by Leah Moyes
“Finally, for once, I have a governess that is young and beautiful!” She cried aloud as she danced towards the door. “Although your style is a tad peculiar, we can amend that.” She clapped and continued, “I must announce you’ve awakened.”
“Wait, oh.” I reached for her, but she disappeared. I pulled the covers back to find my black miniskirt and an untucked blouse, now missing a few buttons.
Governess? Okay, Kat, think, think! Maybe . . . Drink? Was something slipped into my drink? Am I so intertwined with the family that I wish to be a part of them? Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous! I pinched my cheeks more aggressively this time. “Ouch!” Still hurts.
As the door cracked open, I quickly threw the covers over my body once more and pushed upright against the carved back of the bed frame. Hesitantly, the face of my graceful savior appeared through the entry. He smiled as he stepped through the doorway. He was properly dressed in nineteenth-century attire, amazingly real—stunningly handsome.
My lower lip separated from the top one with no attempt to close it. The small silver tray he balanced in his hands, held a single teacup and a saucer with a scone-like pastry on top.
“I supposed you could use some cream tea this morning,” his voice floated, “but I can have Ana arrange an ample breakfast if you prefer.” He set the tray on the table next to the bed. My eyes scanned every amazing detail of his features and form. He shifted awkwardly under my stare and then continued. “It’s a pleasant surprise to see you arouse after your fall several nights ago.” He bent slightly forward. “I feared you might not recover.”
“Several nights ago?” I gasped.
“Yes, the night before last. You tumbled down the stairway.” His eyebrows curved inward. “You don’t recall?”
My fingers massaged my temples to grasp any sense of reasoning, but at this point, overthinking was most likely the cause of my pain.
“My apologies, Miss. I have not formally introduced myself.” He shifted upright, and boldly extended one hand forward to greet me. “I am Merritt G—”
“Gilford.” I finished his sentence. He took a step back, meeting my eyes with those endless pools of blue.
“Of—of course,” he stammered sweetly. “You would already be acquainted with the name of the family for your employ.” He chuckled at himself with what appeared to be unintended charm.
Shame on you, Kat! I scolded myself for enjoying this hallucination a little too much.
Merritt fumbled with the hem of his jacket in momentary silence until I asked the question that lingered on the tip of my tongue since I awoke.
“What year is it?” The words released slow and full of apprehension.
Merritt’s eyes narrowed. I cowered under his stare. “The year?”
“Yes.” I glanced down at my hands and waited.
“It’s 1878.”
My eyes rolled back, and my head hit the wood with a thump.
“Oh—” he stepped forward with a cringe. My chest rose in rapid response, more from my disorientation than his proximity. 1878! How can I be in 1878!
“Forgive me, did I upset you?”
Several large inhales brought my breath to a steady pace again. “No, no, not you.”
“May I inquire of your injury?” He pointed to my bandage, which surely covered a less-than-attractive wound. From the concern in his eyes, he most likely assumed I suffered a more serious after effect such as amnesia.
I nodded and waited. Both nausea and astonishment waged a battle inside of me. I wasn’t sure which emotion would come out on top.
As his hand brushed my hair back, the graze was gentle enough to not hurt but stimulating enough to get me to forget my dilemma.
“This might cause discomfort.” He cautioned as he pulled the padding back. I winced. Mostly from the dry blood tearing my hair, though my eyes remained fixed as I studied his profile. The artist’s rendition proved to be eerily identical.
He caught me staring and quickly replaced the bandage and stepped away. I shook my head, embarrassed. You’re such an idiot, Kat! I pretended to arrange my covers, then spoke with more confidence. “Thank you, Mer—” I coughed to cover up my casual mistake. “Mr. Gilford, I appreciate your help.”
He nodded. “Well, it appears the laceration is improving, but I must not delay your recovery. If you have need of anything, Ana will see to it.”
“Ana?” I questioned.
“My sister’s lady’s maid.” He pointed to the small braided rope near the canopy post. “Simply hail.” Bowing his head slightly, his lips curved into a warm smile before he retreated.
If this is a dream, the imagery is quite impressive. Checking my wakefulness once again, I poked my finger into my wide-open eye then immediately chastised myself. Not only did it water incessantly from the intrusion, but it also solidified my argument. I have lost my mind.
It’s the only logical explanation. Unless I somehow inadvertently lingered on the Gilford family portrait so much, this alternate reality developed in my head? But Elizabeth was here, Merritt was here. I studied him—from his sharp tailored clothing, to his mannerisms, even his eyes. I felt flesh when he touched my head. There’s no way I could’ve dreamt such specific details.
Maybe—I suddenly felt nauseous—maybe this recent injury triggered my head wound from the car accident last year, and now I’m a complete lunatic.
Chapter Eleven
June 1878
I cowered in the bedroom for an additional two days after I woke up. This new bedroom. The one with ornate molding, carved door frames, and impeccable style.
Afraid to come out, I attempted every possible solution to wake up, just short of jumping out the second-story window. I immersed in a frigid bath, held my breath a dozen times, and stuck straight pins found in a drawer into my skin. None of which changed my surroundings or the archaic visitors that stopped by. Lizzy came four times, Merritt twice, and Ana every couple of hours.
If I really existed in this historic “twilight zone”, I had yet to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gilford and their youngest daughter, Abagale. But how would I explain my arrival to them and now fulfill the apparent duty of being a governess? What exactly do they do? I’d seen movies and books involving governesses, though I imagine Hollywood was not the best source. I imagine I’m expected to teach, but what else? What happens if they find out I’m not who they think I am, or the real governess arrives?
Examining my head in the corner mirror next to an elegant boudoir, I replayed the night of the incident in my mind. I was working in the library and walking to the closet. I remembered my leg had fallen asleep, nevertheless, additional specifics remained vague.
I brushed my fingers through my loose bangs, the dried blood now gone. Ana insisted on washing my hair this morning, and despite the rudimentary first aid, the cut no longer felt like a crevice. Glancing down my torso, the bruises on my arms and legs were fading, and movement came easier.
The last visit Lizzy made came with an armful of material. I mistakenly believed it to be a new comforter. “I have dresses!” She announced eagerly, noting the robe I’d worn now for over twenty-four hours. “I’m sorry your handbag is missing, and your clothing was torn from the fall. Mum is allowing me to give you some of mine.” She held one dress up to me. Though eight years distanced us, similarities in our waist size made this possible.
“A perfect fit.” She glowed with pride.
I retrieved the fabric from her, trying hard to hide my anxiety. The last time I’d worn this much material was my college graduation gown. Yet it wasn’t the dress that brought about the most concern, it was what came with the dress. As Lizzy laid the clothing out along the edge of the bed, I gasped. Long slips, stockings, and a sturdy corset with laced ties on the edges. I lifted a pair of baggy shorts up. “What are these?”
“Knickers . . .” Elizabeth said with one eyebrow peaked.
Knickers . . . great. I circled away from Lizzy and faced the window. Pressing my palm against my forehead, I
mumbled, “I have underwear the size of New Jersey.”
“Are you well?” She rested one hand on my shoulder. I patted it but did not turn her direction, afraid my expression would reveal my doubts.
“I’m fine. Thank you very much for the dresses.”
She squeezed and pranced out to the hall, where she directed Ana to come help me dress. I stiffened at the suggestion. “It’s okay, Ana, where I come from, I dress alone.” She nodded and closed the door.
After she left, I stuffed the additional accessories into the wardrobe and kept my own underclothes on.
The idea of this being an elaborate dream faded with each passing minute. I searched for my cell phone. I hoped, illogically, the device had been found with me, but remembered it charging in the library while I worked. Then I realized how stupid that sounded. There would need to be another cell phone to connect with, and if they weren’t invented yet, how would that happen?
If I could get to the office or to a car, all of this might get figured out. Though, once again, I reminded myself, if it was 1878, automobiles do not exist. I believed all I needed was to have some grasp on modern-day reality. Maybe, it would jolt my mind back to normal.
My hesitation to leave the bedroom centered mostly on fear. Fear of the unknown and fear beyond my sanctuary. In all my short 24 years of life, nothing I experienced, including complete and utter despair, could have prepared me for this—whatever this was.
By midmorning, I gathered enough strength to face the back side of the door. Even in its plainness, the exquisite design exceeded anything I was familiar with. My hand brushed the wood with a reverence. Whatever lies on the other side will have to be addressed eventually. The sooner I met my fate, the better.
I gripped the door handle and turned. Seeing the home in its full authentic glory, tempted, and frightened me equally. Stepping into the hallway, I drew a deep breath and allowed my lungs to fill with confidence. Glimpses of familiarity helped me orient my location. My refuge was a bedchamber on the second floor, located on the opposite end from the master suite. In 2010, this was a guest bedroom rarely used or entered. That’s why it seemed foreign to me.
Meandering forward, the scent of fresh-cut flowers filled the air. Arrangements with roses, daisies, and charlock, appeared in delicate vases down the hall. Leaning into one, I grinned as the petals tickled my nose. The sweetness of the flowers soothed my restless mind before I caught sight of a window.
The beveled glass of each pane exposed life and light through the open drapes. The magnificent sight forced me to stare. The grounds, although similar in structure, carried an unacquainted ambiance. My mind did not want to admit that the illusion continued.
Once I reached the top of the grand staircase, I paused. The view from here overwhelmed me. My fingers grazed the darker, richer wood railings, to which I grasped tightly for my balance upon descent. The potent scent of cherry wood soared like it was fresh from the forest and the carpets dazzled like new. Though in 1878, the manor was still easily over a hundred years old.
I froze on the mezzanine. The large, beautiful painting of the family was missing. The very portrait that was suspect in my delusion. Its existence was the reason I recognized Merritt and Lizzy in the first place.
I scanned the painting in its place. A magnificent portrait of similar size and authority appeared, but with only a man and a woman. I recognized the picture as one from the ballroom. It was the original owners of Charlock Manor, Martha Gilford’s grandparents.
“Katharine!” Lizzy squealed from the bottom of the steps. I smiled down at her. In her visits to me, while I recuperated, her attention soothed—both physically and emotionally.
“You are in time for our midday meal!” She cried as she bounced up to meet me halfway.
“Lunch?” I questioned. With no phone to guide me, I had lost complete track of time.
“We are dining on the veranda.” She squeezed my hands with her usual infectious excitement. “The weather has been rather gray. We can finally delight in the sunshine.”
Leading me through several rooms before we reached the back doors, she practically dragged me as I lingered on every detail en route. The house felt so alive, like a breathing organism versus the dormant museum I left in the future.
When we stepped outside, all eyes immediately turned my direction. I felt the blood drain from my face as I faced a family, who until recently, only appeared on a canvas. I wiped the growing sweat off my nose. If ever I had a moment of intimidation, it would be now.
Seated around an impressive table, the family gathered under an overhead shade. Lizzy yanked me forward. “Look who has improved and will accompany us!” She announced at the top of her lungs.
“Elizabeth, lower your voice.” A woman rebuked quickly. Mrs. Gilford, I assumed.
When the man seated to her right at the head of the table, nodded, servants scrambled to set another place. The men in the family stood to their feet as I apprehensively slid into the supplied chair next to Lizzy.
“Mum, Papa,” Lizzy acknowledged, “This is Miss Katharine . . . uh . . .” She stared at me and giggled, “I have not yet been informed of your family name.”
“Oh, yes, it's Shelton. Katharine Shelton.” I leaned forward to shake their hands, but they stood still and did not meet mine. I withdrew quickly. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I'm . . . a bit out of place.” Both girls giggled this time.
“Girls.” Mrs. Gilford retorted patiently then glanced at me. “Where exactly does your family originate, Miss Shelton?” Mrs. Gilford paused before she picked up her fork. “You sound American.”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “I’m from New York.”
Merritt's eyes grew wide and full of interest. “New York?” He cried.
I nodded.
“I have read chronicles of your city.” His voice increased in eagerness. “Does it really lack civility as they say?”
“Ah . . .” I smiled. If only you knew the half of it. “New York is quite a unique place.”
“Where’s New York, Mum?” The only child I had yet to meet officially sat next to her mother.”
“It’s in America, Abagale, across the Atlantic Ocean.” She answered.
“Is it like England?”
“Not at all,” Lizzy interrupted, “it has wild natives and slaves!”
“And that book—” Merritt leaned in. “the one that has caused quite a conundrum . . . Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
“Merritt! Elizabeth!” Mr. Gilford commanded, “we will not speak of such impertinence at the table.” He buttered his biscuit. “Pardon us, we are much more dignified than we appear.”
“Perhaps Merritt is misinformed, Frederick, no harm done.” His wife smiled warmly. “What brings you to England, Miss Shelton?”
I grinned weakly. “I came for employment—”
“All the way from America to be a governess?” she questioned justifiably.
“No, for other reasons actually. . . only they didn't work out right now.” Her eyebrows curved. I scrambled. “—but I assure you, I’m well-educated with an emphasis in art. I can do this job.”
Elizabeth placed a greasy-looking meatball on my plate. “Faggot? Miss Katharine?” My lips curled awkwardly. I caught myself from snorting. She ignored my reaction and continued, “Molly makes the best faggots in the county.” I quickly changed my expression and nodded.
“May I ask your age, my dear?” Mrs. Gilford interrupted.
“24.” I muttered as I fought the urge to protest her nosy question, but this was no time for me to be defiant.
“four and twenty?” Mrs. Gilford articulated slowly. “Quite young to profess such an advanced background in education . . . don’t you think?”
“I—I will not disappoint you.” I mustered confidence. My life depended on staying at Charlock Manor. At least until I figured out what was happening to me.
Martha brought her teacup to her lips then stopped, “I am curious though, the agency said you came highly qualified,
however, I’m sure they provided me with a different name.” She took a sip and eyed me once more. “You have . . . how should I say it . . . physical qualities most governesses seem to lack. I will have to consult my papers.”
“Oh.” My face suddenly flushed with heat, “Um,” I grappled for an answer. Think, Kat! Think! “Um,” All eyes rested on me. “Well, there were several candidates for this position.” I referred to the curator job but convinced myself it applied here. “. . . and if you’ll agree, at least for now, I’ll show you I’m experienced enough to teach your daughters.”
“Blimey!” Mr. Gilford huffed aloud, “Don’t be dodgy.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and glared at me sternly. “Were you or were you not appointed to be the governess here?”
A sizeable lump grew in my throat. “I—” My cheeks flushed. My very existence was at stake. If I couldn’t convince them I should stay here, my chance of getting back to my life would disappear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lizzy fidgeting noisily. Her face scrunched in distress towards her mother.
Somehow Mrs. Gilford understood and placed her hand tenderly over her husband’s arm. “Frederick dear, since we no longer require the services of a nurse, I believe Miss Shelton will work out sufficiently as the governess. Do not trifle yourself with this any longer.” A simple sigh of relief arose as she continued to converse quietly with her husband, “The procession for Lord Russell was extraordinary, don’t you agree, dear?”
This small act showed precisely the reason we believed this family revolved around Martha. Gilford. In one smooth move, she shifted the mood from anxiety to peace and, I, for one, was quite thankful for it.
I tuned out the family as I studied my plate. I could only identify the bread, which they called hobnobs. Then there was the “faggot”, Elizabeth pointed out and another dish. Possibly mashed potatoes with thick brown gravy dripped over it.