Against the Magic (Twickenham Time Travel Romance)

by Donna K. Weaver

  “Ohio,” Jem said.

  “We attended the university there,” Reese added.

  Ellen’s eyes went wide. “You attended university?”

  “Yes, America is quite progressive,” Reese said without hesitation.

  Jem choked on his drink and had to put his napkin up to his mouth.

  “Sorry,” he said when he could get his breath. “I swallowed wrong.” He leaned closer to Reese, his voice low, “You do know that women don’t get the vote in the US for another seventy years.”

  “In Wyoming they get it in 1869,” Reese said, a little too loudly.

  “Wyoming?” Ellen asked. “You have visited the Wild West?”

  Reese groaned and muttered, “Jem, I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can.” He had always taken for granted how forthright she was. Having to watch every little thing she said must be driving her crazy.

  “You must not tell my brother, but,” Ellen leaned forward and her lowered voice took on a conspiratorial tone, “I am fascinated with stories of the brave pioneers.”

  “There are different ways to be a pioneer,” Reese said. “One way is to go after something you want to do, something important.” She seemed to search her mind. “There’s Elizabeth Blackwell, and you must have heard of Ada Lovelace.”

  “Who?” Jem hoped she hadn’t named women who hadn’t been born yet.

  “Elizabeth was the first woman to graduate from medical school, and she was born in England,” Reese said.

  “Ada Lovelace is Lord Byron’s daughter,” Ellen said.

  “And is quite the mathematician,” Reese said.

  “I fear my brother would not approve if I were to model my behavior after hers,” her ladyship said.

  “Of course he wouldn’t.” Reese leaned back in her chair, her voice turning bitter. “Men of this time are threatened by smart, strong women.” Reese’s fiery enthusiasm had gotten Jem into trouble a couple of times when they were growing up, and she turned the full strength of it on the poor girl. “You are more than your womb, Ellen.”

  The poor girl’s cheeks flushed a bright red, and Jem put his hand over Reese’s to stop her from saying anything else. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her.

  “I’ve done it again.” Reese slouched back in her chair with a grunt of disgust. “I have strong opinions and no discretion. I’ll be quiet.” She slid her hand away from his but rubbed where he had touched her.

  Jem played with the rim of his glass, forcing himself not to smile. Reese had felt the energy between them when he’d touched her. It showed in her body language, her facial expressions.

  “Miss Clarisse is too hard on herself,” he said. “She is a philanthropist and always seeks ways to better the lives of others.”

  “Ohh,” Lady Ellen breathed. “What charities do you aid?”

  “I work—” When he coughed, Reese shot him a frustrated glance and added, “I volunteer at health clinics and schools for the poor.”

  “Schools for the poor?” Lady Ellen asked. “What need have they for schools?”

  “That,” Reese punctuated the word with a finger in the air, “is the mentality that keeps the poor poor. You people give them no opportunities to improve their situation and then tell them they’re stupid. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. You’ve been given so much because of the simple circumstance of the family you were born into. Don’t you see the responsibility you have to help those who were not so fortunate in their birth? It’s not that hard, and it doesn’t take much to give them the tools to succeed.”

  “Miss Clarisse,” Jem said, “has always been a firm believer in the idea that people should pay for their time on earth by working to make it a better place for everyone.”

  Lady Ellen had been listening intently, but she blinked at that, seeming to study the words. “I like that.” A soft smile grew, and her expression turned dreamy again.

  The man next to her said something, and she shifted toward him.

  Reese shot Jem a thankful glance and leaned back so the servant could remove her bowl.

  “You can do this,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, like I’m doing so well.” She rubbed her temple like her head hurt.

  Chapter 4

  WHEN IT CAME TIME TO head into the ball, Reese accepted Jem’s arm again, not surprised when he offered his other to Lady Ellen. She accepted it with pink cheeks.

  Reese gave herself a mental kick at the twitch of irritation at the girl’s obvious crush on him. Ellen was a sweet girl, and she seemed a step above most of the people of her class. What kind of ogre brother did she have to keep her locked into the proper Victorian lady role?

  “I wish I had one of those dowager caps,” Reese muttered when they entered the ballroom.

  “Why?” Ellen asked. “Do you not wish to dance?”

  “No. I’m no good at it.”

  “Do you really think you’d be happy sitting with the matrons and listening to them talk of marriages and children?” Jem asked, teasing.

  “Just shoot me.” Reese let go of his arm.

  “Shoot you?” Ellen asked. “Ah, yes. Does everyone in America carry pistols? Do you need them to protect yourselves from the wild Indians?”

  “Those ‘wild Indians’ were just defending their lands from the thieving white—” Reese broke off when Jem gave her a soft nudge with his elbow. “Sorry. It’s just an expression to mean I would hate sitting with women who only wanted to talk about enslaving their daughters.”

  “Cousin,” Jem hissed. “When in Rome? You need to keep your tongue between your teeth.”

  She burst out laughing at his use of a term she’d only ever heard in a Regency romance.

  “I do not wish to be rude,” Ellen said, “but I find American conversation to be very strange.”

  “That’s not rude; it’s honest.” Reese noticed for the first time that they had become the focus of attention. “I’ll behave.” She fumbled the fan from her wrist and opened it, trying to remember how to use it to signal to guys that she didn’t want to dance.

  Which one was the “no” sign? Was it resting it on the cheek or drawing it through the hand? Or was that the folding one? Reese stared at the fan in her hands, seeing it now for the dangerous thing it was. Maybe she better not use it. If she did it wrong, she could get herself into some serious trouble.

  “Lady Ellen,” she whispered, “how do I let gentlemen know that I don’t want to dance with them?”

  “Miss Clarisse,” she said, “you cannot decline unless you are already engaged in a dance. Courtesy demands it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Reese said, indignant. “Lizzie told Mr. Darcy she wouldn’t dance with him.”

  “You have read Pride and Prejudice?” Ellen perked up.

  “Of course she has,” Jem said. “All the ladies have read that one.”

  “As have I,” Ellen said. “My brother does not approve of my reading novels. He fears I will become a bluestocking and not make a suitable match.”

  Reese, who already didn’t have a high opinion of this brother, grew angry.

  “And what’s wrong with a well-read woman? Men don’t want a wife they can actually hold an intelligent conversation with?”

  “You’re doing it again,” Jem said, softly.

  Reese snapped her mouth shut, frustrated at herself. Nellie’s tonic sure didn’t give her discretion. Maybe she should just sleep through the next month. She tapped Jem’s arm.

  “Please give Aunt Nellie my apologies. I have a headache and am retiring early.” She turned and left the room.

  ***

  Jem watched Reese go, not sure if he ought to follow after her but not sure what he would say. Maybe he was the problem, pointing out things she shouldn’t say. She normally had more tact. He wondered if Nellie’s soothing tonic was having an odd effect on her by making her feel too free.

  Since their arrival, he had been trying to recall what he knew of the Victorian era to help not make some of the
same mistakes. He knew more about the Regency period because that was what Kaitlyn had been fascinated with. She’d mentioned reading a few books from the period, and he’d picked up a few to give them things to talk about.

  What had struck him the most had been the mentality of the time period. The “Quality” had held a different view on relationships. Marriages had been looked on as business arrangements, ways to increase status, wealth, and property holdings.

  Austen might have joked that a single man with a fortune must be in need of a wife, but Jem wondered how many men of this day went looking for fortunes too. He thought men had also participated in the Marriage Mart.

  If Nellie spread the word that the girls were American heiresses, the house could be flooded by eligible men wanting to marry a fortune. He wished he’d been there when Nellie had told Reese about that. How many of the guys would be fortune hunters? What a surprise for them when they found out none of them had any money.

  He stared into the air. Reese couldn’t be lured by a title and fortune, could she?

  Beside him, Lady Ellen shifted.

  “I must apologize for my cousin,” Jem said, remembering his manners. “She’s unhappy with the cultural differences.”

  “I had not thought them to be so very different.” Ellen glanced over Jem’s shoulder and a little crease appeared between her brows, though she schooled her expression quickly. He turned around.

  A well-dressed, middle-aged man swaggered toward them, his attention on Ellen. Even with Jem’s limited knowledge of 1850 men’s fashions, the quality of the man’s clothing was impressive. In a room full of impeccably dressed people, this guy stood in a class of his own. His mannerisms were too effeminate for Jem’s modern sensibilities, but many admiring glances were cast his way.

  “Thinks a lot of himself, doesn’t he?” Jem pitched his voice so only Ellen could hear it, and she gave a soft sound, much like a choked-back laugh.

  “Why, yes,” she said under her breath as she executed a perfect curtsy. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Lady Ellen.” The man bowed over her hand, almost possessive in the way he held it. “I believe I have the first two dances.”

  “You do, Lord March.” She indicated Jem. “Might I introduce Aunt Nellie’s American guest, Mr. Jamison Taylor, to you?”

  Jem hesitated, not sure if he should extend his hand. When March peered at him like Jem was so much lint on his sleeve, Jem was glad he hadn’t.

  “Shall we, Lady Ellen?” Lord March didn’t wait for an answer but guided her firmly to the dance floor.

  Opening and closing his fists, Jem watched them. There was a term he’d heard Kaitlyn use before from the Regency time, one that described what the lord had just done. Cut direct. That was it. So, this guy thought he could socially ostracize Jem. Why would he do that to a total stranger?

  For the first time, Jem sympathized with Reese’s sentiments about the wealthy. Not that he’d had all that much experience interacting with really rich people in their own time. His parents were well enough off, having inherited horse property, but he and Kaitlyn had never run with the rich kids.

  Ellen’s response to March bothered him. She seemed like a nice kid, and that lord must be twice her age. As Jem watched them dance, he noted how her body language contradicted her fake smile. Why did he feel so protective of her? She had probably died of old age more than a century ago. Yet, as he watched her, all those things about women in history that Reese was always ranting about struck home. He could have used some of her insight right now about this. If a guy ever looked at Kaitlyn like that—

  Alarmed, he scanned the room. What a loser brother he was, to leave her to be preyed on by some Victorian vulture. Jem spotted his sister dancing with Cyrus and let out his breath. She would be safe with him.

  “Mister Taylor,” Nellie said from his side. He started, and she grinned. “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “I—” Jem broke off, unsure how to put them into words. “That man with Lady Ellen, Lord March.” Something flashed across Nellie’s expression but then was gone. It reminded Jem of what had crossed Ellen’s face. “What is he to her?”

  “We expect news of their engagement as soon as she turns twenty-one in a few months.” Nellie’s gaze followed the couple waltzing around the room. “It would be an eligible match for the younger sister of an Earl, as Lord March owns several estates and has a good fortune. It would be an excellent match for him, as it would connect him to Lord Hildebrand who is quite powerful.”

  “Is Lord Hildebrand her father?” Jem continued to watch the couple.

  “No, her father died when she was quite young,” Nellie said. “Gareth Hildebrand is her much older brother, the son of the old Earl’s first wife.”

  “I’m guessing Lord March has political aspirations,” he said.

  “Who has political aspirations?” Reese asked from behind.

  “Welcome back.” He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. “How’s your headache?”

  She ignored him and stepped between them. “I thought I might go to sleep, but when I got back to my room, I was still too wired.”

  “The tonic is wonderful, is it not?” Nellie asked. “Do you truly have a headache? The tonic should have relieved it.”

  “I think her headache was more philosophical,” Jem said.

  “Ah. I understand,” Nellie said.

  “Who is that man dancing with Ellen?” Reese asked. “I don’t like the looks of him.”

  “He’s a piece of work, that’s for sure,” Jem said.

  “As I was telling Mr. Taylor,” Nellie said, “Lord March desires a connection with Lord Hildebrand, who has many important political connections.”

  “Is he a rake?” Reese asked.

  “Which one?” Nellie sent her a sidelong glance, an odd twist to her mouth.

  “So, March and Ellen’s brother are rakes?” Reese asked, but their hostess only shrugged.

  “A rake?” Jem knew he’d heard the term before but couldn’t remember what it meant. He was pretty sure she didn’t mean the garden tool.

  “A man of loose morals, one who preys on women,” Reese said. “A lot of rich men in this time act all virtuous in public and then do the dirty on the side.”

  “Sadly, it’s not all that different in our time,” Jem said.

  “But modern women don’t have to stay with a cheating husband,” Reese said hotly.

  “And guys don’t have to stay with a cheating wife.” Jem faced her. “You’re being unfair, and it’s not like you. Not all men are like that, and you know it. Don’t paint all of us with your father’s brush.”

  Her eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth, but Nellie stepped between them.

  “Now, now,” she said. “Mister Jem has a duty to my guests. You must dance.” She pointed to the side where two young women sat with older ladies. “The Atwood sisters need some attention. I’m sure their cards are empty.”

  Jem glanced at Reese, but she wouldn’t look at him. He straightened his jacket and strode across the room.

  ***

  “You were quite harsh, Miss Clarisse,” Nellie said when Jem was out of range. “I apprehend that you do not approve of a woman’s role in this time. However, you must conform while you are here. Consider the rare opportunity you have been given to observe a different culture firsthand. These people are a reflection of theirs, as you are of yours. If you insist on acting the termagant, no one will listen to you.”

  “Termagant?” Reese asked, insulted.

  “If what you seek is to influence change, I suggest subtlety.” The older woman gave her hand a gentle pat and walked away.

  Reese fumed for a few seconds, but Nellie’s words rang true. If she had to be here, she might as well take advantage of an opportunity to “influence” change. That would be good.

  Or would it? Could she make things better? But what if the changes made things worse? If magic really was a fuzzball, maybe the ability to change the future was all nonsense.<
br />
  Now she really was getting a headache.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Kaitlyn, on Cyrus’s arm, stepped beside Reese. “Though Cora didn’t look like she was enjoying herself.”

  “Where is Cora?” Reese scanned the ballroom.

  “I think she’s gone looking for somewhere quiet,” Kaitlyn said. “Isn’t this even better than the Regency Ball? It’s so real.”

  “Seriously, Kate? It’s real?” Reese laughed.

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” Kaitlyn said, coloring. “I love experiencing the real thing. I want to experience all of it.”

  “Even the liaisons,” Reese said with raised brows, “and the seductions—”

  “She’d better avoid those,” Cyrus interrupted, shooting Kaitlyn a teasing glance. “Unless she wants me and Jem to have the real experience of dueling.”

  “That’s sweet,” Kaitlyn said. “Would you really fight a duel for me?”

  “Don’t even think of it,” Reese said. “Remember what I said about no antibiotics? People used to die from infections after dueling.”

  “Duels are illegal anyway, aren’t they?” Kaitlyn asked.

  “These people believe they are the law,” Cyrus said, his humor gone. “They do what they want.”

  “Then be careful not to step on one of their social land mines.” For a second, Reese thought of how easy it would be for Jem or Cyrus to offend one of the hot-headed bucks of this time. She didn’t know which was more dangerous—having no honor like a lot of guys she knew back home, or too much honor, like in this time.

  “Here comes Aunt Nellie’s nephew,” Kaitlyn whispered.

  William Milton approached their group. “Ladies, Mr. Manning,” he said with a bow. “My aunt has asked me to encourage you to dance and meet her other guests, as Mister Taylor is doing.”

  “Since you have just danced with Miss Taylor,” William said to Cyrus, “I would suggest you find another partner who is not of your party.”

  “Miss Hamilton,” William bowed and extended his hand, giving Cyrus a sidelong glance, “might I have the honor of this dance?”

  “Oh, all right.” Cyrus strode away.

  “Why, yes, Mr. Manning.” Reese curtsied and took William’s hand which he was still holding out to her. “What about Kaitlyn?”