Down the Rabbit Hole

by J. D. Robb

  “No, my lord,” Mr. Arbuckle reassured him, “men do not give birth, but they are much more involved in child care now than they were in 1805.”

  “How, um, interesting.” Weston did not know whether to be relieved or impressed. “Do men have nothing more important to do than care for puking and mewling infants? Have the women taken all their positions?”

  “Oh, Weston, please.” Alice’s tone made him feel like a fool. “Did you not hear Mr. Arbuckle say that they share the responsibility? I imagine that both men and women work, and sharing domestic duties is the only way they can manage.”

  Frankly, this struck him as more amazing than cars and computers.

  They had come out of Green Park and continued along Piccadilly, arrowing back toward the town house, both of them lost in their own thoughts for the moment.

  Weston tried to decide if he would be willing to share “domestic duties” if that meant Alice would marry him. The answer was an unequivocal yes. Ah well, then he was not quite so far removed from twenty-first-century man as he’d thought. But then the problem had never been his willingness to commit to her, but hers to him.

  Her obstinate belief that her parents’ divorce and her family’s social ostracism would extend to him had truth at its core, but he was convinced that the two of them could have persuaded the ton that she was as much a lady as any Countess Weston. And it was probably a fantasy on his part to think that the open-mindedness he was seeing in her was something that would travel back with them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sorry soul-searching was becoming an unwelcome habit, but Weston was stopped short of further conjecture by Alice’s insistent tug on his arm. “Tell me why all those people are walking into that building. They cannot all have positions there.”

  Weston had been so lost in thought he had not even noticed that oddity as they turned the corner. “Yes, I see, and at least as many are coming out. But why?”

  “They are not actually going into the building, my lord. The building access is also the entry to the Green Park Underground station. The Underground is a train system that runs in tunnels beneath the city. In London, it’s the most popular method of moving from place to place.”

  “I want to see it!” Alice said. “Can we ride on it?”

  Mr. Arbuckle hesitated and shook his head. “Not now, miss. It’s the time of day when everyone is going home, and the trains and tracks are much too crowded. Maybe later this evening.”

  “Judging by the number of people pouring in, I suspect you have the right of it,” Weston said, pulling Alice just a bit closer. “I would not like to be separated. From either of you,” he added quickly.

  They were standing in the shelter of a small, freestanding shop that appeared to exist to meet the needs of those who used the so-called Underground. It did not look like it would survive a strong wind, but it did appear to have occupied the space awhile. As he watched, people purchased packages of food and newspapers.

  “At least newspapers still exist and do not appear to have changed that much.”

  “But the pictures. They are not paintings, and are printed right on the paper. In colors.” Alice let go of his arm and picked up a periodical.

  Weston examined several of the newspapers that were on display and was brought up short by one that proclaimed: Vinton to Divorce. He picked up the paper and handed it to Arbuckle. “Purchase this for me.” When Arbuckle hesitated, Weston insisted, “Then give me the money! You told us before that nothing we can do will change the future, as this event was always meant to be, so let me have this.”

  “It’s not that, my lord, but this is hardly a reputable newspaper. There are others that would be more, uh, honestly informative.”

  “Will they have stories on this divorce that is on the front page?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then let’s have this one and we can look on the information box for more when we are back at the townhouse.”

  “Computer, my lord. It’s called a computer.”

  Weston did not care what it was called, as he was damn sure he would never see one when he returned to Westmoreland. It ranked with the space-time continuum as something he had no need to understand.

  Twenty minutes later they were in the library again. As soon as they were seated, the housekeeper brought tea and some small sandwiches and sweets.

  “Will you be here for dinner, then, sir?” she asked, with a casual air that reminded Weston of his sister rather than a servant.

  With a look at Mr. Arbuckle, Weston nodded. “And have a guest room made up for Miss Kemp.”

  “Of course.” She nodded to Miss Kemp. “Dinner will be served at eight o’clock,” Tandy added as she left the room.

  “She seems rather more a friend than a servant, does she not?” Alice said.

  “Yes, I almost thought I should add a ‘please’ to my request for a guest room.”

  “Servants are much more difficult to find these days,” Arbuckle said. “The Weston housekeeper has been with the family for near forty years.”

  Weston nodded. “Then she is family. I will add the ‘please’ next time. I would not want to create problems for Mr. West.”

  They sipped tea and Weston ate several of the tasty but too-small sandwiches. As he ate he moved about the room, looking more closely at the modern additions, touching them carefully, anxious to read the paper but wise enough to wait until they were both fortified with some food and tea.

  Alice kept to her seat and sampled the pastries. Weston watched as she took a delicate bite, closed her eyes and savored the taste with such bliss that he wanted to capture the taste of it, and of her, with his mouth.

  When she reached for a third treat with a guilty glance his way, he raised his tea cup in salute, came back to his chair and took a cream confection himself.

  They sat in silence. After finishing his tea, Weston held the newspaper in front of him so that the headline was clear to everyone in the room, especially Alice.

  But Alice was engrossed in the periodical she had purchased, called Vogue UK, whose colorful pages held her in thrall.

  It took him a few minutes to focus on the article that accompanied the headline on the front page. It was one of his less salacious wishes to do just this with Alice: sit in the library, reading what interested them and sharing the best bits, all the while watching the clock until they could retire. Together.

  He cleared his throat and gave his full attention to reading about Vinton and his divorce. When he was done he had more questions than answers. “But that’s what time travel is all about, is it not?”

  He had not meant to speak aloud, but both Alice and Mr. Arbuckle turned to him.

  “What is time travel about, Wes?” Alice asked, the magazine spread open to a page of women in gowns cut low and without sleeves. Gowns that showed an amazing amount of the body. Weston considered them with interest until Alice looked at him.

  “Are you ogling, Wes?”

  He shook his head and cleared his throat, turning away.

  “While you were distracted, Weston, I asked what you think time travel is about.”

  Relieved that she did not pursue her question about ogling, Weston answered promptly, “Questions, my dear. Time travel is all about questions. For everything I learn, ten more questions come to mind.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Weston took a deep breath and directed Alice’s attention to the front page of the article he had just finished.

  “Do you see this headline?”

  She nodded with a frown and looked back down at her magazine. “I can see divorce is as shocking now as it is in our day.”

  “Not exactly,” Weston said. “Vinton is a member of Parliament who, and I quote, ‘has built his career on deploring the rising rate of divorce in the country.’”

  “Oh,” was Alice’s only
reply.

  “It seems Vinton is extremely conservative, and it was a shock when his press manager, whatever that is, announced that he would seek a divorce from his wife of twenty years, as she is about to make public her intention to have a sex-reassignment surgery.”

  “What!” Alice said, clearly shocked into the curt comment.

  “Do you see what I mean about endless questions? Perhaps not all of them are meant for polite company.”

  “You’ve gone so far as to introduce the subject; please do not become hesitant now.” Alice put her hand out for the paper and Weston handed it to her. She held it up as she read, and he wondered if she was only using it to hide her face or actually reading the article.

  “I assume since it’s in the paper that changing one’s sex is possible in this day and age?” Alice asked Mr. Arbuckle.

  “Yes,” their tutor of the twenty-first century replied with a slow nod. “But changing one’s sex is not common.”

  “If a woman can become a man, then can a man become a woman?” Alice’s expression was neutral. With effort, Weston judged.

  “Yes, it can work both ways, miss.”

  Women could now become men? Weston tried to ignore the disquiet that aroused in him and turned to Mr. Arbuckle. “Does one use a magic coin?”

  He thought he heard Alice stifle a laugh, but he could not be sure, as she was once again hiding behind the newspaper.

  “No, sir. It requires massive doses of hormones and surgery.”

  “By all that is holy, you are actually telling me women can become men.” Arbuckle had answered them once, but Weston found himself wishing he had heard wrong.

  “Yes, my lord, and men can become women.”

  Alice lowered the paper. “Which change is more popular?”

  “I do not know, miss, but I could use the computer to find out.” Mr. Arbuckle was a little red in the face himself, and whether Alice noticed it or not, she rejected the offer with a raised hand, as though chasing a fly away. Do they still have flies in 2005? he wondered.

  “It says here that Vinton was active in his protests of the divorce rate.” Alice pointed to the article.

  Weston had known this was a subject that, though painful, would interest her.

  “The article implies that the rate has stayed the same for the last few years, but that Vinton believes it is indicative of a moral decay that he thinks is rampant.”

  “Well, yes, the rate has increased dramatically,” Arbuckle explained, “especially from your perspective. I don’t know the exact percentage, but I would say forty percent of marriages end in divorce.”

  “By all that’s infamous, that would be forty out of every hundred?” Weston looked at Alice, who was equally astonished.

  “But how can that be? Are divorces not expensive anymore?”

  “Not as expensive as they were in the nineteenth century.”

  “And there is no social ostracism?” Alice asked.

  “No, miss, not as there is in your era.”

  “In my life,” she said with a breath that was part laugh and part shock.

  “Your life, miss?” Arbuckle asked carefully.

  “My parents divorced.” Alice spoke without emotion in a tone that suggested no more discussion.

  “Oh, yes, then I see why this would interest you.”

  “And no one cares anymore? The marriage ends and people go on with whatever they were doing?” Weston asked.

  “Well, it’s never that simple. There is almost always pain, and since marriage is a binding contract, the law is involved. But in time everyone goes back about their lives.”

  “What happens to the children?” Alice asked, obviously distressed.

  “The court awards custody to one or the other parent, or, more usually, both.”

  “If they are not living together, at least I assume they are not living together, then where do the children stay? And the former wife. Does she have a place to live?”

  “The children live at one house or the other depending on the custody arrangements.”

  “Oh, then that’s not so bad, then. I spent the Season with my aunt, while my father was in London, you understand, and the rest of time I was with him.” Alice relaxed a little.

  “And the ex-wife usually is provided for. But not always. Some women actually make more than their spouses, and it’s the ex-husband who must be supported. In both cases that stipend is called alimony.”

  “That is both fascinating and overwhelming.” Alice considered for a moment, shook her head and went on. “Can you define moral decay, Mr. Arbuckle?”

  The poor man looked as though he could use something stronger than tea.

  “Um, I assume they mean the casual attitude toward sex outside of marriage.”

  Weston shook his head. “It sounds much like the behavior of the ton during the Season and at most house parties.”

  “It is not that simple, my lord. The issue is a much-discussed topic, but as to your point, the more liberal members agree with you.”

  Alice laughed. “Best not let anyone hear you’ve turned liberal, Wes. It could upset the balance of power in Lords.”

  “Alice, I suspect my views on many things will change after this experience.”

  They went on to discuss the openness of homosexual behavior and a dozen other social changes that would shock even the most liberal members of the House of Lords.

  The three of them entered into a spirited discussion on the issue of moral decay. It was threatening to become a full-blown argument when Tandy knocked on the door to announce dinner. It was a well-timed interruption.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dinner was a delicious experience, but completely different from the way the meals were presented and served in Weston’s day. There were fewer dishes, and no footmen to hold the serving platters. The chicken Cook had prepared was in a white wine sauce over a concoction of brown and wild rice (he’d had to ask what it was) with roasted asparagus and a mix of green leaf vegetables covered with what he suspected was an oil and vinegar topping.

  Salads, as they were called, were new to him, and without the topping would have been more suitable as food for rabbits—though he was careful not to voice that thought aloud. Despite so few dishes, he was replete after a healthy sampling of everything.

  Dessert was the most wonderful burnt cream he had ever tasted. The twenty-first-century name for it was crème brûlée, after the French, and if he thought it was delicious, he was sure that Alice near swooned with pleasure at each mouthful. A suitable white wine accompanied the meal, and coffee finished it, offsetting the feeling of fatigue that had been tempting him to abandon the evening’s adventure.

  “Is it a good time to test the Underground, Mr. Arbuckle?” Alice did not seem to be suffering from the same languor as he.

  “Yes, most assuredly. We will take the Underground just one stop, but it will be enough of an experience, I am sure. The speed and widespread use of trains for travel first began in the late eighteen hundreds, but they reached their prime in the last century.”

  With compliments to the cook, who turned out to be Tandy herself, the three of them left the house once again. The nearest locale to find the Underground was the one they had passed earlier in the day at Piccadilly.

  As they went inside and proceeded, quite literally, underground, Alice clung more firmly to his arm. Mr. Arbuckle moved ahead of them with confidence, paused long enough to pay for tickets, and then directed them to the stairs. The moving stairs.

  Weston could feel the tension in Alice increase and was sure if he could test her pulse he would find it hammering as hard as his was. Neither he nor Alice stepped onto the moving stairs with as much confidence as the people around them, but no one seemed to care.

  “Thank goodness most seem to just ride on these,” Alice whispered. “It would test my ba
lance to ride and step down at the same time.”

  They both watched their fellow travelers.

  “They do not seem at all amazed,” Alice observed. “Their expressions range from—um—disinterest, I would say, to”—she paused again—“impatience.”

  “I suspect the impatience stems from whether they have had dinner or not.”

  She laughed a little, and her death grip on his arm eased just a tad.

  As they moved deeper and deeper under London, he wondered aloud, “Do you think this is what coal miners experience when they head into the earth?”

  “Possibly, though without as much light. And it certainly is not as clean as this.”

  “This convinces me that miners are not paid nearly enough.”

  “We can breathe quite comfortably, Weston. How can that be?”

  Instead of answering her, he nodded to the end of the moving stairs, and they both concentrated on stepping off without mishap.

  “Part of me thinks that was quite enough adventure,” Alice said. “And we haven’t even seen the underground transport yet.”

  A moment after Mr. Arbuckle announced, “It will be loud,” the noise level increased dramatically. It took real effort not to cover his ears, as Alice did for a moment. As they walked toward the platform where a few people were waiting, the train charged by them moving faster than anything Weston had ever seen.

  It stopped and the doors opened, and they did not need the voice urging them to “mind the gap” to step carefully from the platform into the carriage, one of several carriages connected for a train of considerable length.

  Alice leaned closer; in truth she did it to make room for someone who wished to take a seat in the small space next to her. The side of her body pressed into him, and the jolt of lust that echoed through him at even this minimal contact made Weston marvel at his control. When they finally did go to bed, he wondered if their rooms would connect.