Anne Barbour

by Step in Time

  “You aren’t going to take Papa’s advice, are you?” she asked at last. “You’re not going to sell your government stock?”

  “No. At least not yet. I fought with Wellington in Portugal and Spain for four years, and I have a great deal more confidence in him than the self-styled military experts who are spouting their ill-formed opinions all over town. On the other hand, Wellington’s army is not the same as it was in the Peninsula. Many of his seasoned troops are now elsewhere—America and India, leaving him with raw recruits and ill-trained foreigners. Still, I believe I’ll keep my money on Wellington. Literally,” he said with a laugh.

  Amanda settled back into the curricle. She would have said more, but Ash continued, on another tack. “You and my grandmother are growing wondrous thick of late.” He turned to smile into her eyes, which produced, Amanda noted irritably, the usual result of turning her knees to soup. “I’m pleased she has taken such a liking to you.”

  Amanda tore her gaze from his. “I like her, too,” she replied thoughtfully. Almost to herself, she continued, “She’s a truly remarkable woman. Did you know she has created schools for young girls of the slums—to teach them to read, and to learn useful skills in the hope that they might escape the grinding poverty that so enslaves them?”

  “No,” replied Ash, startled. “I did not—but I am not surprised. She has always been strong-minded and independent—to put it mildly,” he said dryly. “She is the scourge of the family, and has never been bound by the restraints of custom.”

  “That is what I so much admire in her,” said Amanda enthusiastically. “She has managed to overcome many of the stereotypes that prevail here and she has maintained her own identity. She told me,” Amanda continued, “of her contributions to the efforts of Elizabeth Fry.”

  “Fry?” Ash’s brows lifted. “You mean the woman that’s agitating for prison reform? Good God!” he said suddenly. “Don’t tell me Grandmama has been visiting Newgate.”

  Amanda giggled. “No, she is quite incensed that Mrs. Fry will not take her.”

  “Good God,” murmured Ash again. He cast a sidelong glance at Amanda. “Uh—do you have any plans to attach yourself to Mrs. Fry and her movement?”

  “Would you object if I did?” asked Amanda with a smile that was tinged with sadness. The question was purely academic. If all went as she planned, Ash would soon be marrying a woman who would no more consider espousing an unpopular cause than she would walk naked down Piccadilly. To Amanda’s surprise, Ash appeared to consider her words seriously.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “God knows our prisons are a national shame. Not that we don’t need to do something about our other inequities. I’ve always thought that if and when I get things squared away at the Park, I’d become more active in the House of Lords.”

  Amanda stared at him, listening to her heart break into great, jagged pieces. She had not realized how empty her life was in the twentieth century until she had come to know a man who would have filled it with joy and love. Unfortunately, that man had been born almost two hundred years too soon, not to mention the fact that he was in love with another woman.

  “That’s very commendable,” she said shakily. She turned away, swallowing the tears she thought would choke her. It took all the self-control at her command to chatter brightly until they reached Gloucester House, where the marbles were currently being displayed.

  Amanda had visited the British Museum on the first day of her arrival in that fair April of 1996. The Elgin Marbles were among the first items on her prioritized list of “things to see in England.” She had dutifully admired them, trying as she always did with such objects to visualize them as they had originally glowed in the sunlight of Athens over two thousand years ago. She had as little success at this as she did now, standing next to Ash.

  “They’re very large, aren’t they?” she said at last,

  “Mmp,” grunted Ash in agreement. “The women look as though they could wrestle bears.”

  “Still, they are quite magnificent, are they not?”

  “Quite. Or at least they would be if they still retained all their body parts. That fellow shaking his spear over there would be much more threatening if he weren’t missing his head. How long do we have to stay here?” he asked plaintively.

  Amanda laughed. “I shall take pity on you. If you will take me to Gunter’s for an ice, we may leave right now.”

  “Done!” said Ash with alacrity, propelling her toward the exit.

  Later, at the famous pastry shop, Ash having gone inside to procure ices for himself and his lady, the two sat in the curricle, companionably nibbling the famous delicacy under the trees that shaded Berkeley Square.

  “Thank you for taking me to see the marbles,” said Amanda at last. “You have truly performed above and beyond the call of a fiancé this last week.”

  “I should rather think so!” exclaimed Ash, much struck. “I cannot think of another man of my acquaintance who has made such a cake of himself—swanning about London like the veriest gapeseed. First there was the menagerie at the Tower, then the Egyptian Hall, and Westminster Abbey after that. I almost drew the line at Hampton Court Palace, only my staunch sense of duty—”

  “All right, all right,” said Amanda, lifting a hand in protest. “You have my profound thanks for so lowering yourself.”

  At that moment, Ash reached to brush a stray tendril of hair from her cheek. “It has been my pleasure, my dear,” he said in all seriousness. “For I like the bluestocking much better than the empty-headed butterfly I used to think you. I wonder now how I could have been so mistaken. Or were you going about in disguise?”

  Amanda, shaken, took refuge in a bantering tone. “It was simply that you never took the time to know the real me, sir. I have always been as you see me.”

  Which was perfectly true, of course, in a manner of speaking, but mostly it was decidedly untrue, a fact of which Amanda was only too aware.

  The news from Belgium continued unpromising, and two days later on a quiet Sunday afternoon, a grim Jeremiah once again summoned Ash to the Bridge home. Amanda greeted him at the door and stood by his side as Jeremiah, hurrying from his study, spoke harshly, without preamble. “Wellington has gone down to defeat.”

  “What?” exclaimed Ash.

  “The news has been pouring in all day. The Prussians were routed at the outset of the confrontation between Boney and Wellington, and Boney followed up with one of his lightening strikes. Wellington had to fall back beyond the River Sambre.”

  “Are you saying that Wellington has retreated?”

  “No, you idiot, I’m saying that your precious Wellington has been beat, foot, horse, and artillery. We might have known,” he concluded bitterly, “that he could not win in a face-to-face confrontation with Napoleon.”

  “But, how do you know all this?”

  “It’s common knowledge in the City. Bonaparte is in Brussels right now, dictating terms.”

  Amanda, watching Ash’s white-faced reaction to Jeremiah’s words, slipped her hand in his. She felt his fingers tighten around hers.

  “There’s complete panic in the City,” continued Jeremiah. “Every jobber in the place is rushing around trying to sell, and that’s what I’ve done, too. Took a gawd-awful loss, but I’ve got my fingers in a lot of pies and I can stand the blunt. My advice to you, young feller,” he continued, jabbing a finger into Ash’s cravat, “is to sell your stock as well. We’ll use Gliddings, my man of business. He’ll get you the best possible price.” He pulled Ash toward the door. “We must go now. If we leave it any longer you’ll have a disaster on your hands.”

  Carefully removing Jeremiah’s hand from his sleeve, Ash shook his head. “I have not yet decided to sell, Mr. Bridge. Should I do so, I’ll get my own man to handle the transactions.”

  “You fool!” shouted Jeremiah. “Don’t you understand what’s going on?”

  “I think perhaps it is you who does not understand,” replied Ash coolly.
“However, I promise I shall give serious thought to your advice.”

  He turned to go, and Jeremiah, after one or two incomprehensible utterances, bellowed after him, “Just don’t count on me to save your groats on this, Ashindon!” Then, throwing up his hands, he swung about and stumped back to his study.

  Amanda followed Ash, still clasping his hand.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

  He smiled somewhat painfully. “Despite what I just said to your father, I think I shall have to sell. I still believe in Wellington, but I cannot afford to lose everything. Your father has promised to restore my—our home, but I’m determined to get back on my feet on my own. The thought of being eternally beholden to that man—I’m sorry, Amanda, I know he’s your father, but...”

  His mouth tightened and Amanda longed to lay her fingers along the rigid line of his jaw.

  “But you mustn’t sell, Ash,” she whispered, her voice rough with intensity. “Wellington is winning. I tell you, within two days Napoleon will be skulking back to Paris with his tail between his legs.”

  Ash’s expression relaxed a fraction. “Your patriotism is commendable, my dear, but in this instance you are delving into matters of which you have no knowledge.” He placed his curly brimmed beaver hat atop his head, pushing it into a jaunty angle. “I must be off to, er, save my groats,” he said, with an effort at lightness that was painful to behold.

  “No!” Almost dizzy with the conflicting thoughts that raced through her brain, Amanda clung to his sleeve. Dear God, if only she had more time to think! Pausing for the merest instant to collect herself, she came to a decision.

  “You must not sell out of the funds.” When Ash’s mouth opened in protest, she continued hurriedly, “I must talk to you, in private.”

  Ash shook himself from her grasp in some irritation. “I don’t have time for a tête-à-tête right now, Amanda.”

  “Ash, this is important. Wait right here.”

  She whirled about and ran up the stairs to her room, returning a few minutes later garbed in pelisse and bonnet. “Now,” she said breathlessly, “take me someplace where we can talk, privately and without interruption.”

  Ash opened his mouth to speak, but staring down into her eyes, he caught himself. He said nothing, but ushered her from the house. Fifteen minutes later, his curricle swung into Green Park, from whence he proceeded to the leafy glade where they had conversed on Amanda’s first day in Regency London.

  “This is a good as place as any. Now, what is it, Amanda? I really must not stay long.”

  Amanda drew in a long, shaky breath.

  “Ash, you have commented several times on the change you have observed in me since—since my little debacle in Grosvenor Chapel.”

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice tinged with impatience.

  “There is a reason for that.” Amanda paused for a moment before continuing. “My Lord Ashindon, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amanda McGovern and I was—will be born in the year nineteen hundred and sixty-eight.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  For a long moment, Ash simply stared at her, his eyes wide with shock. “Amanda,” he said at last, taking her hand in his. “Amanda—”

  “No—please. Let me finish. It all started on a day in April of 1996. I was sitting in Grosvenor Chapel when I met this strange man ...”

  Her story did not take long in the telling, and when she was finished, Amanda sat back, her hands folded, and watched Ash expectantly. Her heart sank when his only words were, “Amanda, my dear, I had no idea you were so ill.”

  She sighed. “As in bonkers, you mean. I guess I can’t blame you for coming to that conclusion. I thought the same thing at first. I thought I was hallucinating, and it was days before I realized that I had actually, er, traveled through time,” she finished lamely. It seemed like such a lunatic fringe sort of thing to say. “Look,” she continued hastily as Ash opened his mouth, “you have remarked frequently on the abrupt change in my personality after my supposed elopement attempt. The way I spoke, for example. In fact, I think you said specifically that I was a different person.”

  “I meant that you seemed a different person. Merely a figure of speech.”

  Amanda paused, as a thought struck her. “You also thought I was faking amnesia. Ash, do you think I made up the story I just told you?”

  His answer was oblique. “It did not take me long to realize that your amnesia was genuine—although now, I suppose you will say it was not amnesia at all. Frankly, I do not know what to think now, except that I believe you think you are telling the truth. As I said, you are obviously suffering from some sort of mental aberration.” The concern in his eyes took some of the sting from his words, and Amanda exhaled a sigh of relief.

  She grinned determinedly. “Let us shelve for a moment the subject of my general dottiness. I have in my possession something that I think will convince you that what I claim is true.” She ran her finger beneath the lace at her throat and pulled out the little gold pendant that she had placed in her dressing table drawer on that morning so many weeks ago. Passing it over her head, she handed it to Ash.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s something I brought with me from the twentieth century. I was wondering why it came with me, when nothing else did, but now I understand. Whoever, or whatever brought me here figured I might need proof at some point. Look at it, please,”

  Ash examined the coin curiously. “ ‘In God we trust,’ ” he read, “Who is the bearded gentleman?”

  “His name is Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States of America. He was—will be—assassinated in 1865, shortly after the Civil War. Yes, we had one of those, too,” she added. “The date, Ash—look at the date.”

  “ ‘1989,’ ” murmured Ash wonderingly. “Where did you get this?”

  Amanda stiffened. “I did not have it made up myself during the last few weeks, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “No,” said Ash, still turning the coin in his hands. “It looks undeniably authentic, but I don’t understand—”

  “From—from a friend. Ash, this is currency. It was—will be minted in 1989, just as it says. Don’t you see what that means?”

  “Of course, I see what it means,” growled Ash. “I’m just saying there has to be some other explanation.” He turned the coin idly in his fingers. “Who is Derek?” he asked abruptly.

  “Der—? Oh. He—he’s someone I used to know.”

  “It sounds as though you must have known him rather well.” Ash’s tone was light, but contained an underlying edge.

  “Ash, I do not wish to talk about Derek right now. There will be time enough later to tell you about the life and times of Amanda McGovern. Right now, we have other things to discuss. As it happens, I have a good reason for divulging my recent, ah, adventures.”

  Ash said nothing, but lifted his brows once more.

  “You see, I am in a position to do you a spot of good.”

  “Oh?”

  Amanda clenched her hands at the skepticism in Ash’s voice.

  “Yes,” she said curtly. “You must not sell out of the funds, Ash. In fact, you must try to buy even more, for right at this moment Wellington is defeating Napoleon in a terrible battle near a little village called Waterloo.”

  “I never heard of it,” said Ash, the disbelief in his tone undiminished,

  “I daresay. It’s about ten miles south of Brussels.”

  “Mmp.”

  “Anyway, the price of government stock will continue to fall until by tomorrow afternoon you’ll be able to scoop up shares by the bucketful for practically nothing. All the next day, a pall of gloom will hang over the city, but late on Wednesday, the twenty-first, a carriage will be sighted leaving St. James’s Palace. It will drive up St. James’s Street, past the gentleman’s clubs, and then to Grosvenor Square and there will be French Eagles sticking out of the windows. Shortly afterwards, the official announcement
of the British victory will be made, and voilà. Stock prices will soar and you will have made a lot of money.”

  Ash said nothing for a long time. He continued to gaze at her with eyes like liquid smoke, finally falling once more to the coin in his hands. Amanda took it from him.

  “Do you have a penknife?”

  Wordlessly, he fished in his waistcoat pocket and, producing a small, ivory-handled blade, handed it to her. In a moment, having pried the penny from its gold shell, Amanda gave it back to him.

  “ ‘United States of America,’ ” he read from the reverse. He glanced up quickly. “That is where you live?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “ ‘E Pluribus Unum,’ ” he continued.

  “That means, ‘One From Many,’ ” said Amanda helpfully.

  “I know what it means,” snapped Ash. “I took a first in the classics. What’s this building with the columns?”

  “The Lincoln Memorial. It’s in Washington, D.C.”

  “Mm, yes, the new capital. I hear it’s nothing but a noisome swamp.”

  Amanda smiled. “I guess you could say that—in more ways than one.” She stopped. “But I do not think this is the time to go into all that, Ash. I realize I’ve given you a great deal to think about, and I think you ought to take me home now.”

  Ash said nothing, but after a moment set his horses in motion.

  “Where in America were you—or will you be—born?” Ash asked after a moment.

  “A little town called Custer, South Dakota. I was born there in 1968. I am twenty-eight years old.”

  Amanda went on to tell him of the accident that had disfigured her and the—

  “Car crash?” he asked.

  “Yes, although the proper term is automobile—a, er, horseless carriage. It runs on gasoline. That’s a by-product of oil,” she added.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Amanda continued as though unaware of his continuing incredulity, telling him of her later life in California, then in Chicago.