Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Ah. Now she could write in the apology scene and get the story back on track according to the outline. She grabbed the tallit, wrapped it around her shoulders, overlapping it across her chest, and put her hands to the keyboard.

  And a rushing wind surrounded her, leaving her breathless and blinking—and in the ballroom.

  What a scientist cannot account for is the

  alteration of time and space and dimension that is God’s.

  Mary C. Neal

  CHAPTER 10

  1816, England

  A corner of musicians began to play a tune and Claire watched in astonishment while a scene she had written many times for her stories came to life. Gentlemen were leading ladies to the dance floor where they lined up across from one another, bowed and curtseyed, and started the figures. Claire silently congratulated herself—her imagination was in full swing again! Good thing she understood it wasn’t happening, really!

  Glancing down, Claire noted she was still dressed in perfect Regency fashion. Somehow her imagination ingeniously supplied her with a lovely sprigged-muslin Empire dress with flounced, short sleeves and a matching hem. A shawl draped around her back and hung from her arms—the tallit again! She had on some kind of headdress; she could feel it, and even a little fabric purse—a reticule, it was called here—hung from her wrist.

  Suddenly from across the room, Earl Brest called, “Smelling salts! Who has smelling salts? Miss Andrews has swooned!”

  Claire gaped: her own Clarissa, who was nobody’s fool, had fainted? This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t in the outline. And Clarissa was not the missish or swooning sort. But right now Claire was only an observer, not an author. She watched in fascinated silence.

  The earl had caught Miss Andrews in his arms. While the dancers continued with the figures, oblivious to the disturbance, some of the older women rose from their seats against the walls and hurried to the area. Claire, with stark incredulity, went with them.

  “What is your problem, Miss Andrews?” Claire asked aloud, stopping about a foot away. She often spoke aloud to her characters when writing, and really did not understand why Clarissa, who never fainted, should be swooning at a mere ball. Only when she spoke this time, it was not to her keyboard, and everyone around her heard the question and looked at Claire interestedly. Miss Andrews cracked open an eye—so she hadn’t really swooned—Claire should have known! But upon seeing Claire, she gasped. Claire, getting her first good look at Clarissa, gasped back at her. Clarissa looked like her! Like a twin!

  While she stared in amazement, Clarissa’s look became a glare. Claire stepped back from the sheer hatred in her eyes. Ouch.

  A woman stepped forward from the crowd. In a commanding tone she said, “Take Miss Andrews to a side parlour where she may recline until we fetch a doctor.” The earl made a valiant effort to lift the lady (whose eyes were again firmly shut) but he faltered. Looking around, he spied St. John and said, “I need a man stronger than myself, I’m afraid.”

  St. John’s face went bland as he accepted the need for his assistance. But Mr. Timbrell stepped forward. “Allow me,” he said. He bent, and with a grunt, lifted the lady into his arms and obediently followed the woman who motioned them away. Claire watched, still wondering why she was imagining a Clarissa look alike—and at the lady’s evil eye toward her. And then St. John was there in front of her, in all his impressive manly bearing.

  A shock ran through Claire—a delicious shiver—though it was tempered by alarm. He’s not real, she reminded herself. This was her fictional hero.

  He seemed as if he wished to speak, but looked around as if searching for someone. He turned back to her and bowed politely, yet as one resigned.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I see no one from whom I may request an introduction. May I take the presumption of introducing myself?”

  Claire belatedly remembered she was supposed to curtsey. She did so, awkwardly.

  He bit his lip. “I have astonished you, no doubt.” He eyed her uncertainly for a moment. “Do not hesitate to send me away if it pleases you.”

  “No!” she said finally, dry-mouthed. Her heart was pounding, but wasn’t this fascinating! She was “meeting” a character she’d invented! He waited for the merest second to see if she wished to say more, but then bowed again. “Julian St. John, at your service.”

  “I know,” she said breathlessly.

  His face registered no surprise. “Ah. But you have me at a disadvantage.” He smiled gently. Oh—he was waiting for her name!

  “Channing. Claire Channing,” she said, with a little curtsey which she hoped was less awkward than the first.

  “Is that Miss Channing?” he asked, with a gleam of amusement in his eye.

  What a dolt she was! “Yes! Miss Channing, I beg your pardon,” she said, wide-eyed. This was incredible! She was getting to practice being a Regency miss. Thank goodness it was all imaginary!

  “A pleasure,” he said with a nod, looking at her with intense eyes, and making her blush like a schoolgirl. He isn’t real! She scolded herself. Any moment and she’d wake up and find herself before the laptop in the cottage. She wasn’t really in a nineteenth-century ballroom, no matter what her senses told her.

  He gazed at her curiously. “I hope it is not impertinent to ask; are you a relation of Miss Andrews? I’ve wondered since I first saw you.”

  Claire stammered in response, for she was as surprised as anyone at their similarity. All she could say was, “Why—why do you ask, sir?”

  He smiled gently. “You must allow the remarkable similarity of your features. You are almost her twin. I believe you look more like Clarissa than her sister, Miss Margaret.”

  Claire’s brows furrowed. She’d written Miss Andrews to be a beauty, but never had she dreamed of herself as the model for the character. She'd spent her life hiding behind thick bangs and happy to be as little noticed as possible. Hairdressers begged her to get rid of the bangs, but she’d never agreed. The only way she’d striven for attention was through her writing. Clarissa had her features, though, and was undeniably attractive. It must have been the fashions of the day, and how her hair was off the face; it brought out a beauty Claire had never tried to emphasize. But now that she’d seen Clarissa, Claire knew she must be every bit as beautiful.

  Nevertheless she said with a little smile, “I almost believe you are trying to flatter me, sir.”

  St. John’s eyes narrowed. “I never give flummery. You resemble her remarkably, though I daresay that on you, Miss Andrews’s features become…more respectable.” He leaned in. “But pray, do not repeat that I said so. She’ll seek revenge against you.”

  Claire felt her face turning crimson.

  Returning to his full height, he said, “You blush; am I behaving like a boor? Flustering you with observations I ought to keep to myself, no doubt?”

  She could find no response. He held out his arm. “May I escort you for some refreshment? Lemonade? Or ratafia might refresh you.”

  Claire stared at his arm. How many times had she written moments like this for heroines? She put her hand upon his arm gingerly, feeling amazed. He felt quite solid and real. Perhaps it wasn’t a vision, but a dream. But could she dream all this?

  As they walked, she saw curious faces looking at them; the old ladies began whispering.

  “Which are your friends?” St. John asked as he glanced around them.

  Claire swallowed. Of course. No young woman in the Regency simply showed up at a ball without connexions, without family or a sponsor. What could she say? And then suddenly she was saved from answering, as Miss Margaret appeared before them.

  “Hello,” she said, turning a gaze bright with curiosity upon Claire. St. John mistook her greeting as that of an acquaintance of Claire’s, for he said with a smile, “Ah. You are relations. Just as I thought. How do you explain, Miss Margaret, why Miss Channing should look more like your sister than you do yourself?”

  Miss Margaret studied Claire
benignly. Claire was surprised to find the young lady did not look the part of a shy, retiring wallflower, as she was supposed to be. She was not attractive, but had an interesting face with intelligent, mischievous eyes. Claire met those eyes with a silent plea. Watching Claire, Miss Margaret said slowly, “We have always marvelled at that very thing, sir.” She gave Claire a secret little smile.

  Miss Andrews’s excuse for fainting was that she had eaten but little that day. A maid had been sent with a tray of refreshments to revitalise Clarissa and keep a watchful eye upon the guest, but Miss Andrews was too vexed to eat. She could not erase the sight of that woman from her mind. A woman who had the audacity to look like her, like a twin!

  It was this woman who had earlier seemed to vanish, though now Clarissa saw she hadn’t vanished at all. The interfering trollop! She’d seen the way Julian looked at her. Whoever she was, she had better keep her claws off that man. Julian St. John belonged to her.

  Mr. Timbrell came urgently up to St. John, and with barely a glance at the ladies said, “I say, Julian, but might I have a word with you?” He peeked at Claire sideways; and did a double take. He bowed hastily at her. “Miss—Miss Andrews?”

  Julian said, “Miss Channing, may I have the honour of presenting Mr. Charles Timbrell to you?”

  “Miss Channing,” he said, slowly, taking in the sight of her, and giving another fine bow. Claire curtseyed. She was getting good at it, she thought. “A pleasure, sir.”

  “Why you look—you look remarkably like—”

  Margaret smiled at the amazement upon Mr. Timbrell’s face. “She is the perfect twin of my sister, is she not?”

  Claire stared at them, still rather dumbfounded at this development. Why was she dreaming such a thing? She’d never had the least wish to make Clarissa in her image!

  Mr. Timbrell smiled gently. “Indeed, she is.”

  “There is a difference,” said St. John, studying her.

  “There is” said Margaret. She looked about triumphantly. “I think she has none of my sister’s cruel nature.”

  Claire looked at her helplessly.

  “Lud, that’s it!” cried Mr. Timbrell, gazing approvingly. “She radiates rather, a sort o’ serenity, don’t she?”

  Claire could have laughed, for she felt anything but serene. Her heart was like to pound through her chest any moment.

  Julian looked at his friend. “Did you say you wished to speak with me?”

  Mr. Timbrell tore his eyes from Claire. “I did. But I daresay it can wait. I’d prefer to further my acquaintance with Miss Channing.”

  Julian put a hand possessively upon Claire’s, which was all this time still upon his arm. “I’m afraid that will have to wait. We were on our way for refreshments.”

  Mr. Timbrell nodded a bow as Julian moved Claire off. As they went, Margaret smiled at her timidly—or was it mischievously?

  Claire wondered how long this dream, or vision, could last. She looked about as they walked; astonished that everything still seemed real, just as real as anything else in life. St. John walked her past people whom she tried not to gawp at—but real Regency people in their exquisite clothing! If only she had her cell phone for pictures! You must remember these details, she told herself. Such as the lambent light from the candelabra overhead and against the walls—so much dimmer than modern lights. And her feet could practically feel the planking of the floor through the thin satin slippers. How did women dance away whole evenings in such flimsy footwear?

  Why and how this was happening fled to the back of her mind as she scrambled to study everything. St. John stopped at a table sparkling with crystal bowls of liquid, allowed a servant to ladle out two glasses, and handed one to Claire. He led her then to a bench against a wall, and studied her a moment. Her heart skipped a beat.

  She stared out at the room, too afraid to try more conversation. When she finally peeked up at him, he instantly met her gaze and offered a reassuring little smile. She flushed and looked away again—St. John was fictional but he was making her feel like a schoolgirl. He was too imposing for her to relax.

  The master of ceremonies announced the last dance of the evening. St. John turned to her. “Do you dance, Miss Channing?” he asked.

  Claire glanced at the dance floor. She’d once learned the steps of a simple Regency reel at a Jane Austen Society gala. But she dared not risk taking to the floor. There were any number of dances they might hold that she didn’t know.

  “I beg to be excused, sir,” she said, amazed again to find herself speaking easily in the manner of the day. “I am not in mind to stand up tonight, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand you,” he said, coming to his feet as if to leave. Claire realised he’d taken her answer as a dismissal! “My dear sir,” she said hurriedly, stopping him. “I pray you to understand that on another occasion I should be delighted to stand up with you.”

  “I thank you.” He paused, studying her. “I have not seen you in town before,” he said.

  She faltered for a reply. Raising a brow at her hesitation, he added, “I beg your pardon if I seem to stare, Miss Channing. I cannot stop marveling at how very much you look like Miss Andrews. The resemblance is remarkable. If you claimed to be a twin kept hidden all your life due to some dreadful misunderstanding, I would not doubt you!”

  Claire smiled, but only shook her head. The very idea of her looking like Clarissa still astonished her.

  “No iron mask or dungeons have been hiding you, then?” he continued.

  “Nothing so dramatic,” she answered, though it hit her as she spoke that visiting what she thought was a fictional world was highly dramatic.

  “If you are long-separated twins,” he said, “she is undoubtedly the evil one.” He smiled; a frisson of pleasure ran through Claire. She liked that smile.

  “We are not twins, I assure you.” Suddenly, she realised she ought to put in a good word for Clarissa. Miss Andrews was supposed to have apologised and hadn’t yet—she could do it for her. “I should tell you, Julian—” She stopped for he nearly gaped at her use of his first name. “I’m so sorry,” she cried, feeling very stupid, very much like a twenty-first-century author, not at all like a Regency belle who would never make that mistake.

  His gaze softened. “No matter. Proceed, please.”

  “I should tell you how very sorry Miss Andrews is about what happened last week.”

  “The coach,” he answered, in a flat tone.

  “Yes. She didn’t mean to—”

  “She lives to vex me, Miss Channing. If you don’t mind, I’d much prefer to discuss anything else but Miss Andrews’s sorrow. In fact,” he continued, “apart from your similarity, there is nothing of Miss Andrews I am happy to discuss.”

  Claire stared at him in consternation. He and Clarissa were supposed to end up falling in love. “Do you mean to say, you would prefer a different love interest?” This would be disastrous to her novel.

  He looked around quickly. “You astonish me,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. “I’m afraid I underestimate our fairer sex these days.”

  Claire blushed.

  He gave her an odd look. “She has never been that, but you intrigue me, Miss Channing.”

  Claire’s face fell. “She has never been that? For you?”

  He shook his head. “Never. If I gave the least impression—but no, I am sure I have not. Has she put ideas of such a thing into your head? ʾTis a delusion, I assure you.”

  Claire could not help being concerned at this admission. “But you might consider her, would you not, if she were more to your liking in her temperament?”

  He looked suddenly serious and met her gaze evenly. He looked out at the room. “Why do you plead her case?”

  Claire sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

  He looked back at her. “I think I do. She has put you up to it.”

  “No, I assure you!”

  But he was unconvinced. Troubled, she continued,
“I daresay that in your deepest heart of hearts you wish to approve of her, but she makes it impossible for you. I have tried to make her behave—”

  He stood up and stared down at her with an inscrutable expression. Softly, he said, “Pray, do not presume to tell me what is in my deepest heart of hearts. We have only just met.” He bowed and turned away. Claire watched him go, her heart filling with regret—and pounding in her ears.

  Miss Margaret was suddenly by her side. “My sister will do all she can to crush you after today, you know.”

  Claire studied her a moment. “Because of St. John, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. She thinks he belongs to her.”

  Claire nodded. In her heart, she agreed with Clarissa. Her novel depended on their getting together eventually. But she said, “Have no fear on my account. Your sister has no power over me. It is quite the opposite, I assure you.”

  Miss Margaret looked thoughtful. “Do you say that because you can vanish?”

  Claire stared at her. “What—what do you mean?”

  “I saw you earlier,” Margaret said. “I saw you appear out of nowhere. And I saw you vanish as if you’d never been here. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Claire was shaken. Really, this dream was too, too realistic! She wished she could awaken. But Margaret waited upon her for an answer, so she said. “No, I’m not. I believe I’m from another time.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened, and she grew thoughtful. “You’d best come clean to St. John as soon as possible. He won’t countenance being fooled with, you know.”

  Across the room, Lady Merrilton saw another chance to speak to St. John. She licked her lips, hoped her cheeks held colour, and approached him. “Good evening, Julian. Who is that charming creature you sat with just now? She appears to resemble our Miss Andrews.”

  “She does, indeed. She is Miss Channing. A relation of Clarissa’s.”