Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  “I... uh...” Isabelle hesitated.

  Lord Montagu’s jaw clenched and anger rolled off him in palpable waves. He obviously had something against this Sir Raphael guy. He’d not come out and asked her for that dance, but dancing it with Sir Raphael seemed wrong, somehow. Ada had told her etiquette required that if she turned down anyone for a set, she absolutely could not dance it with another. Lord Montagu continued to stare right back, controlled anger simmering in his eyes. Screw it—loyalty to her new friends was most important—who cared if Lord Montagu thought her forward.

  She smiled at Sir Raphael. “I am flattered, thank you. But I have already promised this set to Lord Montagu.”

  Please, don’t deny it. From the corner of her eye, she saw one eyebrow tilt up.

  His deep voice rumbled, laced with forced civility, “Indeed, Sir Raphael, you are too late. Again.” He crisply turned to her and held out his arm. “Miss Rochon?” He led her in silence to where other couples were gathering for the opening strains of the waltz, his anger still buffeting her.

  The first notes filled the air, and he swept her effortlessly into the waltz. Their rhythm established, she could no longer hold back her curiosity. “Thank you, my lord, for not embarrassing me. I know you had not asked me for this set, but I did not want to dance it with Sir Raphael.”

  His eyes locked with hers, but he said nothing. He surveyed the crowded room. “I am happy to oblige you.” Isabelle noted a stiffness in his words.

  Did he think she’d used him as only a convenient excuse to be rid of Sir Raphael and had no other reason to dance with him? And why did she care? Or was he offended by her boldness? Man, and she’d thought it hard navigating the singles scene in her own time.

  “That is not to say I would not have wanted to dance with you if he had not appeared,” she stammered. Heat crept up her neck and face. Oh, God, had she just said that? She’d wanted to make sure his feelings weren’t bruised, and now she’d kind of announced she liked him.

  His eyes snapped back to hers, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Well, I am glad of it, in the event, as I found I had no desire to see you dance with him.”

  What’s between these two men? They lapsed into silence. Isabelle concentrated on enjoying the dance. A kaleidoscope of colors whirled around her and she imprinted the scene on her mind. Can’t forget. This was what it felt like to dance a waltz with someone who knew how to dance it properly, with grace and style. Aware of his every move, the intensity was the same as the last time they danced, but the heat felt too much like controlled anger this time.

  The waltz over, the musicians struck up another tune for the second of the set. The strains of a slower waltz permeated the air. Isabelle ventured to pick up the conversation more or less where they’d left it. “I noticed a tension between you and Sir Raphael. What’s—” She almost said What’s his deal? and amended her words in time. “What is the trouble between you, if you do not mind me asking?”

  His eyes narrowed, the candlelight glinting off the flecks of green and gold. “I do mind.”

  Well. And with that, they danced the rest of the waltz in utter silence. He had certainly put her in her place. She was more than slightly pissed off about his attitude.

  Phineas led Miss Rochon from the dance floor. Since he found his strange fascination for her only on the increase, so, too, was his overwhelming desire to effect some distance between himself and Miss Byron’s American cousin. By the saints, he had nearly kissed her. She was unlike any lady of his acquaintance—an Original, to be sure. It intrigued, but confused him. She stirred something within him, and he was not sure he welcomed the sensation, like a pond that only wished to have the water disturbed, not the packed silt below. Then, to see that scoundrel show interest in her and feel the flood of anger, jealousy, and possessiveness that swamped him? What ailed him?

  They rejoined Miss Byron, and he pleaded some pathetic excuse about wishing to locate a certain gentleman and beat a hasty retreat.

  A round of cards could effect a cure, or at least a respite. He needed to think. He was at an impasse with his schemes and must find a way clear. She was a distraction. His growing interest in this strange American must not be indulged.

  Must it not?

  He stopped on his way to the card room and ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps, indeed, she was the solution to his current problem. If he could exercise a greater restraint around her. Marriage was out of the question, to be sure, but something short of that? It would still serve his purposes. Plus, he was very much mistaken if there was not something amiss in her life, something she withheld from him and everyone else. Perhaps she had a need of him too. Perhaps she would welcome the suggestion, the protection.

  Of course, he must be completely honest and open with her. To a point.

  Yes, tomorrow he would call on her and forward his proposition. A grim smile on his lips, he strode into the card room and played his hand.

  London, May 10, 1834

  Dear Katy,

  Are you sitting down? Seriously, if not, you need to. Okay. It’s your own fault now if you’re not. Wow, I’m stalling. Well, no doubt you’re confused. If the folks at Barclay’s Bank have followed my instructions, you’ve received this on May 10th. Tonight, we’re supposed to go see a movie, but I won’t make it. I can’t make it. Or, maybe I will, if time runs differently. Anyway, can you do me a big favor and stop by my place and pick up Roanoke? He should have enough food and water in his auto-feeder to last a few days, but he’ll get lonely. Hopefully, it won’t be for too long. His treats are in the hat box by his bed.

  For some reason, I’m having a hard time getting to the point.

  I guess it’s because if I write it down, confess/explain it all to you, it somehow makes it more real. Funny, you’ll have more proof than I will that this is for real and not some fevered dream in my head. You’ll have this letter, the age and weight of the paper in your hands, the knowledge from Barclay’s that they’ve kept this in their vault in trust for you since 1834. Weird. I can still tell myself I’m dreaming and making all this up. I guess this can serve as proof for me when I do return, because then you can show me this. LOL.

  So, here it is. Somehow, someway, I’ve traveled back in time and find myself in 1834 England. I know, crazy, right?

  Okay. Whew. Yeah. So, here’s the other favor I need—can you call my boss and tell him I’ve had to go back to the States suddenly? Death in the family? He already knows Mom, Dad, and Christy are gone, so maybe an uncle. Let him know I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I’ll have my paper for the conference done in time.

  Man, I’ve got to run. Wrapping up: I’m fine—someone’s taken me in, and you won’t believe who: Lord Byron’s daughter, Ada Byron Lovelace! And you’ll appreciate the irony—met a guy, but of course, he’s in 1834.

  More later. Love you lots,

  Belle

  P.S. Sorry about all the splotches—still learning how to write with a nib pen and ink!

  Chapter Nine

  What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger

  Is woman!

  Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto IX

  A thump and rustle jolted Isabelle from sleep. She sat up, blinked her eyes to clear them, and stared―a young girl busied herself at the fire.

  Good Lord, that’s right―servants waltzed into rooms without knocking. Isabelle muttered a “Good morning,” and the girl jumped and gave a quick curtsey.

  She poured fresh water into a bowl on the dresser, dragged the chamber pot from under the bed, and left without saying a word. Outside the window, it was barely light. Isabelle groaned and nestled back under the covers. Back. To. Sleep.

  The door clicked open again, awakening her.

  What is it now? She pulled the covers down. The maid approached with a tray. Breakfast in bed? Hells yeah.

  Isabelle scooched up and smoothed the covers with her hands.

  “If you please, miss, Miss Byron told me to inform you someone wi
ll be in shortly to assist you.”

  “Assist me? With what?”

  “With your toilette, miss.”

  Her...? Oh, right. Getting dressed. “Thank you.”

  “Also, she wishes to go to the modiste before breakfast at ten.”

  “Then what’s this?”

  The maid didn’t answer, only frowned, and placed the tray on Isabelle’s lap. A metal rack filled with toast, a small bowl of jam, and a cup of something with a light-brown, frothy top. She touched it. Hot. Coffee?

  “Wait. What time is it now?”

  The maid dropped her hand from the door latch and curtseyed. “It is eight of the morning, miss.” She scurried from the room. No wonder the sleepies still crowded her―they’d not returned from the ball until close to two in the morning.

  Okay, time to find out what the heck the drink was. She took a cautious sip.

  Pfthht.

  Oops.

  Isabelle blotted up the liquid she’d involuntarily spit out. Blech.

  She smacked her lips and ran her tongue over them to catch the taste again, certain it wasn’t coffee or tea.

  Wait... Chocolate? She sipped again, the brew thicker and lighter in color than any hot chocolate she’d ever had. But that had to be what this was. Hint of vanilla and cinnamon. She took another sip. Buttery? Weird. But strangely, it was kind of tasty. Hey, it was a form of chocolate.

  An hour later, trussed up in the same hideous dress as yesterday, Isabelle was in Madame Frenchet’s shop with Ada. Isabelle couldn’t see much, though, since she’d removed her contacts and placed them in jars of water before they’d set out. She let Ada handle the dressmaker.

  “I realize this is last minute, but could you take her measurements and send any dresses close to her size you already have made to Mrs. Somerville’s? Surely you have some unclaimed by clients?”

  A blurry shape moved around her and measured. Great. Her first time seeing London city life from over a century ago, and she couldn’t take in any details.

  They next visited the spectacle seller, Isabelle sticking close to Ada. It was different than she’d pictured―not that she expected modern machines to measure her eyes, but that it would be sort of medical, professional. Instead, glasses already lay scattered in piles for her to try on, like reading glasses. And if she interpreted the fuzzy shapes correctly, telescopes and other optical merchandise for sale cluttered the counter top.

  Ada pressured her to buy a beautiful silver lorgnette―‘ladies don’t wear spectacles!’―but Isabelle didn’t care; she wanted to see without having to hold her glasses by a handle. She selected a pair of Ben Franklin-looking glasses, nothing fancy.

  On the way back, she tried to wear them so she could see the cityscape, but the switch to glasses made her slightly ill. She’d have to wear them in small doses to get acclimated. Back at the Somervilles’, Ada invited her to make some calls on behalf of her mother, but Isabelle declined―she needed a breather. Instead, she curled up to read a little from Persuasion in the library.

  God, she needed its comfort. Rereading the familiar lines she loved gave her a slight jolt, however. The scenes she read were now familiar for a different reason: she now lived in such a time period, granted, a couple of decades later, but still.

  It was not a game, or a dream. Or a novel.

  She really was in 1834, and her own life waited for her in the future. She loved her museum job. Studying artifacts and researching their histories in hopes others would appreciate the objects as much as she, that they would get it. It challenged her. When understanding flashed in a child’s eyes, she hummed the rest of the work day.

  And the chance to work at the British Museum had been a dream come true.

  Isabelle sank into her chair and shut the book. She had to keep her job. Her move to London had finally brought her life into focus. Lord, her life had been a mess before, what with the end of her relationship with Billy, followed shortly by the sudden death of her parents and sister. She’d lost her center, drifting numbly through life for a year or so, working at the Atlanta History Museum.

  One night as she lay awake in bed, too spent from crying, but too wound up to sleep, the solution crystallized for her: she needed to shake up her life. Her existence had become like an old down pillow―familiar, but flat and hard with occasional sharp pokes. She needed to fluff it up and see how things settled.

  When she saw the internship at the British Museum posted the following day, she applied immediately. She’d been accepted. Fate.

  And then, the house. The run-down old estate near Guildford had beckoned her. Another piece clicking into place. It needed her, her alone, to restore and love. And she had just the means to do it―the inheritance from her parents. So fitting. Using it as collateral, she’d settled the loan three months ago, putting the house in her care. Then she found the calling card case and journal.

  Both items captivated her. At night she transcribed the journal of the woman whose first name matched the initials on the case, and Isabelle found a kinship with her soul. The writer’s way of expressing herself―what details she gave importance or found trivial, found funny―all found an answering thrum within herself. The discovery also came at an opportune time: she needed a research topic for an upcoming conference and to justify her time at the museum to the folks back home. She’d only recently started researching the identity of EDA outside of the journal, and had yet to discover her full name. That it was the perfect addition to the upcoming exhibit at the British Museum was a bonus.

  This was the paper she was presenting in a little over a month in Prague. Would she be able to make it back in time to finish her project?

  She had to find a way back.

  At what point during the ball had she traveled through time? Some point before meeting Ada, obviously. When had she noticed the air changing? And there were more candles around than when she arrived. She knew she’d arrived in her own time, because Andrew and Jocelyn had been there. And getting the text from Katy.

  But...

  But, she’d met Ada right after, hadn’t she?

  Think, Isabelle.

  “I looked at Katy’s text, and I remember putting it back in my purse...” she mused out loud, miming her actions from that night.

  The silver case?

  Right after she’d put the phone away, she’d studied the case and felt the juxtaposition of time. She’d fingered the smooth metal and wished she could be back in an earlier era. And there’d been a moment of dizziness, and Ada stood nearby in her stunning ball gown.

  Isabelle jumped up, took jerky steps around the room. Stopped. Chills crawled across her skin. She shook her head. “No freaking way!”

  Well, she’d gotten what she’d wished for.

  Isabelle stared at the heavy, cream-colored card the butler handed her.

  The Right Honourable

  the Viscount Montagu

  Lord Montagu? Below? Isabelle’s heart thumped in her chest. They’d almost kissed on the balcony last night, but afterward he’d been cold and withdrawn.

  Ada put down the card she’d also received; she’d returned from her calls only a short time ago. Isabelle straightened her skirts. She itched to ask Ada not to receive him; this era’s equivalent of hitting ignore on one’s phone. Man, talk about a Long-Distance Relationship; chronologically rather than geographically undesirable. Getting to know him better also simply scared her. Too much promise—a perfect hunk-of-a-trap to ensnare her, only to be disappointed later.

  She stifled her irrational fear, straightened her shoulders, and looked to Ada. “Can we receive him without Mrs. Somerville?”

  “Yes, as he is my cousin, it will not be improper.” She nodded to the butler.

  Lord Montagu’s confident tread echoed up the main stairs in counterpoint to the butler’s soft steps. The door opened, held by the butler, and Lord Montagu swept into the room, his presence overwhelming the space. She could swear even the flowers in their vases perked up and listed in his di
rection. Honest to Pete.

  “Miss Byron, Miss Rochon.” He executed a neat bow.

  A folklorist should document his bows—like a language, each said something different. Like this one to her, which seemed to say, “I’d like to jump your bones.” Well, he’d probably phrase it as, “I lust for you.”

  Um, yeah, no. More like, “Good afternoon.”

  He just looked so yummy in a forest green swallowtail coat, charcoal gray waistcoat, and buff-colored trousers. She liked that guys got to sport more color during the day, instead of the regimented dark blue or black for evenings. Her heart thumped even harder. Shut up, heart. It was like having Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley in the same room. This is so weird.

  “Please sit, cousin.” Ada indicated a nearby chair.

  “Thank you.” Lord Montagu sat. “I hope I find you both well and in good spirits?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” Ada replied.

  Lord Montagu’s gaze snagged hers, one eyebrow arched. Oh, he expected an actual answer? It wasn’t perfunctory? She cleared her throat. “Quite well, also. Thank you.”

  “Good, good.” Silence draped the room. Well, except for the tick, tick of the mantel clock and the clattering carriages outside. Lord Montagu shifted in his seat and adjusted his shirt cuffs. She searched for any sign of last night’s anger and coldness, or even a hint of attraction, but only found that he appeared nervous and... vulnerable? Odd.

  Finally, he turned to Isabelle. “Miss Rochon, last night you said you could provide me with more details about your stolen case, perhaps a sketch I can give to the Runner? I thought to take the opportunity to call and obtain it.”