Feeling completely self-conscious as everyone watched me, I climbed into the massive bed and let Rosemary put the blanket back over me. She gave me a smile as she stepped back, and I instantly felt better.
The earl took her place, standing right next to me. “You need to take the medicine Dr. Taylor left with me.”
I put out my palm, expecting a pill.
He cleared his throat. “No, I need you to open your mouth. I need to place this on your tongue.”
Was it my imagination, or had his voice trembled just a little?
Despite there being other people in the room, it felt strangely intimate to have him placing those drops on my tongue. After four, he withdrew his hand, and I closed my mouth. My tongue burned. The taste was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
And within seconds, my limbs became lethargic and everything around me had a soft haze to it. I looked up at Hartley, who, not surprisingly, still scowled. Then he gave me an assessing look, like he was trying to figure out how much he could get for me on eBay.
“I do not know what your father has told you of our arrangement, Miss Blythe, but I will go over the details when I return. James will be difficult to entice. He is quite devoted to his experiments. Do not be concerned—I have a plan.”
A giddy, bubbly feeling made me grin at him. My eyelids felt extremely heavy, and it took all the energy I had left to look up at him. I reached out and took his hand. He looked stunned.
“Since I may not see you again, I just wanted to tell you that you have this sexy, glowering Heathcliff thing going on for you that I really like. And by Heathcliff I mean the guy from Wuthering Heights and not the cartoon cat.” I lost the fight to keep my eyes open. I sighed and said, just before I passed out, “I hope I dream you again.”
* * *
Hartley drew back the cloth curtain and stared out the window of his carriage, pointedly ignoring his thrice-removed cousin’s attempts at conversation. A quiet rain beat against the top of the carriage in a constant fashion, and thanks to him holding up the curtain, the rain managed to make its way inside his town coach. The inclement weather matched his foul mood.
The laudanum had obviously made the girl say what she had, that nonsense about dreams and cats. But how to explain her earlier behavior?
Perhaps, as Riverton had suggested, she had been in an accident of some sort. Hartley’s jaw tightened. He was certainly no stranger to the severity of accidents. He should count it fortunate that Miss Blythe survived if she had indeed been through such an experience.
If he could excuse her actions, how could he explain his own behavior? He crossed his arms over his chest. Such introspection usually did not sit well with him. He wondered if he was ill. He dispelled the notion by briefly putting the back of his hand to his forehead. Despite his hopes to the contrary, he had no fever.
He had never experienced such an immediate physical reaction to a woman. He had felt drawn to her and in the space of moments found himself imagining caressing her alabaster skin, touching her glossy raven’s-wing hair, kissing her lips. With a silent growl, Hartley pushed the images from his mind. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so much so soon, not even with . . .
Shifting in his seat, he refused to finish his thought, because it was a betrayal of her. A betrayal of the love they had shared. He would not think it. But when he shut down that line of thinking, his thoughts immediately again turned to Miss Blythe. The mere fact that he had chosen, even in his mind, to describe her as having raven’s-wing hair and alabaster skin showed how tragic he had become. He’d be writing bad love poetry next.
Hartley arrived at the conclusion that he had been without feminine companionship for far too long. How else could he explain his bizarre attraction to a woman who was disheveled, disoriented, and quite possibly a bit mad? No wonder her father had been so eager to agree to the deal. Dash it all, the impertinent chit had been bleeding and still he found her alluring.
Perhaps it had been the fact that her hair had not been pinned. The only time he saw a woman with her hair down was right before they did things that would have ruined any artfully arranged coiffure. No lady appeared in anyone’s presence with her hair down.
And her feet . . . they were bloody indecent. How had she lost her shoes? Their sudden disappearance concerned him because of the possible implications. That also did not bear thinking about. Instead he focused on her running about shoeless. What possessed her to do such a thing? If the gossips of the ton had seen her . . .
He knew he had only exacerbated the entire situation by not leaving Miss Blythe at the threshold of her bedroom. He should have let Mrs. Farnsworth or the maid administer the tincture. When Miss Blythe’s delicate pink tongue had darted out, it had nearly been his undoing. Like some bloody schoolboy. And like a green lad, his hand actually tingled, burned where she had touched him. Hartley flexed said hand, willing his thoughts to change their course. But they would not.
“Miss Blythe seems a bit unconventional. But your brother may like that.”
Riverton’s voice pulled Hartley from his reverie. He dropped the curtain back into place as he momentarily regretted his decision to confide the truth of his scheme to Riverton. He’d had little choice when Miss Blythe had shown up in such a state. Hartley preferred things to be orderly. Calculated. For them to make sense. Riverton immediately divined that something strange was happening, as Hartley did not allow any sort of nonsense in his life.
But Riverton knowing changed nothing. Fortunately, he would be tucked away at his estate, trying to undo the mess his uncle and elder cousin had made. He would not be in London to interfere or divulge information. The plan would be successful. The earldom would have its heir.
“I do not wish to discuss Miss Blythe any further, Riverton. We should make better use of our time by going over your financial books that you brought with her.” He gave him a look that would have immediately quieted anyone else.
Hartley’s look had no such luck with Riverton.
“With her?” Riverton repeated. He wore a devilish smile that let Hartley know just how amused he was.
“I did not say ‘with her.’ I said ‘with you.’”
Riverton added an annoying smugness to his expression. “No, you said ‘with her.’ Perhaps you were more affected by Miss Blythe than you care to admit. Perhaps it isn’t your brother who will end up as her husband.”
Hartley’s temper flared, and he wondered what the penalty would be for throttling a distant family member, especially given he had just cause. Outside of his immediate family, Riverton was the only other person he’d spoken to about Libby. He should know that Hartley would not and could not love another. “Now you are being ridiculous,” Hartley said, returning his gaze to the window.
“Am I?” Riverton mused.
“Enough,” Hartley ordered in an imperious tone that would have made a lesser man withdraw. He hated how close to the mark Riverton’s observations were. “As I have already stated, it is not something I wish to discuss.”
They lapsed into silence, making Hartley grateful. Miss Blythe was meant to marry his brother and provide a family full of heirs to keep the earldom from falling into the hands of any desperate cousins and to prevent James from the highly unsuitable match he seemed intent on pursuing. Once that had been arranged and the wedding done, Hartley would be able to relax. He assumed that as head of the family he could order James to marry Miss Blythe, but that would only encourage a rebellious response in him. He had no wish to drive James into Miss Godwin’s arms any sooner. James would have to be reasoned with, to understand that he had to marry a suitable woman.
Particularly since Hartley himself had no intention of marrying.
Ever.
Riverton again infringed upon his thoughts when he asked, “How do you suppose she made her toenails that color?”
“No more!” Hartley commanded, mainly to cover his embarrassment over his own illicit thoughts regarding Miss Blythe’s exotic toes.
It was going to be an unbearably long ride.
CHAPTER FOUR
I woke up, once again, slightly disoriented. A curtain had been pulled back, showing that it was a drizzly, overcast day. Still London. I had a moment of peace before I heard an unfamiliar voice ask, “Would you like some chocolate, miss?”
Sitting up, I quickly took in my surroundings. I was still here.
The woman that had been introduced to me as Rosemary placed a tray on the night table next to the bed. “I didn’t know if you would want to have breakfast downstairs. I thought you might prefer to dine in your room.”
That meant I had been asleep for hours and hours. As my lungs quickly expanded and contracted, the dress suddenly felt much too tight, making it so I couldn’t catch my breath. This was all wrong. I was supposed to go to sleep and wake up in reality.
I knew what this meant but couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t say it.
This was no dream.
“Do you . . . do you have a newspaper?” I asked in a strained voice, afraid I might start hyperventilating. Wasn’t that what they always did in those movies? Look at a newspaper to see the date?
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll go and fetch it for you at once.”
Once Rosemary had left the room, I realized that unshed tears burned at the corners of my eyes. Was I losing my mind? Having a nervous breakdown?
She returned quickly, not giving me much time to wonder whether or not mental illness ran in my family. I took the newspaper with shaking hands. Just from a quick glance, I realized that I had only ever seen papers like this on microfiche. Or on the Internet.
Now I held a brand-new copy of a newspaper that had been printed in . . . 1816. Monday, March 25, 1816.
“This can’t be true,” I said. “It can’t.” As if denying what I saw with my own eyes and saying the words would somehow magically make the date in front of me rearrange itself to the right one.
I had to get out. There had to be a way home. I could not be stuck in 1816. I threw my blanket off and began to run.
“Miss Blythe! Wait!” I heard Rosemary call after me. But I ran past the portraits in the hallway, only barely registering that they were different than the ones I’d seen just two nights ago, and bounded down the stairs. I rushed to the front door past several men in those same matching pale-blue outfits, still wearing their wigs.
I reached the door and yanked it open. The sun had peeked out from behind the clouds, brightening everything around me. I bolted outside, sloshing through puddles in my bare feet, and noticed that everything, absolutely everything, around me had changed. The houses looked different. There were old-fashioned lampposts. The road was not asphalt but cobblestone. I picked up my skirts and ran around the corner, away from Hartley Hall.
I’d made it only about one block, my tears blinding me, when I came to a halt. Carriages. Horses. Everyone in costumes. No telephone poles. No billboards. No cars.
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in the twenty-first century anymore,” I whispered.
I stepped out into the street, still disbelieving. A man driving a carriage said something like “Gorblimey,” and then he started yelling in what sounded like a Cockney accent. I couldn’t understand a single word he said.
Rosemary came up behind me, putting a shawl over my shoulders. She yelled back at the carriage driver, again in a language I couldn’t understand, and steered me back to Hartley Hall. I noticed one of the pale-blue suit guys was with her.
She said soothing words, trying to reassure me, but I was past hearing. I was overwhelmed by being in a situation that my mind could not comprehend, in a place I had no frame of reference for understanding.
We went back into the house, with all of the servants staring at me as Rosemary led me back up to my room. She continued talking, and I concentrated on what she was saying. “Eat your breakfast, and I’ll come and fetch you when the dressmaker’s arrived.” I nodded, and that seemed to satisfy her.
When the door closed, I got up and started to pace. This was not a dream. It was not a hallucination. This was all very, very real.
Somehow, I had time traveled. I had gone back two hundred years.
My brain seized on the memory that my Physics 215 professor had said it was impossible for time travel to occur. I couldn’t believe I had nearly failed that class. That stupid professor didn’t even know what he was talking about. The only reason I’d signed up for that particular class was because of my crush on Chris Reilly.
Who wouldn’t even be born for another 180 years.
Feeling light-headed, I sat down on the floor, putting my head between my knees. This was real. This was happening.
But I couldn’t really wrap my head around it. My mind was like a computer set to defrag its hard drive. The information was there but jumbled up and all over the place. It would take me time to line everything up and sort it out so that I could understand it.
Some still-hysterical, panicked part of my brain reminded me that this was all my fault. I’d told the guidance counselor that I wanted to see the world. I probably should have specified that I wanted to see it in my own century.
Because despite majoring in history, I’d had no desire to live through any other time period than my own. I enjoyed modern life. Electricity. Air-conditioning. Heaters. Plumbing.
Plumbing! My very full bladder reminded me that I had no idea how I was supposed to go to the bathroom here!
I went out into the hallway, and luckily enough, the first door I opened had something that resembled a toilet. I didn’t know how it worked, but I made a mental note to ask Rosemary later.
When I finished, I returned to my room, closing the door behind me. I’d figure everything out, even the bathroom situation. I was a college graduate. Where, despite my physics class, I’d done very well, thank you. It had been out of necessity. I had multiple scholarships that required me to keep my grade point average up. And I quickly realized that there would be no way to do that if I partied like everyone around me. I saw too many people dropping out of school once their regular blood alcohol levels exceeded their GPAs. But with both of my parents dead and no family at all to speak of, I had to rely on myself. Get the best education I could.
I’d been at something of a loss when I graduated, trying to figure out my next step. And when the Portwood Foundation contacted me, offering to interview me for a job in London, I’d been so flattered, so excited to finally have an objective in mind, that I hadn’t stopped to consider that it seemed too good to be true. And considering I was currently sitting in a house in 1816, it obviously had been.
And curse me for not studying European or British history! What good would my training in American history do me now? As a distraction, I tried to think of what was happening in the United States in 1816. The War of 1812 was over. Who was president—Madison? Monroe? I didn’t recall anything particularly eventful from that year.
But as far as distractions went, it was short-lived.
I couldn’t hide out in my room forever. I had to make some plans. For now, the best thing for me would be to stay in Hartley Hall. They were under the mistaken impression that I was someone else. What had Hartley said he thought my name was? Oh, right. Emily. Emily Blythe. I wondered who Emily Blythe was and where she was. If she showed up, that would be very, very bad for me.
Because I had a vague notion of what living on the streets of London in this era would be like. My roommate my senior year had been a musical theater major, and I’d been subjected to the movie version of Oliver! no less than ten times. I’d enjoyed it because as an orphan like Oliver, I liked the idea of having some unknown but wealthy relative who would love me and whisk me away from it all. But what I remembered now from that story was the seedy underbelly of this city, and I realized that if they threw me out, I’d be dead inside of a week. I had been barely able to understand anything that carriage driver had said—what if I was suddenly surrounded by a sea of people speaking what essentially felt like a foreign l
anguage?
I had nowhere to go, no means of providing for myself. I was stuck. I couldn’t get a job. I didn’t even have any shoes! If the Earl of Hartley was willing to let me stay here, that was what I would do. For as long as I could.
Until I found a way home.
And there had to be a way home. I refused to accept any other possibility. If I went back through time, there had to be a way to go forward in time.
Logical. I had to be logical and stop freaking out, imagining cutthroats and pickpockets finishing me off when I was kicked out. I took several deep breaths, in and out. How had I arrived? There had been no magic doors, no bright lights, and I would have remembered if there had been a big phone booth. So time machines were definitely out. Something I had done triggered this. The storm? The dress? The house?
I sat on the floor, putting my legs out straight in front of me, and leaned against the bed. I smoothed my skirt, and that action made me remember. The piece of paper. The writing. The words.
But what kind of words would cause something like this to happen?
Magic words.
I almost laughed because it was too ridiculous. I didn’t believe in magic.
Or time travel.
But here I was. And nothing had happened until I read that little piece of paper. I tried to recall what I had said, but it was useless. I hadn’t memorized it and couldn’t remember it. It hadn’t even been English.
If there were words to bring me here, there had to be words to send me back. And they had to be here in this house, somewhere. I decided there was a way home and that I would find it. It had to be written in something. A journal or a book. The logical place to start looking was the library.
Sneaking out of my room, I managed to avoid any human contact all the way down to the library. When I tried to open the door, it was locked. I let out a deep sigh, resting my forehead against the door. Of course it was locked. Because nothing was going to work the way that I wanted it to.
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