She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance

by Greene, F. E.

  He offered a compliant nod.

  Crossing her arms, Tori read the elevated sign that listed train arrival times. One minute. Reliably the light appeared at the tunnel’s far end. As the train rattled past, brakes squealing while it slowed, its breeze whipped Tori’s hair, and she held down her short dress to avoid giving Charles his first Marilyn Monroe moment.

  The compartment in front of them was nearly empty. Pleased they would have it almost completely to themselves, Tori climbed on as soon as the doors swooshed open. She motioned for Charles to veer right, and they snagged two seats at the end of an unoccupied row. After they were settled, Tori couldn’t help fist-pumping the air.

  “Are we all supposed to do that?” Charles asked.

  She laughed. “No, that’s just my thing. We’re on here for three stops, then we change lines at King’s Cross.”

  When he didn’t reply, Tori glanced over. She’d seen him flinch when the train rushed into the tunnel. She watched him squint as the wind gusted, then balk at the number and size of the cars. Now his lips were pursed as he surveyed their surroundings. He was amazed – but not afraid.

  “Hey, Charles.” She tilted toward him so she could whisper. “Relax.”

  Just then the train accelerated with a lurch, and Charles was thrown against her. After absorbing the brunt of his weight, Tori insisted she was fine before he could ask.

  “No need to apologize,” she said. “Just hang onto those armrests and try to look like you’ve done this before.”

  His face blanked. “Am I attracting attention?”

  Tori peered to her left. Two women at the other end of the car were tittering to each other behind cupped hands as they peeked intermittently at Charles. They weren’t bothered by his odd reactions. They were primed and ready to flirt.

  “Yes, but not the unwanted kind. You’ve got two hotties at nine o’clock, and they’re digging your new look. Get rid of those sideburns, and your dance card will fill up fast.”

  His baffled reaction bordered on epic. “Firstly, men do not carry dance cards. Secondly, what are sideburns?”

  Tori fumbled for an explanation. “Um, maybe you call them whiskers? They’re very 1854.”

  “For someone who does not care to know me well, you comment as if you already do.”

  “Just a little constructive criticism,” she teased. When the car stopped at Covent Garden, she rested a hand on Charles’ wrist and was pleased to see the hotties leave the train. “We’re staying on.”

  “So you said.” His eyes fell to where she touched him. “Two more stops.”

  “Sorry.” She removed her hand. “I told you I was bossy.”

  “Today it would seem advantageous. I could not manage this without you.”

  When his Cumbrian lake gaze locked onto hers, Tori felt herself flush. This would be a lot easier if Charles weren’t so darned charming. Deep down she hoped it wasn’t an act. Victorians were known for their impeccable manners – and the subtext they used to reveal their true feelings. But if Charles had subtext, she’d need a microscope to find it.

  They disembarked at Barbican Station. As they walked down Aldersgate, Tori let Charles set the pace, and it took them a while to reach the discreet escalator that led to the museum’s elevated entrance.

  After a guard searched her bag, Tori marched to the information desk with Charles dawdling behind. At this rate she’d never get him past the gift shop. By the time he caught up, she had purchased two tickets for the exhibition and grabbed them both a map.

  This time Tori resisted the urge to reach for his hand. Instead she stood patiently, one arm hugging her purse, while Charles examined the entrance to the first-floor galleries. His hands crept up to rub his cheeks. His eyes narrowed, and he scowled.

  Startled by his expression, Tori moved into his path. “What’s wrong, Charles?”

  “I don’t reckon I should see anything that has not happened. For me,” he clarified.

  His response was so soft, Victoria had to lean upward to hear him over the drone of schoolchildren and tourists. “You mean nothing after 1854?”

  “It is the sensible conclusion.”

  Solemnly Tori nodded. She and her friends often joked about owning a crystal ball that told the future – lottery numbers and football scores and who would win the next big election. But if faced with the chance to view her world’s fate, she might not want to know either. The bombing of London. Two world wars. All the stock market crashes and terrorist attacks. Even Jack the Ripper was still a stranger to Charles.

  Staring up at him, Tori admired his resolve. Lots of men would want to cash in on the world’s misfortunes, and as a journalist Charles could probably use the money. She doubted the pay was any better in the 1800s.

  “We’ll stay on track,” she promised. “Straight to the Guardians of London exhibit, and straight back out.”

  Unfolding the map, she located the exhibit to the right, not far past the main entrance. They only had to pass by prehistoric London. Nothing dangerous there.

  The exhibit was temporary, its entrance overstated. It played off the recent popularity of superhero movies with a yellow comic book font and famous Londoners drawn in anime style. Clever, Tori thought, but also chancy. Her favorite marketing prof had drilled a mantra into her brain – never create an expectation that you can’t fulfill.

  Charles was oblivious. He brushed past the ticket taker, leaving Tori to apologize while she waited for their stubs. Breezing through the exhibit, Charles wove in and out of partitions until Tori thought she’d lost him completely.

  “Miss Smith!”

  Following his voice, she found Charles parked in a back corner. He stood before a massive painting of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert who gazed lovingly at one another while children and dogs frolicked around their feet. Although their relationship wasn’t a spontaneous love match, the two monarchs grew to possess a passionate adoration for one another that appeared to border on worship. After Albert died in 1861, Victoria mourned for years – literally.

  Gasping, Tori glanced around. Charles wouldn’t know about the Prince’s death. She looked for any placards that might mention it, but the only informational sign discussed the artist whose name was unknown.

  “You see it, too?” Charles asked.

  Tori refocused on the painting. “See what?”

  “They’re wearing pendants, and the Prince Consort’s is identical to mine.”

  As she stood there, slack-jawed, Tori’s burner phone buzzed. She dug it out of her purse and checked the screen.

  Death lies on her, like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

  Her heart began to pound. She clutched Charles’ arm. “Read this.”

  “Romeo and Juliet. Act 4, I believe. Is it a practical joke?”

  “If it is, it’s not funny.” Saving the text, Tori gave the room a once-over. No one else stood nearby, and the lone guard assigned to watch for rule-breakers was half asleep in his chair. Even so, his presence helped.

  “I’m sure it’s just another of those perverts whom you mentioned before,” Charles said.

  Tori looked up to meet his gaze. Charles sounded so confident, seemed so steady in the midst of his own calamity. He was stuck in another century without money or friends, and his return home was not guaranteed. And his success hinged on help from a woman who’d nearly whacked him with a cricket bat about twelve hours before.

  Meanwhile one text had her coming unglued. Tori knew she was tough, but Charles was a curve ball she hadn’t been taught to catch. Neither was the mystery he brought with him.

  Taking a deep breath, she put away the phone. “Okay, they’re wearing the pendants. What does that mean?”

  “The portrait was painted in 1852, which means we can assume both pendants were still in London at that time.”

  “So at some point in the past two years of your life, the pendants were stolen.”

  “Certainly Her Majesty’s was if it made its way
to 2014.” Charles stepped closer to examine the painting’s details. “Can you capture an image of this with your phone?”

  His over-enunciation of the last word, which Tori thought might be deliberate, made her smile. “Unfortunately no. They don’t allow photography in this museum. But they might have a copy for sale. Stick around until you’re satisfied and meet me by the entrance when you’re done. Okay?”

  Charles looked intrigued. “Okay.”

  He did it again, elongating the word with his marvelous accent. Tori had grown immune to the charm of hearing Brits speak, but Charles tested her resistance with his tranquilizing voice that reminded her of a lion’s rumbling purr. Briefly she imagined how it would feel to hug Charles, to press against him while he uttered her name.

  Safe. It would feel safe in a way nothing else could. Or had for as long as she could remember.

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