by Nichole Van
And why did that thought feel oddly . . . dissatisfying?
Rule #23: A gentleman suppresses undue emotion, whether of disappointment, of mortification, of laughter, of anger, etc.
Ice. He would be ice. Contained. Impervious.
Numb.
They had finally turned off the main road and onto the drive which led to Haldon Manor. Thankfully this road was calmer and they walked down the middle of it.
Asphalt, she called the pavement.
Which was just one of many new words.
Thus far, he had learned:
Queen Elizabeth II reigned, but she had no real authority. Britain was fully a democracy now. Which meant the House of Lords and hereditary peers had little power, as well.
Miss Fleury took particular delight in pointing out that salient fact.
The United States and Britain were close allies. As were the French. His brain struggled to imagine a world where this happened.
Other interesting words.
Euro and European Union, of which Britain was sort of a part. She had been vague on the particulars.
The aforementioned automobile and its related car, truck, semi, bus, motorcycle, train and tractor. Surely he was forgetting some.
Airplane and airport. Still trying to grasp at that concept. Metal birds which flew through the sky? Miss Fleury insisted that an airplane’s wings remained static and did not flap. But how was that possible if it flew? He had yet to see a bird fly without moving its wings. Which had led to more new words, namely—
Video, television, film, movie. Like a play only enacted in a location, not on a stage. And then projected onto, or into, a screen? And you could make your own?
Miss Fleury had promised to show him “a video of an airplane flying on my phone but cell reception is bad here, so it will have to wait.”
At which point, she waggled that rectangular silver box at him.
That box, turns out, was the phone in question. Or, more aptly, a telephone. (Root words meaning ‘voice at a distance’—Miss Fleury’s grasp of Latin was nearly as good as his own.) The device allowed one to speak with another person instantly, even halfway around the globe. She had listed other things that a phone did, most made little sense, but which had led her to describe . . .
Computer and Internet. Quite frankly, he had given up trying to understand by that point. The concepts just seemed too . . . vast.
Or perhaps it was Miss Fleury’s garbled description. Something about information being pushed through a ‘pipeline’ that crossed all geo-political boundaries?
So many words he did not know.
That feeling arose again—heart pounding, palms sweating—but he was able to more quickly tamp it down this time. That sense of numbness providing a welcome barrier between himself and the messy emotions the year 2015 elicited.
And James Knight had stayed here in this century? Voluntarily?
Miss Fleury had clarified that story.
“Emme was the first person to go through the portal that we know of. You know how she was found in 1812. She and James fell in love, and James liked the idea of this century, so he left his nineteenth century estate to Arthur and came through to this century to be with Emme. He’s been here for almost three years now. He and Emme married about two years ago and have a darling baby boy.”
Something sharp jabbed Timothy in the chest. James? A father? Why did that idea cause him to feel . . . jealous?
What was happening to him?
Timothy shook his head.
“But Marcus and Miss Ashton . . .” he said. “Daniel Ashton is my man of affairs. Does he know about the portal? And what about Arthur? Heavens, does Marianne know too?”
“Both Arthur and Daniel know about the portal. Marianne is your sister, right? I don’t think she knows. Arthur is the portal’s protector in the nineteenth century, setting guards to make sure no one inadvertently gains access. Though it seems to have failed, in this case.”
Which brought up a lingering question about the third Knight sibling . . .
“And Miss Georgiana Knight? Was she involved with the portal too?”
Miss Fleury lit like a lamp. “How is Georgie? I miss her so much. She was here for about a year or so. Remind me to tell you about antibiotics sometime. Isn’t Georgiana the best? And I was so happy to hear of her marriage to Sebastian. Emme really liked him when they met—”
“Pardon? Are you speaking of Sebastian Carew? The Earl of Stratton?”
“Exactly. You know him too?”
“Naturally. We have worked together in the House of Lords. He is a fine gentleman.”
“Yeah, that’s what James said. Sebastian was here for a couple of weeks with Georgiana.”
Was Timothy the only person of consequence who did not know about the portal? How could Arthur, and then Sebastian and Daniel, have kept this information from him?
It was one more point of failure.
Close friends, and even family, keeping enormous secrets from him. Kinningsley on the brink of collapse in 1815 and turned into a factory in 2015. All he thought he knew, everything he had been raised to value . . . utterly upended.
Panic pounded on his chest. Again. The sensation was becoming such an unwelcome nuisance.
No. He would not give in. He was Linwood.
He fought it back. The numbness enveloped him. Blessedly freeing. Like floating in a fog, where nothing seemed real.
Though it was only fitting as they neared the turnoff to Duir Cottage that the skies opened up with an impressive English spring deluge.
Rendering his outsides just as damp and miserable as his insides.
Both he and Miss Fleury were shivering by the time she stowed her bicycle into the former stables. Timothy stood dripping wet just inside the door, staring accusingly at the glossy car parked snug and warm. The letters 640i blazoned on the back.
It looked . . . expensive. Like an apt conveyance for a gentleman.
Why hadn’t she brought this? He had seen women, as well as men, driving the cars through town. Perhaps she didn’t drive then? Or perhaps Americans didn’t drive, only the English? America was a rude and backward country after all.
Sweeping back her drenched hair, she met his gaze. Noted his studied perusal of the car.
“Do you not drive?” he asked.
“I do.”
He waited expectantly. She made a moue with her lips and then shrugged.
“It’s a long story. And I’m freezing.” She moved past him and then turned back. “Besides, modern plumbing just became your new best friend.”
An hour later and Timothy had to mostly agree with Miss Fleury’s assessment. Modern plumbing was almost his new best friend.
His first love was electricity, however. The house was not lit by candles nor warmed by fire.
No.
Everything ran on electricity. One only had to press a switch to instantly illuminate any room. Everywhere he turned, there was something new. Some machine or curiosity which Miss Fleury had deemed so far beneath her as to not warrant mention.
Things such as the clock at his bedside which displayed time numerically in bold illuminated red.
And then there was the washroom . . . a space gleaming with shining surfaces, mirrors and metal.
He had installed bathing rooms at Kinningsley several years prior, providing flowing water to four flushing water-closets. But in examining the water-closet in this wash room—things Miss Fleury had called a toilet and a bathroom, respectively—he realized the mechanisms were much more advanced. He had lifted the lid off the tank of the toilet and studied the series of valves inside.
Fascinating. So when one pressed on the lever, it opened the valve, allowing water to flush into the bowl, using gravity to displace—
No. Not going to obsess on the mechanics of this era.
He firmly replaced the heavy tank cover.
Shutting away all his curiosity.
Well, perhaps not all.
How did
the hot water work here? Did electricity heat it too?
He had created a plunge pool off his chambers at Kinningsley with water heated by a boiler located in the cellars. But Duir Cottage wasn’t large enough to boast such a boiler.
Granted, none of it compared to the marble-and-glass shower. He had heard descriptions of portable washing tents which sprayed their occupants with water. But this bathing device had a variety of nozzles and water could rain from the ceiling or massage your back from the side . . .
It was a thing of beauty.
He began calculating the water pressure needed to achieve the precise jets . . .
Damn and blast! This age was seductive as the most alluring siren.
Though Miss Fleury had been right about one thing. He had never shaved himself.
Why should admitting that fact to himself cause a flash of . . . embarrassment?
He was a viscount. A lord of the highest standing. There was no shame in adhering to the strictures of his station in life. Perhaps he could use one of those phone-things to contact James and discuss the hiring of a valet, if only for the day or two he might be here.
He most certainly would need the help of a valet to navigate modern apparel. Thus far, he had been decidedly unimpressed with what he had seen.
Timothy knew he had an impeccable sense of fashion.
Rule #127: A gentleman embodies style and elegance of inner being and physical person.
He required every minuscule part of his wardrobe to be precisely tailored, pressed and immaculately turned out.
The clothes Miss Fleury had provided met none of these requirements.
The dry undergarments were passable.
But he had stared for a while at the clothing she had laid out on his bed. She called it ‘lounging clothing,’ because they were ‘in for the night.’
The items had apparently been purchased for Sebastian who was only slightly larger than Timothy, so Miss Fleury supposed the clothing would fit well enough.
Loose trousers with a dark-blue plaid pattern in what appeared to be a finely woven cotton with only a drawstring to hold them up.
They felt so . . . odd.
He would have preferred silk. And the trousers should have been more closely tailored.
As for the shirt . . . it was of a stretchy cotton and was pulled on over the head without using buttons of any sort. It seemed to take the form of whoever wore it, as it stretched to envelop his chest like a glove showing every curve and plane. Far too form-fitting for polite company. But, he admitted grudgingly, surprisingly comfortable.
The only saving grace for the entire outfit, if he could call such attire an outfit, was the banyan. Dark green and luxuriously soft, it wrapped around him. Like being enveloped in warm pudding.
Though it sadly lacked a belt.
Yes. He would definitely need to contact James and arrange for a tailor, as well. Even a short stay required proper apparel. In the meantime, he would have to suffer through as best he could.
Fortunately, as he bathed and dressed, that remarkable emptiness settled. Solid and unmoving. Blissfully numbing.
Proof that, even under the strain of this most unusual situation, his breeding as a gentleman was secure.
Pulling on a pair of stockings (again, made in that same soft, stretchy material), Timothy trudged downstairs to the cellar, flipping on a light as he went, instantly illuminating the space.
Electricity. What a marvel.
The air in the cellar pulsed with an almost palpable energy. The portal stood opposite the wooden stairs, odd carvings on its surface and a dark depression in the earth beneath it.
But as had been the case earlier in the day, he touched it to no avail. He could feel something pulse and vibrate under his hands. But nothing happened. His vision did not darken. No vertigo assaulted him.
Surely there was a mechanism which triggered the portal to open. But what?
A rogue blast of pain and fear broke through his reserve.
What if he was never allowed to return? What if Kinningsley was doomed to become everything he had been taught to despise?
Rule # 11: The disgrace of the paterfamilias is shared by all.
Surely there was a way to rectify this? Change the future?
Tugging on the tight shirt (it seemed to have a tendency to climb up his chest), he exited the cellar.
Miss Fleury was in that strange room where the kitchen had previously been, but it now seemed to provide the function of a kitchen, a dining room, as well as a sitting room. All in one.
She was in the sitting room portion, seated before a crackling fire in the large hearth, the room lit brighter than noonday despite the blackness outside. Light blazed from small holes in the ceiling, from pendants hanging over the central counter in the kitchen, from a chandelier over the large dining table, from sconces along the walls.
The room itself was decidedly untidy. Odd shiny packaging cluttered nearly every surface . . . refuse of some sort. Stacks of paper littered the kitchen table, covered in drawings. A loose jacket hung over the back of a dining table chair. A long shawl over another. Books tumbled here and there.
Pieces of paper fluttered on the walls, the cabinets, some even stuck to the fireplace mantel—all prettily decorated with swooping lettering.
Trust the process, one read.
When in doubt, wear red, said another.
What process? And why the color red?
More things which made no sense.
Miss Fleury herself was curled up on the sofa, back to him, feet tucked underneath her, wet hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. She had changed as well into a deep red baggy tunic and skin-tight black trousers that seemed to be made of the same material as his shirt.
She was drawing. Pencil moving confidently across white paper. He paused, staring over her shoulder at the figures taking shape.
A lady in medieval dress, standing atop a crenelated castle wall. An armored knight below her, seated on his horse, looking upward toward his lady. Miss Fleury was sketching in a young squire holding the reins of the horse when a thought occurred to Timothy. One which explained the sorry state of the housekeeping:
“I have not seen a single servant since I have been here.”
Letting loose a decidedly un-ladylike screech, Miss Fleury nearly jumped off the sofa, whirling around, hand flying to her throat.
“I would expect a lord to announce his presence.” She sent him a stern look. “Or, even better, have a butler do it.” She resettled herself, sitting back atop her feet, shaking her head.
“If I could locate a butler, I assure you, my presence would be most thoroughly proclaimed.” He came around the sofa and, shifting a shawl onto the hearth, sat in one of the pair of wingback chairs which flanked the fireplace.
Miss Fleury’s head snapped back up. “Wait. Was that a joke?”
“I am not entirely devoid of humor, Miss Fleury.” He lounged back in the chair, crossing his legs at the knee.
She studied him for a moment, firelight flickering in her blue eyes.
“I am going to say the jury is still out on that one.” She cocked her head.
Timothy shrugged and then gestured up and down, indicating his loose trousers and too-tight shirt. “I donned this clothing, did I not?”
And then, the brightest light in the room came on.
Miss Fleury . . . smiled.
An expression of genuine delight which grew slowly and ended with a startled chuckle. Mischief gleaming in her eyes.
Timothy quite forgot how to breathe.
He could not remember if he had ever made a young lady smile. Or, rather, smile out of genuine delight over something he had intentionally said.
The sensation was . . . marvelous. Like champagne bubbles in his blood.
Though it had the unwanted side-effect of shattering his numbed state. Emotions crashed through him.
Silence.
Timothy could think of nothing else to say. She had effectively scattere
d every coherent thought from his brain.
Wow. What just happened?
Jasmine slowly picked up her sketching pad, trying to ignore the palpable energy that had walked into the room with Linwood.
Was he always like this? So . . . larger-than-life?
It was those eyes of his. Nearly unnaturally pale . . . like looking into a silver mirror.
They pierced you straight through.
And, really, the man should not look that good in pajama bottoms and a tight t-shirt, a cashmere robe thrown casually over the top. Even his clothing would never be so gauche as to not be perfect on him.
Why had no one ever mentioned how forceful his presence could be?
Or . . . wait?
Was that the very thing which others automatically scourged him for? The sheer power of his decidedly intimidating personality?
Was he truly arrogant? Or just . . . misunderstood?
You know my name. Not my story.
He continued to regard her with those mirror eyes.
“I find it hard to believe that Knight does not employ, at minimum, a cook? Certainly you do not prepare your own meals?” His voice cut through the room.
Well . . . how about she called it a draw? Arrogant and misunderstood.
The doorbell rang. Linwood glanced about in alarm.
“What was that—”
“Dinner.”
Jasmine chuckled as she paid the delivery person (with James’ credit card, naturally) and carried the Indian takeaway back into the kitchen, setting it on the table. Linwood walked over, brow furrowed, studying the boxes as she opened them.
“Curry?” he asked.
“Yep. Though for the record, I can make a mean chicken enchilada.”
His head swiveled up. “So you do cook?”
“Everyone cooks. Even the Queen of England could fry herself up some eggs, if needed.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she grabbed plates and forks from the kitchen island.
Linwood just stood still. Or, at least, marginally more still than normal. Processing this, apparently, difficult thought.
Royalty caring for themselves.
Mind-boggling. She wanted to wiggle her fingers at him, as if casting a spell.