It's About Time

by Charlotte Douglas

  Now was his chance to repay the kindness she’d shown him. For her own good, he’d offer options he knew she’d hate. Then she’d give in and allow him to provide for her. “I’ll help you find work.”

  She blinked in surprise. “What kind of jobs are there for a woman?”

  He settled beside her on the sofa and took her hands, turning them over and examining her smooth palms. “Women of your class don’t work in my society.”

  “What about the other classes?”

  “Some are seamstresses—”

  “Forget that. I haven’t sewn a stitch since home economics class in high school.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. “Some work as cooks—”

  “Without a microwave, I’m hopeless,” she confessed with a sad laugh.

  “Or as maids or factory workers, but I doubt if they earn enough to make them truly independent.” He scowled at the thought of her standing long hours on an assembly line or kneeling to scrub floors.

  “What about professional women?” she asked.

  “There’s only one kind of professional woman in my day,” he admitted with a grin, “the world’s oldest.”

  She managed a feeble smile. “Surely women serve as teachers or nurses?”

  “Are you trained in nursing?” he asked, closing his hands around hers.

  She shook her head.

  “You might be able to teach, but often school boards insist that their teachers remain unmarried—and I have other plans for you.” He lifted her hands to his lips and planted kisses lightly on her knuckles.

  She tugged her hands away. “Then there’s no hope of having my own advertising agency?”

  He winced as his proposal fell on deaf ears. “You could have it. I told you I’d give you anything you want, and I meant it.”

  “Don’t you understand?” she cried. “If you give it to me, I’m just as indebted to you as if I didn’t work at all.”

  “I see.” His mind raced, searching for solutions. “Then I could loan you the money to start your own agency.”

  Her eyes glowed with hope for the first time since she’d stumbled through the time portal. “I’d pay you back—every penny.”

  “Whether you could make a success of it in a society that frowns on women owning businesses is doubtful,” honesty made him add.

  For a moment she looked ready to burst into tears, then indignation lighted her face. “If I could get my hands on Emma, I’d wring her neck!”

  “If Emma sent you here, she must have had a reason.”

  Victoria leaned down and picked up the rose bridesmaid dress and pink satin shoes Emma had flung through time. “She said you couldn’t save Angelina by yourself.”

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Now it all begins to make sense. Emma appears to you first, then Angelina’s ghost shows up. Next I pop into the picture. Now we’re both here together to prevent Angelina’s accident.”

  “If it’s not too late.” She spread the dress across the bed, then settled into a chair.

  Her jeans hugged her long, slender legs and rounded hips, and the peaks of her breasts thrust tantalizingly against her silk blouse. Tawny hair cascaded over one eye, framing the attractive curve of her face. She was the most exquisite woman he’d ever met, yet even now their happiness together seemed doomed. Whoever Emma was, she had a hell of a cruel streak.

  “Perhaps if we do as Emma wishes, she’ll send you back to the twentieth century.” The words tore at his heart as he attempted to reassure her. He wanted more than anything to keep her with him forever, but the spark of hope in her eyes convinced him his desire was futile.

  “Then we’d better get started,” she said. “If I’m missing from the hotel for long, the management will call the police. How will I explain where I’ve been?”

  “First, you’ll need a room.”

  “Why not share? Our arrangement worked out all right before.” Her smile skewered him with longing.

  “Times have changed, as the saying goes. If you are to associate with young Angelina, you must appear as a woman of impeccable character.”

  “And single women of impeccable character don’t share rooms with men.” She sighed and leaned her head against the chair, closing her eyes in resignation.

  Marriage would solve a number of problems, but he didn’t want Victoria tied to him as a matter of convenience. If ever they married, it must be because of love. Since she’d expressed the desire to return to her time, she obviously thought she could get along without him just fine.

  But she was here with him now. And although she wasn’t happy with the arrangement, just having her near him made his spirits soar.

  He opened the closet and drew out his clothes—jodhpurs, riding boots and a white shirt. “I’d better change before someone sees me in these jeans and running shoes. They’d be difficult to explain.”

  When he returned from the bathroom in his riding attire, she sat where he’d left her, staring at the wall where the time portal had opened earlier.

  Her eyes widened when she saw him. “I dreamed of you before we met. You were dressed exactly as you are now.”

  A faint tinge of pink stained her cheekbones, and the strength of his desire to press his lips there almost strangled him. He moved toward the door.

  “Why don’t you change into something more suitable?” He nodded toward the dress on the bed. “I’ll arrange for your room with the front desk.”

  “Wait.”

  She stood, stuffing her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, oblivious that her stance drew her shirt tighter across her breasts. Rubbing one foot against the back of her jeans leg, she raked her hair off her face with her fingers. “Who am I supposed to be?”

  She had a point. Why would a young, single woman, unchaperoned, be staying at the Bellevue?

  He considered several possibilities before deciding on the most convincing. “We’ll say you’re my cousin from Atlanta, here to recover from the untimely death of your parents. I’ll see what I can do about locating a chaperon.”

  “Chaperon? I haven’t been chaperoned since my junior high prom.” Her face flushed with resentment.

  He tried, but couldn’t restrain the grin that split his face. “Welcome, Miss Caswell, to 1897.”

  As the door closed behind him, she turned to remove her clothes, but the view beyond the window caught her eye. Even in the deepening darkness, she could distinguish the edge of the bluff, dipping to the gulf. Not a condominium or hotel anywhere in sight. Night herons skittered along the tidal flats, and black skimmers swept low over the gently breaking surf. The stars shone brightly in the western sky, unmuted by city lights. The loneliness of the deserted landscape chilled her, reminding her how much she’d lost.

  But you’ll always have Rand.

  She pushed the seductive thought away as she shucked her shirt and jeans. She floated the pink satin over her head, thankful the dress was fully lined with attached petticoats. Even so, if any Victorian ladies caught sight of her bare legs beneath her hems, they’d probably swoon with righteous outrage. Once she’d checked into the room Rand found for her, she’d have to hole up until she could acquire the necessary clothing.

  Turning to the mirror over the bureau, she attempted to arrange her hair in an appropriate style, racking her memory for Gibson Girl details.

  “I’ve booked you into 128, a suite across the hall,” Rand announced upon his return. “I was lucky they had a vacancy so close.”

  She turned to him and brushed back a curl falling in her eyes for lack of hairpins. “A room will help, but I’ll be stuck there unless you can arrange for additional clothing for me. I’ll cause a small scandal if I appear anywhere in public looking like a refugee.”

  Refugee. The word rang in her ears as she realized the seriousness of her plight, stranded in a strange time in a strange land, knowing no one but the man before her.

  As his gaze raked her from head to foot, she thrust a bare ankle into view, twir
ling it like a cancan dancer. “See what I mean?”

  His steely eyes stopped her. “I won’t be responsible for my actions if you continue that.”

  She raised her skirt higher. “You’ve seen me in much less.”

  With two broad steps, he crossed the room, reached out and dragged her to him, crushing her against his chest. His hand grasped the back of her neck, drawing her lips to his, while his other hand crushed the satin of her bodice.

  She gasped at the furor of his kiss, inhaling his scent of sunshine and sandalwood. As she twined her fingers in his hair, she strained toward him, feeling the hardness of his body through layers of petticoats. And her response had nothing to do with her dependence on him.

  Abruptly, he pulled away, holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length. The gravity of his expression frightened her. “We must live by a different code now. My society is much different from what you’re accustomed to.”

  His chastising tone brought back thoughts of women’s place in his time. Her temper flared. “Don’t lecture me.”

  He brushed her lips lightly with his own. “Not a lecture, just a friendly reminder. I want to spare you any embarrassment.”

  Her resentment faded. She touched a hand to her lips, swollen from the pressure of his mouth. More than anything she wanted to stay with him, to crawl between the sheets of the wide poster bed with him and never leave the room, never worry about social mores or bare ankles or chaperons—or Angelina.

  When he dropped his hands and moved away from her, she knew she would have to play by his rules. “What am I to do about my clothes?”

  He smiled a slow grin that assured her he wasn’t angry. “I told the concierge the railroad had lost your trunks. He said he would contact a seamstress in the village to see what can be done.”

  “Thank you.” She felt grateful and helpless at the same time, and she hated the feeling.

  The voices of people passing in the corridor brought a look of alarm to his face, and he dug into his pocket and fished out a key. “You must go to your room before anyone sees or hears you here.”

  She glared at him, despising his Victorian rules.

  He brushed back a lock of hair that had spilled over her eye. “It’s for your sake. It is always the woman whose reputation is harmed.”

  “It’s called a double standard in my time,” she muttered.

  He opened the door, peered up and down the hallway, then motioned for her to follow. They hurried the dozen yards to Room 128 unobserved. When he lifted the key to the lock, the door swung open. Emma stood there, dressed in a black taffeta dress and a black lace cap.

  “You!” Tory sputtered with anger. “This is all your fault!”

  “Don’t just stand there gawking, m’dear. Come in and welcome your dear aunt Emma, who’s come all the way from Savannah to stay with you.” Her long skirts rustled as she stood aside for them to enter. “You, too, young man. Now that I’m here, you’re properly chaperoned.”

  Tory shivered at the menace in Rand’s expression as he scowled at Emma. “You owe us an explanation, and it had better be good.”

  Undaunted, Emma pointed to a table beneath the windows. “You haven’t had your dinner yet, so I’ve arranged for tea and sandwiches.”

  Tory followed Rand inside, but a rumbling in the hallway distracted them. Emma opened the door wider and stood aside for the bell captain, who pushed a loaded luggage cart into the room.

  “Miss Caswell?” he asked.

  “I’m Miss Caswell.” Tory stepped forward, eyeing the gleaming leather and brass-bound steamer trunks the man hefted from his cart onto the Oriental carpet.

  “The desk sent these up. Said the railroad located your luggage and apologizes for the inconvenience.”

  Her mouth fell open in surprise. “My luggage? But—”

  “How efficient.” Emma beamed a smile at the bellman and lifted an eyebrow in warning to Tory. “My niece is delighted her wardrobe has been recovered.”

  Rand dug into his pocket for a coin and tipped the porter, who responded with a jaunty salute before dragging his empty cart away.

  When he’d closed the door behind the man, Rand turned to Emma. Anger glinted in his steel gray eyes and contracted the muscles of his jaw. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Emma bent over the first trunk and lifted the lid, exposing elegant dresses packed in tissue paper. “You can’t expect Victoria to live among the wealthy of the Bellevue without a proper wardrobe.” When Rand began to protest, she raised her hands. “I know, Mr. Trent, eventually, you would have provided her with all she needed. I’ve simply saved you both a great deal of time and embarrassment.”

  Dazed and mystified, Tory sank into the nearest chair. “But how—”

  Emma motioned to the chair across the table from Tory. “If you’ll take a seat, Mr. Trent, I’ll explain everything from the beginning.”

  He sat stiffly and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at Emma with undisguised hostility. “If you’re the one responsible for bouncing us back and forth in time, disrupting our lives, your explanation had better be damned good.”

  “How do you do all this?” Tory’s gesture encompassed the room and overflowing trunks. “Who are you?”

  Emma, seemingly unintimidated by Rand’s anger and Tory’s questions, poured tea from a silver pot and removed a damask napkin from a plate of sandwiches. “Beings such as myself are called many things—guardian angels, fairy godmothers—”

  “Right.” Tory smirked. “As in bippety-boppety-boo?”

  Rand’s frown deepened. “Bippety-boppety—”

  “The magic incantation of Cinderella’s fairy godmother,” Tory explained.

  “A dreadful stereotype.” Emma pursed her lips in disapproval. “However, I prefer the term facilitator. It’s much more up-to-date, more accurate, too.”

  She carried her cup and saucer to the sofa opposite them and spread her taffeta skirts around her, exposing the tips of small black boots.

  “Ridiculous,” Rand scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Your attitude is to be expected. We are instructed never, if possible, to make our presence known.” Emma sipped her tea daintily. “However, in this case, I’ve been given special dispensation.”

  “This case?” Tory asked.

  “Angelina Fairchild. That girl, whom I watched over diligently until she reached the age of twenty, had been assigned to my care.” Emma’s brow puckered thoughtfully and she ducked to set her cup on the coffee table, but not before Tory spotted glistening tears in her eyes. “Unfortunately, my care proved inadequate.”

  Tory experienced a twinge of sympathy for the little woman and her obvious distress over Angelina’s death. “After Angelina’s death, then what did you do?”

  Aware of Rand’s stiff posture across from her, Tory avoided his disapproving gaze.

  “What happened to me is unimportant,” Emma said. “Call it a mid-life crisis if you wish, but I blotted my copybook—”

  “Huh?” Tory’s forehead creased at the unfamiliar phrase.

  “Screwed up, I believe, is the indelicate way your generation puts it.” Emma leaned back against the sofa. “I was supposed to protect Angelina, who should have lived a long and happy life, but I was...distracted, and she died.” Emma withdrew a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with us.” Rand’s voice softened, but his fierce expression remained.

  “It’s a bit complicated.” Emma tucked her handkerchief into her cuff, patted the lace ruffles of her cap and folded her hands in her lap. “Facilitators have great powers, but dominion over life and death is denied us. We use the powers we have to expedite a birth or prevent a death, but once a person dies, we cannot bring them back.”

  “So there’s no hope for Angelina?” Tory asked.

  “Under normal circumstances, no,” Emma said, “but Angelina’s distress, her unplanned pregnancy, her refusal to leave this
world once her body died have created a tragic, unhappy situation, I’ve been given special permission to attempt to reverse her death.”

  “You still haven’t explained how we’re involved in this,” Rand said.

  Emma’s plump fingers twisted the folds of her skirt. “Although my Superior will not permit me to intervene personally to prevent Angelina’s accident, I am allowed to enlist two mortals to save Angelina’s life.”

  Rand’s eyes narrowed. “I understand why you’ve chosen me. I know Angelina and her lover. But why drag Victoria back a hundred years?”

  Emma sighed. “That was part of the deal.”

  “Deal?” Tory asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “To allow me to regain my standing—and more importantly, to save Angelina—my Superior insisted I make a trade.”

  “Hold on.” Rand jumped to his feet and moved to Tory’s side, placing an arm around her shoulders like a shield. “If a trade means swapping our lives for Angelina’s, you can forget it.”

  “You’re right in one sense, Mr. Trent,” Emma said. “But I’m not asking for your deaths. Only that you exchange the lives you have for new ones.”

  “I’m sorry for Angelina’s torment,” Tory said, “but I like the life I have just fine, thank you.”

  Emma shook her head sadly. “My Superior says Angelina can be saved only if I find two people whose lives are headed for irredeemable unhappiness. If I can persuade them to assist me, Angelina will be saved, and they will be happier in the bargain. You, m’dears, are those two.”

  “Of all the insulting—” Rand choked with rage, and as he drew closer, the muscles of his thighs tensed against Tory. “Who are you to say we’re headed for irredeemable unhappiness?”

  Emma’s lavender eyes flashed, and Tory shuddered when she glimpsed an intractable will behind the plump little maid’s facade.

  “I come not only from your future, Randolph Trent, but from Tory’s, as well. I know how both your lives will play out.” Emma stood and paced before them, and the rustling of her skirts accompanied her words. “You both are so consumed by your work, so removed from other people, I had to drug you to get your attention.”

  Rand remembered the night of his meeting with Phiswick and the hotel maid who kept refilling his glass. “You were here before—”