rested.
“Yes, we do eat pancakes, although they look and taste differently. These are quite savory though. You are an excellent cook.”
“Thank you!” Phoebe said, her cheeks taking on a rosy hue. “I never get a chance to cook for anyone.”
Reggie quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. He was uncertain how to respond. Cooking was not something to which the women of his circles aspired. He thought he detected a forlorn note in her voice, and he wondered about her life, her acquaintances, her activities. Did she have a suitor? He rather hoped not.
He found his close proximity to her—seated as they were on the barstools and much closer than if they sat beside each other at a dinner table—played havoc with his senses, and he suspected he did not have enough presence of mind at the moment to truly comprehend the extraordinary situation in which he now found himself.
“And what daily activities occupy you, Phoebe?” The informal use of her name still sounded presumptuous and overly familiar.
“Me? Oh, gosh, let’s see. I go to work, come home, watch TV—television—sleep, go back to work again. On the weekends, I run errands, shop for groceries, although not apparently enough,” she said with a smile. “I go out to Broadway shows occasionally with a couple friends from work. Wow! My life sounds very dull, doesn’t it? I don’t think I realized. Work keeps me pretty busy. I love what I do.”
“I did not realize you had an occupation. And what is it that you ‘do’?”
“I work for a publisher, not too far from here. I’m a copy editor. I’m kind of low on the totem pole right now, but I have hopes of moving up one day to editor.”
Phoebe’s cheeks shone and her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her employment. He had never before met anyone who took such apparent joy in her occupation, and he found it most refreshing. He simply could not imagine the groomsmen or the maids in his father’s home beaming thusly regarding their tasks.
“I wish that for you as well,” Reggie murmured with a smile. “What may I ask is a ‘totem pole?’ Is this a structure at your place of employment?”