by Lisa Cach
“I don’t know,” Elle said, entertained despite her protesting bladder. “Maybe if George were a duke, you wouldn’t find him half so appealing.”
Louise turned outraged eyes on her. “Eleanor Margaret Elizabeth Frances Moore, I do not believe my ears. This, from you of all people? That fever has done more than addle your throat, if that is how you now see it. Has a touch of the influenza changed you so much?”
“I’m not feeling quite myself today.”
Louise snorted disdainfully. “Obviously not. Next thing I know, you will be telling me you have formed an attachment to horrid Lord Henry.”
“Rest assured I have not.”
Louise eyed her speculatively. “I knew your ‘illness’ for a ruse, you know. I expected you to remain deathly ill until well past the day, and then maybe he would think you were too sickly to be worthwhile. Not strong enough to bear the noble heirs and such. You truly were ill, though, were you not, to get your voice like that? Or are you faking?”
“My illness might have killed me.”
Louise giggled. “You could always relapse Friday morning.”
“When there have been so many preparations made?” Elle paused, trying to think of something else logical to say. “I wish Lord Henry would not be there, of course.”
Louise broke into gales of laughter and collapsed onto the opposite chair. “I was worried about you for a moment, Ellie. Yes, it is too bad that Lord Henry will be there. Pity we could not do the thing without him.”
“He is unpleasant.”
“You have grown kind. What happened to ‘penniless parasitic pauper, grubbing in the dirt for farthings’? And ‘tasteless, uncouth barbarian, with a face like a stone’? And let us not forget how old he is. Why, he is positively ancient compared with you. An eighteen-year-old girl should not waste her life on such an old man.”
Eighteen? Elle was twenty-five. Apparently no one had noticed Eleanor’s sudden aging. Perhaps they put it, as well as the accent, down to the flu. Useful thing, influenza. “He’s not really that old, is he? And money isn’t everything.”
“Well, of course it is not everything to me, Ellie, but you cannot pretend that you have not been complaining for the past three months about how poor you will be after Lord Henry spends all your money on his dismal farm. It is not like he bears any love towards you, like my George for me. My heart weeps at the thought of you married to the earl of Allsbrook, no matter his title.”
Elle’s mouth dropped open as the light belatedly clicked on. Eleanor was to be married on Friday, and now that she was playing that part, she would be the one getting a husband in an arranged marriage. Just as she’d wished on that coupon.
“Do you think it will be such a poor match, then? Truly?” she asked, stunned.
“How you have found the courage to go through with it, I do not know.”
She wasn’t really going to have to marry a man she had never seen, was she? None of this was at all what she had intended when she’d used the coupon. She hadn’t been serious. No, this was not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. She had to find a way to wake up, or get back home, or do something to get out of here.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m not feeling well, Louise. I’m sorry, but I think I should return to my room.” Elle got up and shuffled to the door, then turned. “I forgot to ask—I’ve been so sick—what day is it today?”
“Wednesday, Ellie.” There was concern in her voice. “You look ashen all of a sudden. You really were sick, were you not?” She came over to her, and gave her a warm hug. “Are you certain you truly are well, and well enough to be married?”
“Do I have a choice in the matter?” she asked wistfully.
“We both know what happened to Catherine Toomesby when she tried to refuse marriage to that awful man her parents chose,” Louise said, her voice dropping. “Locked in her room for three weeks, given brown bread to eat, and beaten into submission. Father is that determined to marry us up the ranks; I would not be surprised if he stooped to the same measures if thwarted.” Louise looked uneasy, her smile gone. “His temper is short enough as it is, Ellie, with you being ill so close to the day. Dr. Simms had quite a job convincing him that you truly ailed.”
“Yet you seem so willing to run off with your George.”
“You know it is but a dream. Father would never allow it. I do not want to think about what he would do if I attempted such a thing.”
Elle nodded with new, unwelcome understanding, then slipped back to her own room.
Chapter Four
Elle finished and put the lid back over the chamber pot, skulking back to her bed feeling as if she’d done something wrong. It was mortifying to have to leave her waste sitting there behind the dressing screen for someone else to remove. The neatnik in her could barely stand it.
She’d spent the day within the confines of her room, on the order of Dr. Simms. Clarice had come and gone several times, and Mrs. Moore had come by once more to check on her and to tell her that she would be allowed to choose a new lady’s maid. Apparently the previous one had been indiscreet with a footman and was in a family way. For the most part, though, Elle was expected to sleep and gather her strength for her wedding day, so she had not had any other visitors.
She had tried to entertain herself with a thorough inspection of her room. Most amusing had been digging through the clothespress and the dresses. It was like her girlhood fantasies of being a princess had finally come true, with their velvets and satins, embroidered silks, and foaming, falling lace.
The undergarments were equally as rich, although much more confusing in their variety. There was not a pair of panties in sight, but a surfeit of fine thin garments related to slips and camisoles and shirts. There was also a collection of corsets and stays of different lengths, and Elle had played with them like a child. And the odd pads in various shapes and sizes with dangling straps—where were they worn, and how? She had held one of the corsets up in front of herself and looked in the mirror. It seemed a much easier solution to a tummy bulge than diet and exercise.
The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. 11 P.M. The day had gone slowly, despite the time spent rooting through the clothes and personal belongings of her eighteenth-century double.
Elle went to the armoire, pulled open the doors, and rummaged around for the one pair of sturdy shoes she had seen earlier. Most of the footwear was as delicate and decorative as the gowns and underclothes, but there was one pair that was dark brown leather and low-heeled, with a silver buckle devoid of gems and filigree. There was no clear difference between the right and the left shoe, so she sat on the floor and slipped them on the way they looked most worn.
She went to the clothes press and opened a few drawers, debating the gowns that lay spread out so neatly. There were a few that were not so ornate as the rest, a few that looked more for outdoor pursuits like walking, but she could not see herself trying to get into one without help. Instead, she grabbed a dark, hooded cloak off a hook in the armoire and swept it on. It covered her nightgown and was thick enough to be warm.
She was anxious to find out if there was some way to get home, or at least to find some definite answers to the questions that buzzed like angry yellow jackets in her mind. The best solution she could think of was to go back to the hill she had awoken on.
It had been this thin plan of action that had allowed her to keep control of herself all day. As long as she had a plan, she could keep the seed of anxiety from germinating and sprouting big, ugly tentacles of panic.
She mounded pillows under her bedcovers in imitation of a sleeping form, then blew out the few candles that remained burning. She’d seen people do this in movies, but had never thought that she herself would have reason to resort to such a subterfuge.
Elle crept out into the hallway and paused uncertainly. The candles in the sconces were still lit, casting light where Elle had thought all would be dark. Weren’t people in bed yet? She listened for a moment, hearing the fa
intest hint of voices and laughter, then shrugged to herself. What did she have to lose?
She scampered quickly down the hall, to the small door she vaguely recalled from the previous night. She opened it and went lightly down the wooden stairs, one hand holding up the hem of her cloak and nightgown. The stairwell was plainly intended for servants. She went as quickly as she dared on the unfamiliar steps, afraid of meeting someone.
The stairs ended in a dim stone-floored hallway, with doors and passages opening off it. There was the noise of a kitchen nearby: pots banging, dishes clattering, voices raised in anger at a task done poorly. Elle could smell meat cooking, and the yeasty, buttery smell of pastries or bread.
Her stomach rumbled at the enticing scents, but she could hardly go in and filch a snack. Boullion and toast all day had left her appetite anything but satisfied. With a quick stab of regret she turned away from the source of the delicious smells and looked for an exit.
It took only a moment to locate the door that led out to the cobbled yard. Here, too, there were lanterns lit against the darkness, and Elle could see that there were stables across the yard. A few men and boys were moving around, one leading a horse. No one had noticed her. She pulled the hood up over her head, then sidled along the wall into the shadows.
From which way had she come? She couldn’t remember clearly. She came to a corner of the house and peered around the edge. Windows threw light upon the ground halfway down the building, and she could hear the murmur of voices. This side of the house looked over the gardens, and she was fairly certain that she had not passed through those manicured grounds on her arrival. Still, she was drawn like a moth to the light that spilled from those windows, and curiosity guided her steps in their direction.
The casements were partially open to the night air, letting out the heat of bodies and candles. Elle climbed the low terrace steps, then crouched near a window, slowly raising her head until she could see over the sill, hoping the dark hood pulled low on her brow would make her indistinguishable from the black of the night.
The people within, scattered about a room with high ceilings and rich furnishings, were talking noisily, laughing and chatting; some were playing cards. Chairs and sofas were arranged in conversational groups, small tables were being used for card games, and at one end of the room sat a harpsichord covered from leg to lid with painted pastoral scenes.
The men wore knee breeches and white hose, and black buckled shoes upon their feet. The women wore dresses that were a match in luxury to the ones in Eleanor’s clothespress. A few of the older women wore gowns with paniers, which pushed their skirts out to the sides, but the others favored dresses that fell in slender bells. Everyone—men and women—wore their hair either covered by a wig or powdered.
Elle gaped at them through the window. She watched the women flick their fans open and closed, gesturing and tapping companions’ arms. She watched the cardplayers place cards upon the table with either triumph or chagrin, one player keeping a tally on a small sheet of paper. A pair of elegant young women gossiped with each other, their heads bent close as their eyes scanned the room. A group of men stood in a circle and pontificated, looking very much as if they each thought they had the right of the discussion.
Some half-conscious awareness of a presence broke through her study. She turned her head to the left and gave a violent start at the dark shadow that stood not four feet from her. She let out her breath, her hand going to her heart when she realized it was a man, and not some beast from the dark.
“Oh, God, you scared me,” she said.
“What are you doing out here?” The voice was deep, masculine, and mildly curious, sending a rumbling echo through Elle’s suddenly hollow chest.
She shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, and gave the guilty child’s answer. “Nothing.”
“You were spying on them.”
“Them?” She peered at him in the darkness, able at least to make out that he was dressed as they were inside. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
He was silent for a moment, and his answer came slowly. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
She relaxed a bit. He did not sound threatening. “And I wasn’t spying, really—just observing.”
“Do you make it a habit, this ‘observing’?”
She liked the sound of his voice, smooth and deep, with that well-modulated British accent. She wished she could see him better.
As if hearing her thoughts, he stepped forward into the light. His hair was covered by a wig, but the eyebrows that slashed across his forehead were black arcs, and the eyes beneath so dark they looked as if light could not escape them. His nose was straight and slightly long, and his sculpted lips betrayed a slight hint of amusement.
She stared at him, flustered by his handsomeness, then gathered her scattered thoughts to answer his question. “I would like to do it more, but people have the annoying tendency to notice and object.” She was rewarded by an almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. For a moment it felt like they were coconspirators, out in the dark, spying on those within.
“Tell me what you see, when you look in there.”
Elle looked back through the window, entranced anew by the colors and textures. “Silk and brocade, jewelry, fans, powder and hair.”
She heard him sigh softly, as if disappointed. “Yes, I suppose you would.”
“And . . .” What did that little sigh mean, that she was some poor girl who could see nothing but the wealth? “Greed, envy, sloth, lust, anger, and ample evidence of past gluttony.”
“I think you left pride out of your listing of the seven deadlies.”
“That’s because you’re out here.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Touché.” He cocked his head slightly. “Where is your home? You are not from this area.”
Elle stepped farther back into the shadows, ensuring that her face was invisible within the hood. Her fingers fluttered noncommittally in the air. “Er, no . . .”
He took a step towards her. “I have never heard an accent quite like yours.”
She started backing away, aware now of his physical presence. He was just under six feet tall, and of medium-shoulders and slender build. His size was not imposing in itself, but the strength and smooth control inherent in his movements made her nervous. She herself was five feet five, a decent height, but no match for him if he wished to detain her.
He reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder, and she froze, wide-eyed, trying to gauge his intentions.
“Stay a moment. I will not spoil your fun if you wish to watch longer. ’Tis harmless enough.” His hand gently squeezed her shoulder, sending an unexpected ripple of sexual awareness through her.
“You won’t tell anyone you saw me, will you?” His hand became a subtle invitation, its warmth seeping through the cloak to her skin.
“Mademoiselle, there is nothing to tell. I have not seen you.”
His head bent down to hers, and for a moment she knew he was going to kiss her. “No!” She jerked out from under his hand, wild thoughts of what a stranger alone with her in the dark might do. “You think you can force your attentions on any young woman you find?”
He straightened. “Your pardon, but I had no intention of doing any such thing.”
He sounded amused by it! “Right. I’ve read about men like you, wenching with helpless servant girls.”
“I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I was merely trying to see your face.”
“Oh! Oh!” Her face flamed as she heard the truth in his voice. She was so stupid. “Well, you had no right to do that, either. My face is my own business.”
For the first time traces of suspicion crossed his composed features, and he grabbed her arm. “Just what are you up to out here?”
Elle glared up at him, his face once again in shadow. She debated for a moment, then hiked her skirt and kicked his self-controlled person in the shin.
His grip loosened in surprise, although he did not gratify her with a noi
se of distress. She pulled free of his hand. “You have no right to hold me,” she told him, then turned and gathered her skirts in both hands, leaping down the terrace steps and running into the safety of the night.
Embarrassment and anger burned her cheeks. How dare he grab her arm? But it was her own stupid expectation of a kiss that appalled her, and his unflappable composure. That almost emotionless face clearly said he had never considered such a thing, and never would.
She made it back to the cobbled stableyard, and seeing no one about, she darted across it and off to one side, where a dirt road led off into woods. She went slowly once she reached the cover of trees, uncertain of her footing and the direction of the road.
The sounds of the night countryside surrounded her: owls softly hooting, leaves rustling in the breeze, insects buzzing and whirring. Some animal moved through the underbrush to her right, snapping twigs as it went. Elle tried to think of what animals roamed wild in the English countryside, but couldn’t think of anything more dramatic than deer and hedgehogs.
The road was uneven beneath her feet, rutted by wheels. She tried to stay between the ruts, and as a result tripped several times on what she strongly suspected to be piles of horse manure. It certainly smelled that way.
The road eventually led out of the woods and through a field, where the moonlight let her see a hill across the open space. The breeze picked at the opening of her cloak, its chilly fingers seeking to pull it wide. She clenched the woolen folds more closely, her step a bit faster. The road veered away from the hill, heading into the trees across the field. She left the road and cut across the short grasses.
The hill itself was no easy climb, and it wasn’t until five minutes later that she found herself near the top, winded and sweating from the exertion. She sat on the grass and tried to catch her breath, surveying the silver and black landscape before her. It looked similar to what she could recall from last night, but that was saying little.