Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Meanwhile, her escort stopped at the cloak room. A servant, seeing Claire, went and retrieved a shawl which St. John draped loosely about her arms. While he turned away to speak to another gentleman, she stared at it in consternation, thinking she must be stealing some lady’s wrap. But she gasped. It was the tallit again! Earlier, she’d been wearing it. How had it got to the coat room? And why was it continually showing up in her dream—or vision—or whatever this was? The servant proceeded to give her a bonnet. When she looked at it wonderingly, the man said, “In’t it yers, mum? ‘Twas with the shawl.” He motioned behind him. “All the other ladies ‘as got their bonnets, mum.”

  She saw it bore a design that was identical to the embroidered pattern on the tallit. It had the two doves in gold-and-mint thread. She put it on, not surprised that it fit exactly right over the tiara. Somehow her dreaming—or imagining—took perfect care of such things. Now if only she could imagine herself home again!

  St. John turned back to her just then and held out his arm. His eyes took in her bonnet, and then the shawl, draped behind her and across her arms. The approval in his gaze lightened her heart. If only that gaze would remain approving when she would soon be forced to explain her predicament! She really shouldn’t leave the building with him, but what could she say?

  She had nowhere else to go.

  I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world.

  J.G.Ballard

  CHAPTER 15

  St. John led her out of doors where they waited momentarily as numerous coaches lumbered past. He left her, strode to the curb, and whistled loudly. He gave three long whistles followed by three short trills. Soon a small black coach from down the street headed their way.

  “Does everyone call their coachman with a particular call?” she asked. This was news to her, and useful to know for a Regency romance writer.

  He studied her. “Not everyone. But my man knows my whistle.”

  The polished black carriage rolled to a stop before her, and from that moment, the magic of the night bore in on Claire, erasing her worries momentarily. She stared as a liveried footman jumped off the back and let down the steps for them. She marvelled as St. John took her hand to help her into the coach. She was ultra-aware of every sensation, every inch of the carriage. Inside it—how small and intimate it seemed—she studied everything. He watched from the door with a curious expression.

  “What is your direction, Miss Channing?” he asked with a little smile. “My coachman is no mind reader.” Claire stared at him helplessly.

  When she hesitated, he climbed in and sat across from her, studying the look of adorable confusion on her face.

  “Perhaps you ought to leave me here,” she said, moving to exit the coach.

  But he put out a hand to stop her, regarding her curiously. His eyes were soft. “No doubt your brother or cousin has abandoned you in pursuit of gaming or some such thing, and you are loath to reveal his negligence. ’Tis indulgent of you. But I shan’t leave you here.”

  She shook her head, frowning, to show him he was wrong.

  Gently, he said, “Have no fear; I will take you anywhere in London. You needn’t be afraid.”

  She sat forward in concern. “I am afraid, sir—” She stared at him, troubled.

  “Yes?” He sat forward also. Their knees touched. “I beg your pardon,” he said, moving over slightly so each had more space. “I brought my smallest coach, as I did not anticipate taking a lady home.” He levelled his gaze on her. “What are you afraid of?”

  She said, “I am afraid I cannot—that is, I cannot supply you with a direction.” She looked away in embarrassment, for she knew how perfectly inane such a statement must sound.

  He sat back and regarded her with some puzzlement. He knocked a hand lazily against the wall, and the carriage began rolling with a slight jolt.

  Claire looked at the street, clinging to the cushion, but fascinated with the thought that nineteenth-century London was slowly rolling past. The occasional lamp posts were ineffectual, illuminating only the smallest halo of hazy light. She craned her neck to get a good look. They were still candlelit, she realised! He noticed the direction of her gaze, and said, “Our gas lit streets are brighter, are they not? They should get around to this street soon, from what I’m told.”

  After travelling a few blocks, St. John sat forward and said, “Now then. No one will hear where you live but me. What is your direction?”

  Her mouth dropped open slightly in realization. “You are very kind. You thought I was afraid to say where I live. You are thinking I live somewhere that is not fashionable.”

  He nodded. “Perfectly understandable. We have our fair share of gossips and highbrows.” He gave her a mild look. “I assure you, your secret is safe with me.”

  She sat forward again. “You are too kind; only it is not that. I am ashamed of where I live.” She hesitated. “You see, I do not live in London. You really cannot take me home. ’Tis…unreachable by coach. I should not have come with you.”

  He sat back again and gave her an inscrutable look. When he lit the interior lamp, she watched in rapt fascination. He caught her gaze, and looked mildly puzzled.

  “I must say, you have me perplexed,” he began. “I am not certain what to make of you. A young woman without friends, who now claims to have no home.” He looked up suddenly. “Miss Margaret knew you. I’ll take you to the Andrews’s on Red Lion Square.”

  “Oh, please, do not!” Her cry startled him. “Miss Andrews loathes me! She will turn me out on the street!”

  He rubbed his chin in thought. “You put me in a difficult position, Miss Channing. If I take you there, you are distressed. But if I do not, what am I do to with you? A gentleman—an honourable gentleman, that is—does not take a young woman to his home. If I had a sister or an aunt at my house, perhaps—but I am quite alone. I daresay you and Miss Andrews have had a falling out; nevertheless, I must return you to your friends.”

  “But they are not my friends. Miss Margaret was mistaken, St. John.”

  He stared at her.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. St. John.” Then, as if trying to commit it to memory, which she was because she always thought of him by last name only, she said it again. “Mr. St. John.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are the strangest creature. Er, how was she mistaken?”

  Claire did not want to call Margaret a liar. “She pretended to know me, in order to help me. Because I did not know a soul in that ballroom.”

  He frowned. “You begin to put me in mind of Clarissa. This is some kind of lark, is it not?”

  Claire fell back against her seat.

  “You had to come from a home somewhere,” he said, with renewed patience. “What is the direction?”

  She stared at him. “212 Timber Tree Drive.”

  He gave her a blank stare. “What part of town is that? I’ve not heard of—”

  “’Tisn’t in London.”

  “Where, then? How far do you live?”

  She sighed. She recalled the earnest words of Miss Margaret: You’d best come clean to St. John as soon as possible. He won’t countenance being fooled with, you know. “I live in America.”

  “You tax my patience, Miss Channing.” His jaw hardened. “WHERE are you stopping in London?”

  She fell silent, thinking how to answer. She shook her head helplessly.

  He looked out the window, his lips compressed. When he looked back, it was with disdain. “I thought you an agreeable woman. I see now I misjudged you.” He gave her a cutting look. “I am no longer the type of man to keep a woman; if that is in your mind, you are quite mistaken.”

  “No, no, of course you’re not!” she cried. In a second his words sank in and her eyes widened. “Did you say, no longer the type? You mean, you were? I didn’t think you ever were. I thought you very proper!”

  Nonplussed, he replied, “Earlier, you said you knew who I am. But evidently not who I have been.” He paused. “I end
eavour now to live a proper life. I am become a man of some religion, if you must know. But you force my hand. If you persist in this—” He thought for a moment. “I shall take you to an inn and leave you there.”

  “I couldn’t pay my shot!” She gave him a wide-eyed, frightened look.

  “I warn you, Miss Channing. I am not to be trifled with. I am endeavouring, as I said, to act the gentleman, but as such, I cannot take a lady into my home.” In an acid tone, he added, “An upright woman would little desire it. If you force me to take you in like a street waif, I will have no choice but to call a magistrate.”

  “Return me to the ballroom, then!”

  “’Tis no doubt locked up by now.”

  She looked forlorn, and closed her eyes and moaned, “Oh, why did I come with you?” Opening her eyes again, she found him watching her disapprovingly. “I am terribly sorry I accompanied you. But you must have a guest bedroom, er, bedchamber. Can you not consider me your cousin?”

  He squinted at her. “You astonish me. I think even Clarissa is not your equal in depravity.”

  “No, no, you misunderstand me!” she cried, blushing. “Consider me like a sister, then!” Suddenly, it seemed hopeless and ridiculous—her position was unthinkable! What else could he think except that she was an impure? “I cannot—account—for being here. Or explain to you why I am, because I do not understand the mechanism of how it happened myself!” She went on hurriedly. “I wish I could tell you—”

  “Tell me what?” The carriage pulled to the kerb. He glanced outside.

  “Is this where you live?” she asked, looking interestedly at the street. St. John lived on South Audley Street, a respectable typical street in Mayfair, lined with stolid Regency town houses. Amazing!

  “You wish to tell me what, madam?”

  Oh dear. The cold, madam. He had thoroughly lost patience with her! “That—I am a writer. I was merely writing a novel. You and Miss Andrews are characters in my book.”

  He frowned. “No flummery, if you please.”

  She looked stricken. “No—I am telling you the truth.”

  He looked outside again. “I am going into my home. You may direct my coachman to take you wherever you like. I no longer care to know your direction. Good night.” He rose and left the coach. Claire began to cry.

  St. John heard her as he stood on the pavement. He closed his eyes with a sigh. For a moment he deliberated. This woman was no better than Miss Andrews with her tricks. But Miss Andrews never shed tears—not real ones, anyway. These sounded real.

  Finally he turned back, opened the door, and poked his head in. Claire looked at him, hardly daring to hope. What was there to hope for? Even if he were to welcome her into his home wholeheartedly, she was still stuck in a world that was not her own, to which she did not belong. She would never, ever, be able to explain her presence in a way that wasn’t demeaning to St. John.

  “Miss Channing, what would you have me do with you?”

  She stared at him hopelessly. Suddenly, she remembered that she’d returned home from the ballroom after Miss Margaret had shown her to the water closet. “Do you have—do you have a water closet?”

  His brows rose, and he looked at her doubtfully. “You are finagling a means of entrance into my house.”

  “No! I—I need—I need to visit a water closet,” she said firmly. She bit her lip, watching him. What would he say? “No one will know,” she added weakly, hoping that might help.

  He stared at her. “I will know. My servants will know. God will know.”

  Claire blinked back tears. He saw her face and seemed moved. He took a deep breath. To the footman waiting beside the coach, he said, “Fetch Mrs. DeWitt.” To Claire, he said, “My housekeeper will see to you. I’ll get to the bottom of this. You can’t keep this up, you know.”

  She allowed him to hand her down, though her relief was tempered by the thought that the water closet might not be a portal. He did not offer his arm as they approached the door. Claire’s heart was in her shoes. But what could she do?

  They entered the well-appointed town house, striding past a butler holding the door for them. Claire thought he had the perfect servant’s bland expression until St. John said, “Don’t gape, Grey. Yes, I’ve brought a woman, and ’tisn’t at all what you think.”

  “No, sir,” said the man, bowing as if he were apologizing. Claire could not help looking about in awe at her surroundings. She was inside a Regency home! She needed to memorise everything she saw. At the water closet, she would disappear, and it all would be a memory, like waking from a dream.

  She hoped.

  It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.

  Marilyn Monroe

  CHAPTER 16

  Grey took St. John’s coat and hat, and waited until Claire handed over her bonnet and gloves. She held onto the tallit, reluctant to part with it—a token of home. She marvelled again that somehow it had come through with her to the world of her book. As she gave up her things, she wondered, come through what? A portal of some kind? A dimension? If it hadn’t been the world of her novel, she’d have thought it was time travel. It certainly looked and felt thoroughly real.

  While St. John watched warily, the housekeeper arrived and curtseyed. “Show Miss Channing to a water closet, if you would, Mrs. DeWitt.”

  A water closet—the house had more than one, then! Claire was surprised by this. Many Regency homes still used an attached or detached privy. St. John’s house was evidently outfitted with the latest conveniences.

  If the housekeeper felt any surprise at bringing a lady visitor to the water closet, she hid it. “This way, please, ma’am.” But she hesitated and turned to her master. “The first floor, sir?”

  He took a breath, studying Claire. “Yes. Then bring her to the library. A small teaboard, also.” His tone was of one resigned to something unpleasant.

  “I’ll see to it directly, sir.”

  “I’ll see to the fire, sir,” Grey said.

  Claire followed the lady, very aware that St. John climbed the stairs behind them. She didn’t dare turn or try to speak to him, though she was tempted to— in case she was about to disappear back to her own world and might never see him again—it would be goodbye for good. But a relief. She had no place in this world!

  She followed the lady along a corridor lit by only a few candle-lamps, giving the home a mysterious air. Regency lighting, she thought. But she could tell there were interesting paintings on the walls and, pausing before a landscape said, “Oh, please stop a moment!” Mrs. DeWitt held up her candlestick and told Claire as much as she knew about the painting. When they passed others, the lady began to stop and talk even before Claire asked; she seemed pleased at such interest. Claire learned with some amazement that each was an original.

  When they reached a certain door, the housekeeper said, “Here you are, ma’am. I’ll wait for you.”

  Claire looked at her curiously. She added, “To show you to the library, ma’am.” Her words ended with a little disapproving frown. Claire realised with a start that she probably thought Claire was not respectable! A respectable woman did not go to the home of a gentleman unchaperoned—if at all.

  She hesitated, wondering if poor Mrs. DeWitt would be frightened out of her wits when Claire disappeared. Well, there was nothing else for it. She turned, opened the door and went inside.

  She waited. No rushing wind. Neither was she back at her laptop. Instead, she was in a very upper-class Regency loo, about twice the size of an outhouse. A mahogany bench with a round opening was inlaid to a wall of mahogany. There was a chain attached to a pipe that disappeared beneath the wood. Surprisingly, there was little odor. It was all very interesting, but Claire sighed—she had not escaped her present difficulty. The water closet hadn’t worked as a portal.

  Note to self: Do not allow a gentleman—or anyone else—to take you away from a known portal.

  The housekeeper escorted her to a beautiful, oblong, book-lin
ed room. Longer than wide, it had two fireplaces, one of which had a cozy fire shooting out shadows that lent warmth and an intimate feeling to the room. The floor was tiled but with lovely Oriental style carpets. Detailed plasterwork graced the ceiling with evenly spaced roundels. The central roundel was a painting, a classical scene with angels and shepherds. So lovely, Claire thought, staring up at it in admiration.

  Seeing no sign of St. John, she wandered along the room, marvelling at the beauty of the architectural details, the elegance. The section with the bright hearth also had a double-branched candelabrum on a table, illuminating the area well, though shadows jumped around the far reaches of the room. She moved to a wall of books and ran her hand along a row of real leather spines. The jumping light of the flames flickered along the books and wall.

  She peered closer to read the spines. One row was biblical commentaries; another church history; the next, sermons. St. John really had become a man of some religion, as he’d said. She heard a polite cough behind her. She spun around and saw him. He was standing before a small settee—evidently he’d been there all along—watching her.

  “Do you read, Miss Channing?”

  “I do, with great pleasure.” She looked around appreciatively. “What treasures you must have here!”

  His brows went up. “Well.” He motioned her to a twin settee opposite where he stood. Claire draped her shawl over the brow and took her seat, while a maid came in accompanied by Mrs. DeWitt and laid out a tea service under that lady’s eye. Claire watched the servant closely, studying how she did it for details—something she might put in a novel. The dishes seemed to be of an expensive Staffordshire. She looked up and saw St. John watching her, and studiously ignored the maid from then on. After the servants curtseyed and left, he said, “May I ask why you are enraptured of a tea service?”