by Leah Moyes
“But mum does not approve,” Lizzy added.
“Not approve of what?” I asked.
“My dolls.” Abby frowned.
“Mum says she’s too old for such childish playthings.” Lizzy wasn’t too sympathetic.
“Well, let me tell you a secret,” I whispered. The girls leaned in eagerly. “I slept with a toy monkey every night until I turned eighteen.” They looked at each other and snickered aloud.
I sighed. It was not a lie. My mother gave me George the day after the bomb, and he hadn't left my side once until I went to college. It was difficult to leave him behind, but seriously . . . who takes a stuffed animal to college?
“Okay, Lizzy, let's have it.”
“Have what?”
“Your story.”
“My story?”
“Yeah, tell me something about you.”
She grinned, “I’m proficient on the harp, love to sing, speak Latin and French, find lectures a bore, and adore dancing.” Elizabeth didn’t have any trouble expressing her many talents.
“Dancing, huh?”
“Oh, yes . . .” She laughed. “I pursue as many social events as I can. Papa says I have more gowns than Queen Victoria herself. I'm sure he’s mistaken.” Lizzy, although slightly immature for her 16 years, was stunningly beautiful, and I'm sure garnered a great deal of attention at these events.
“Have you met the Queen?” I cooed. Victoria’s story has always fascinated me. I watched a documentary on her years ago. She is one of the very few monarchs I would’ve liked to have met.
“Queen Victoria?” Abagale laughed.
Lizzy smiled. “Miss Katharine, you must be titled to go to court. Papa rarely speaks of his duty with her. He respects her privacy. He took us once to see her on the balcony at Buckingham Palace. She is lovely, only now, she spends little time outside.”
“She must miss Albert very much.”
“You were aware of this in America?” Lizzy seemed surprised.
“Yes.” I nodded solemnly. I recalled the story of how he succumbed to typhoid fever. “Twenty years together, correct?”
“Yes.” Her eyelashes fluttered as if she fought tears again.
At least Victoria had that. I muttered under my breath, then scolded myself silently. It’s not always about you, Kat! I glanced out the window and wiped my forehead. Once composed, I turned back to the girls. “Okay, let's get started.”
The girls watched intently.
“I’m curious . . .” I questioned as I faced the chalkboard once again and wrote the word, schedule, and underlined it. A motive developed.
“In what order have your previous governesses taught the subjects, like your schedule?” The girls giggled again, I suspected this would happen often today, and many days to come.
“It’s pronounced schedule,” Lizzy said. She enunciated the S and Ch together smoothly like Sh without the K sound we use in America. Then she continued, “It’s commonplace to begin our day with numbers—arithmetic, writing, language, arts, and sciences. Then sometimes, in the afternoons in between music and embroidery, they would attempt to teach propriety.” She chuckled as she continued, “however, they themselves were barely tolerable . . . frumpy old maids. How could they possibly know anything about entering good society?” Her voice rose excitedly, “but you, you, Miss Katharine, I'm sure are well-versed in far superior matters of delicacy.”
“Ha, uh,” I coughed at their delusion. Even as I stood before them barefoot, with no slip or appropriate undergarments, they wanted to believe I was a cultured lady. I quickly changed the subject, “Well, let's start with some numbers and see a baseline of your knowledge and understanding, and then we’ll move on from there.”
Ready, though anxious, I envisioned my mother teaching me each day in a similar private setting. She didn’t have a college degree but learned much of her mathematical skills on the job and passed a lot of that knowledge on to me. Dad was an expert in the interpretation of the law and social sciences, creating a well-rounded foundation. This upbringing gave me the sliver of confidence I needed to push forward here—at least until I found my way back—if I’m even able to get back.
Later that afternoon, we walked around the grounds as promised, only after they summoned Ana to bring my shoes and stockings and secured them to my legs with the annoying “garters”.
The sky, although clouded, brought no rain as the girls danced around the garden. I couldn’t help but marvel at the innocence before me. I knew their lives couldn’t all be peaches and cream, but as I watched Lizzy and Abby and their thoughtful interaction with each other, my heart warmed. This was a rare opportunity to witness extraordinary goodness. City life had its ups and downs, and one of the worst is witnessing too much deliberate ugliness. Yet here, kindness and love transpired right before my eyes, and I cherished the very thought of it.
Chapter Thirteen
One day turned to two and three then four, and finally one week passed at Charlock Manor. Each night I went to bed, I hoped with all my might that when the next day arrived, I’d wake up in the twenty-first century—but it never happened.
After locating the mysterious door by the library, the one that brought me here, I spent several evenings walking up and down those same steps. I hoped that was all I needed to do to get transported back to the future. When walking didn’t work, I sprinted. Then stood at the top, wondering if I recreated the fall it could somehow do the trick. I just couldn’t get my head to convince my body to tumble purposefully into pain, so I gave up . . . quite discouraged.
During this time, we established a classroom routine. Teaching turned out to be much more enjoyable than I imagined, and the responsibility strategically kept me away from the rest of the family most of the time. At Lizzy’s insistent urgings, I wore my stockings regularly, but stayed far away from the underclothes, rewashing my much smaller pair every other day. The shoes took less time to adjust to since I wore boots often in the city, but I missed my flip-flops. I was always one for less coverage, but as a courtesy to both Ana and the girls, I confined my barefoot adventures to only my room and the river path when it wasn’t raining.
Mealtime became more difficult to avoid, so I joined them most evenings. The weather didn’t always cooperate with a veranda gathering, but it didn’t matter where we ate, the fare overwhelmed me. Foods, I never recognized or tasted before, such as gammon steak, Cumberland sausage, and cottage pie. Course after course made it hard to believe any young woman could maintain a tiny waist, but the more I kept my mouth busy, the less conversation I engaged in. The girls made the experience tolerable, and Merritt was polite in his inquiries.
“Miss Shelton?”
“Mr. Gilford?” I stopped toying with my bangers and mash. The older Mr. Gilford glanced my direction.
“Please call me Merritt; the honor of Mr. Gilford applies to my father. I believe we are beyond formalities.” He beamed.
I returned the grin. Merritt’s temperament always conveyed a calmness. Most of the time, he appeared reserved, almost shy. Occasionally, though, mostly with his sisters, he exerted moments of vibrant energy. “Did you have a question?”
Merritt set his fork down and leaned forward. “Would you mind sharing about your home?”
My eyes lit up. I loved talking about home but learned early on to speak with caution—my actual home existed many years in the future. “New York is amazing. The people can be a bit . . . ostentatious, I’d say. Much like any big city, I’m sure, maybe even London.”
Merritt’s full attention beheld only me. “I don’t know about that, Miss Shelton. I think the English are a little more reserved, wouldn’t you say?”
“and as long as we’re past the formalities Merritt, call me Katharine.”
“As you wish.” Merritt winked.
“More white coffee, Miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Shannon, maybe one more cup.” I reached for the cream and added a teaspoon. I couldn’t resist. Its sweetness complimented the meal well.
“Rough around the edges?” He questioned.
“You know, maybe not refined, but good people, they would do anything for you.”
“I hope to visit someday.”
“I hope so too.” I really did. Everyone should see New York.
“What do you do for amusement?”
“Amusement?” The first image that came to mind was the tricks my brothers played on the tourists in Times Square, but I kept that to myself. “I love Broadway shows—” uh. “Musical theater.” I corrected myself swiftly.
“Theater?” Lizzy swooned. “Papa promised he would take me to Criterion on Piccadilly, but I’ve waited two years, and he still hasn’t.” She turned his direction with an extra-large pouty lip. He never noticed.
“Well, maybe we could go sometime?” I hesitated to impose, but I couldn’t resist the possibility of seeing a nineteenth-century London.
“Yes,” Lizzy cried, “and afterward, we could go to Gunter’s Tea Shop for Lemon Ice.”
I grinned. “How about Sunday?”
An instant hush came over my once animated audience.
“Miss Katharine?” Abby interrupted. Her tone turned serious. “We attend church on Sunday.”
“Oh, okay. Th—that is a good place to be on Sunday.” I took a bite of the trifle placed before me.
“Won’t you be going with us?” Her eyelashes fluttered my direction the same time her hand patted my arm.
“Uh—Church?” One of the pastry berries caught in my throat.
“Yes, we attend together, you must come.”
I swallowed hard and gulped my coffee. “I—I don’t go to a . . . church.”
“Don’t go?” Lizzy’s face drained of color. “How can you not attend church?” All eyes immediately fell upon me. Whatever the parents were discussing, no longer mattered.
“I—” Oh boy. A thin layer of perspiration built on my nose. “I, uh, would love to go to uh— ”
“Church.” Abby finished my sentence then happily dove into her dessert.
“Yes,” I mumbled defeat with a forced grin, but by then everyone resumed their previous conversations. When my mouth relaxed to a frown, I was still being watched by one.
Merritt leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t enjoy it much myself,” his lips curved slyly, “but we might tolerate it together.” He winked, and I smiled for real this time.
Chapter Fourteen
I attended a Catholic Mass once at St Patrick’s Cathedral around 12 years of age. They held it in honor of my great-grandfather’s one-hundredth birthday. I remembered it distinctly because it was the first, and last time, I ever stepped foot into a church. Why I agreed to go with the Gilfords, I didn’t know. It would only become another opportunity for me to humiliate myself or worse . . . them.
Thankfully, Lizzy met me bright and early with a new dress. One, that was apparently fit for a social appearance. It was made with finer material, yet simple in trimmings and length. I even wore the required silk stockings and half-boots. The bonnet was an entirely different species of animal. I had worn nothing like it, but my need to sustain outweighed my awkwardness.
The family took both carriages to the church in the nearest township, Mr. and Mrs. Gilford rode in the covered one, they referred to as a barouche and the four of us in the open phaeton. The Molesey I remembered from my occasional visits in the future was far more developed than what appeared.
Upon approach, the solitary stone church with the grand spire was not familiar to me, though its magnificence could hardly be overlooked. As the carriage slowed, the tremble in my fingers expanded to my hands, so I clasped them tightly together and hid them in the folds of my skirt. Unable to pinpoint exactly what frightened me, I contemplated further. It could be anything—the year, the company, or that I knew nothing of God.
“What religion is this?” I whispered to Merritt as we came to a stop. Not that it would matter, I’d only heard of a few.
“Church of England, Miss Katharine.” He jumped out of the carriage first and extended his hand to his sisters as they both exited delicately. I stood up but didn’t move. My eyes continued to follow the outline of the intricately carved eaves, past the stone walls, and up to the inspired images in the colored glass. I knew a little about King Henry and his personal reasons for creating the Church of England from my history classes and the political role it played in America’s Independence but knew nothing of the doctrine. Merritt cleared his throat.
“Sorry, Merritt.” I met his hand as he assisted me down.
As close as he was, his breath tickled my ear. “Don’t be frightened, “he whispered, “the Vicar puts most of the parishioners asleep within the hour, and those that don’t doze, have probably had their fair share of spritzers and can’t recall a solitary word. The presence of a new patron will hardly be detected.”
I chuckled in response. Lizzy and Abby glanced back with curiosity as Merritt extended his arm and led the way. A great deal of relief came over me, knowing I wasn’t entering this most foreign realm alone.
Thirty minutes into the sermon, Merritt tapped my arm and used his eyes to point out the truth of his earlier comments. He’s right! The pastor’s monotone delivery put half of the congregation to sleep. I, myself, had mastered the art of tuning someone out from my college days. A survival tool I perfected for those long philosophical lectures when professors were the only ones enamored with their voices. Instead, I watched people.
Scanning the room, opposite the pulpit, I spotted a boy in a pew playing with a spinning top on the vacant bench in front of him. His mother was quite unaware, while his father snored. Behind him, a row of young girls worked hard at getting Merritt’s attention, and every time I glanced back, they met me with the scowl. I laughed out loud. Not much had changed in the world of girl envy. For fun, I intentionally teased by leaning intimately close to Merritt, just to whisper something irrelevant. Maybe church wasn’t so bad, after all.
When the pastor recognized his audience no longer heeded his words, his voice rose in volumes as he spoke of everlasting damnation. “The fiery pit of Hell is the only course when sinful acts incurred are not met with true repentance.” He hollered. A few weary eyelids raised. “Beware of iniquitous thoughts as many will lead to the deeds as well.” A few more heads bobbed up. “You must cleanse your souls and engage in penitence.”
Words I understood from a language viewpoint, but nothing beyond that. Church and religion were as foreign to me as this era was. I peered around the congregation again and recognized the genius of the pastor who rendered full attention now. Right in time for his speech on a healthy tithe, a copper plate conveniently passed before us. Of course, I thought skeptically, convince these wealthy families they must buy their way to heaven . . . very clever.
I chuckled and watched as churchgoers reached deep into their pockets. When the plate arrived at a young man two rows across, he passed it through without a deposit and kept his eyes securely on me. His bold, unnerving stare never wavered. I dropped my eyes awkwardly to my lap but couldn’t stop the rapid thumping from my chest. It wasn’t his rustic attractiveness that tickled my stomach. It was the way he gawked. . . not at me, through me. When I peeked again, his stare remained unmoved.
A slight gasp alerted Merritt to my unease. He glanced over at me and peered around. The man continued to gape.
“Do you know Josiah?” He whispered.
I shook my head slowly, “No. I don’t know anyone except your family.” Afraid to peek again, I watched goosebumps appear on my arms. “How do you know him?”
“His name is Josiah Abbott. His family owns a large plot of land west of here.”
“Why is he staring?” I shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench and peered over to Merritt. His expression remained calm and uninti
midated.
After a few seconds, his lips bent downward. “He does seem quite intent on you.”
Although I refused to look again, from Merritt’s comment, it sounded as though the man hadn’t changed course. I lowered my chin and remained silent. What if this stranger knows something, something that could jeopardize my place at Charlock?
At the conclusion of the sermon, the congregation slowly dissipated and mingled. My only goal was to get out of the church quickly. When curiosity taunted, I glimpsed towards the pew the man occupied, but it was now empty. My breathing increased with this sudden change. I scrambled for my footing. His absence could be good or bad. My head told me it might be the latter.
“How did you like it, Miss Katharine?” Abby reached for my hand. This small measure of kindness comforted me as we moved towards the door.
“It was . . .” Tussling to find the right words without offending her, I followed up with, “. . . fascinating.”
She giggled, “What does fascinating mean?”
“Interesting,” I responded with a laugh of my own.
She seemed satisfied and bounced off to visit with other girls her age. In one corner, Lizzy conveniently found herself surrounded by a group of young male admirers. In the opposite corner, the elder Gilfords conversed with another couple and Merritt, was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, all alone, I made a beeline for the exit.
Out the door and into the fresh air, I seized a long inhale before I examined the people outside. Nothing out of the ordinary that I could see, so I shuffled towards the carriage. The pinch in my right foot reminded me that the boots I wore were a half size too small, and these stockings made my skin itch. Propping my foot on the phaeton step, I attempted to remove them. Proper or not, comfort quickly ascended to the top of my priority list.
“Miss?” A deep voice surfaced from behind. I shot to attention and quickly turned to find the man with the unyielding stare behind me. He held his hat in a tight grip. His eyes surveyed my torso uncomfortably.
I quickly scanned the area; no one I recognized was near. A shudder rippled my spine. I had no reason to feel threatened by this man other than the sixth sense one experiences when something feels off.