Blushing, she hesitated. “I try to learn what I can, wherever I am.”
“You wish to learn from a housemaid how to pour tea?” She said nothing, just looked away in consternation.
He came and took a teacup, and stood holding it, before sitting down at the end of her settee. He motioned to the teaboard. “Please.”
She stared at the spread before her, determined to remember every last thing so she could repeat it exactly in her book. There was the expected fruit and nuts, but also biscuits, cheese, soup, seed cake (she guessed) and what looked like bread pudding. And St. John had ordered a “small” tea board! She sipped the tea first. It was good and strong.
“Very nice!” she said approvingly.
St. John’s brows came together.
Claire tasted the soup. It had a strong, gamey flavour. The biscuits were even-textured, but not as sweet as modern cookies; the seedcake was on the heavy side, and also less sweet than she expected. The fruit? Grapes and apples, which looked exactly the same as modern varieties, though the apples were small, and the grapes had seeds!
“Is this bread pudding?” she asked, taking a delicate forkful to sample.
He glanced at the dish. “’Tis called tansy, I believe.” He watched while she tried it.
“The cinnamon is quite strong,” she pronounced.
He said, “Have you never tasted of a teaboard before?”
She looked at him plaintively. “Not—not from this year. What year is it?”
Now he stood and began to circle the settee, hands behind his back as if he needed to study her from all angles. When he was back before her, he stopped.
There was something so manly about tight-fitting pantaloons, a waistcoat and a spotless cravat, she thought. She said, “Judging by your clothing, and the elaborate embroidery on the hem and sleeves of my gown, I would guess we are somewhere about 1816—is that right?”
He put his hands on his hips. “What are you about? No more Banbury tales, if you please.”
Claire put down her fork. The time had come—St. John deserved a full explanation. She twisted her hands together and apart, then came nervously to her feet. “You will not understand,” she said, going toward him, making him take a step backwards. He looked down at her with surprise. She stopped, struck again by his Regency finery. St. John was so handsome. “You are…real!” she said softly.
His eyes held a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “Do not tempt me to show you how real I am,” he said dryly. Then he shook his head. “How is one to answer such a statement?”
With a curious look, she tentatively reached out her hand—his eyes followed her movement—until it rested upon the lapel of his jacket, making him stiffen with surprise. She felt the fabric as though daring it to disintegrate with her touch. It was thick but soft—and very convincing. How could she possibly imagine such texture?
“What material is this?” she asked, distracted by her researcher’s brain.
He took her hand in his, and removed it from his coat. “’Tis superfine,” he said in a strange slow answer as if realizing that Claire really was behaving like someone unused to the normal things of life.
St. John in fact was astounded that she had placed her hand upon him, for only a child could be so bold and get away with it—or a Cyprian. And yet Miss Channing had nothing of the minx about her; her action did, in fact, remind him of a child’s, for there was much innocence about it.
He led her to resume her seat, and sat a foot away on the same settee, facing her. She was like a softer version of Miss Andrews—far more appealing—except she must be up to some trick.
“What is it you want, Miss Channing? Be plain with me.”
She met his piercing gaze and searched for the right words. “Only to finish writing my book. You see, my last two books were not well received.” A frown flitted across her face. “The fact is, they hardly sold at all,” she said in a subdued tone. “If I am to continue writing, I must write a very special book.” Her face brightened. “And being here is certainly a great help. I’m sure to get a great deal of money for it, considering the authenticity of this research!”
“You, a woman, expect to be paid a great deal of money for a book? A book you haven’t finished writing?” He gave a stark look of disbelief. “This may be your worst invention, yet.”
“It happens all the time,” she returned, “where I come from.”
“What kind of book?” His tone of forced patience intimated that he was appeasing her, nothing more.
“Historical romance.”
“Romance!”
Claire stiffened, thinking his tone was one of disdain. “’Tis perfectly respectable! I include good history, I’ll have you know.”
“What part of history?”
She didn’t blink. “Your part. The Regency.”
His gaze pinned her. “The Regency of Prince George?”
“Yes.”
He gave something of a snort. “’Tisn’t history. ‘Tis contemporaneous.”
“Not to me. I live—that is, I usually live—in another time. As I’ve been trying to tell you!” A coal in the grate hissed, making Claire stare at it. She’d never thought of putting a hissing coal in her books.
He gave her an inscrutable look and sighed, as though burdened. “Very well, I shall play your game. What time period do you live in?”
“The 21st century.”
“The 21st century?”
“Yes.”
Still facing her, he put his head to one side, as though weighing her words. “Yet you wear contemporary fashion. Do you care to tell me what fashion women are wearing in..ah...the 21st century?
“There is no single fashion,” she said, fingering her teacup nervously. “Women wear dresses or slacks.”
“Slacks?”
“They’re like trousers,” she said, but he laughed. “Now I know your story is an invention! Women in pantaloons! How indelicate.”
“We do not think it indelicate. Though I admit that the clothing of this day, at least for your class, is finer. You see, we have mass merchandizing—”
He held up a hand. “We have discussed fashion sufficiently. Tell me what your true purpose is here.”
Claire’s face fell. “I have told you as much as I know, but you do not believe me.”
“Tell me again.” He moved an inch closer, with one arm stretched along the back of the settee. “I begin to enjoy the fantastic nature of your tale.”
Claire swallowed and eyed him with wide, earnest eyes. “I know it sounds fantastic! But I beg you to take it very, very seriously!”
He nodded. His eyes roamed over her but were indecipherable.
Shaking her head she said, “I have no idea how I came here.” Her face scrunched in thought. “Except that I was wearing this shawl,” she motioned at the tallit. “I think ’tis magical.”
He barely glanced at it. “It grows late, Miss Channing. May I ask if you’ve remembered where you belong?”
She looked at him sideways, trying not to panic. “I haven’t forgotten, I assure you, but I seem to be stuck here for the time being! You are very kind in giving me shelter.”
“You must have someone,” he persisted.
“If I were from this time, I would, would I not? But I have no one!”
He gazed at her quizzically. “You play your part well.”
“I am not playacting! I live in America, as I said before!” It was hopeless! He'd never believe her.
His gaze never wavered. “You are aware that you speak like an Englishwoman? You dress like an Englishwoman?” Claire stared at him. She was aware, and it flummoxed her completely. How could it be? “I—I…Only when I’m here!” she said weakly. With eyes full of earnestness, she turned to face him fully. “And that’s just the thing I’m trying to make you understand! I live in another time!” She stared at him, wide-eyed.
“And you have no doubts regarding this? That you live in another time?” He moved closer.
&
nbsp; “None whatsoever. All of this,” she stopped and looked around. “Is happening because of my book, somehow.”
“Oh, yes—your historical romance novel.” He came an inch closer.
“Yes, and you…well, I thought you and Miss Andrews and Miss Margaret were characters in my book. Only now I’m in it, too!” She shook her head and looked around. “And it is all very real!”
When she stopped looking around, St. John was almost beside her. He stared into her eyes. “You seem quite real to me too, Miss Channing. In fact, you are the most outrageous, lying, beguiling woman I think I’ve ever met. Your prank differs somehow from Miss Andrews’s, though perhaps ‘tis only that you are a superior actress.”
“Do not say that! I am telling you an extraordinary truth, I realise, but—”
“Why are you here, Miss Channing?” He slid right next to her, and his eyes blazed intently into hers. “Why are you in my library? Alone? At night? Unless ‘tis to beguile me?”
Claire was struck by the strong, handsome face so near her own. A man she thought she had invented. She cried, “As I said—I—I cannot account for it! But I depend upon you to behave as a gentleman! You are a—a Regency gentleman, you said yourself, remember.”
His eyes sparkled. “You realise that were I to believe you, I should be a simpleton.” Claire went to protest, but he put a finger on her lips and then took her chin in his hand. “And since your claim is not to be credited, it means you must needs be lying.” Again she went to open her mouth, but he stopped her. “Which follows then, that you are not only lying, but are a disrespectable woman, for you fashion yourself to be without friends, relations, or indeed any protection whatsoever. As such, you put yourself entirely in my power.”
She tore her head away and looked aside. “It appears that way, I grant.” She looked warily at him again. “But I am respectable in my day!” Feeling helpless to convince him she added, “I’m a virgin!”
He froze. “And would a respectable woman say such a thing?”
“A woman from my time would.” They stared at each other, their faces only inches apart. His proximity was rather exciting, but also threatening.
“Has someone put you up to this? I suppose they’ve got wagers on it at White’s.”
She shook her head, puzzled. “No! Nothing like that!”
“I think so. You are sent here to bedevil me; to see if I won’t return to my old ways; is that it?”
“Your old ways,” Claire repeated, dazed. “But—but you are a good man, St. John.”
He seemed struck by that. “I have seldom been that. Had you appeared in this manner only a short time ago, I assure you, my behaviour would have been quite different. And, I must say, you are appealing to the worst side of my nature now. You are very like Miss Andrews; the both of you with pranks.”
She turned on him. “I do not play pranks or larks like Miss Andrews. I am very sorry if you think I would do that to you.”
“What you are doing is nothing, Miss Channing; ’tis what you are undoing that should concern you.” His gaze fell to her mouth, and with a gasp Claire realized he was going to kiss her! She shot up from the settee—or wanted to—but St. John was faster and caught her before she could. In seconds she was wrapped in strong arms. She froze as his mouth found hers and she was caught in a passionate kiss.
When you are imagining, you might as well imagine something worthwhile.
Lucy Maud Montgomery
CHAPTER 17
Claire hadn’t been kissed in years. St. John’s kiss, moreover, was warm and somehow quite lovely. Though his arms held her fast, his lips were soft.
He closed the kiss and said, “I offer you congratulations. You have succeeded where Clarissa failed. You have beguiled me out of my reserve, out of my better judgment, out of my resolve to behave.”
Staring at him with the astounding realisation that somehow she truly was in an alternate reality—for she could never imagine such a kiss!—she was momentarily bereft of speech. She wriggled to get free, but when he refused to release her, she stared at him and murmured, “You are mistaken.”
“How am I mistaken?” he asked.
“You’re mistaken about me. I have not tried to beguile you. I only want you to believe me!”
“And you beguile me yet more.” He bent his head towards her, but this time Claire freed her arms and quickly put her hands about his face to stop him. Eye to eye they stared at each other with her hands cradling his head. Claire’s eyes swept over his face. She was in the arms of a man whose arms she should never, rightly, be in. Not if time was behaving and had kept her in her own world. But she was suddenly Claire the author, and said, “My, you really are a beautiful man, St. John! No wonder—”
She was going to say, No wonder you’re the hero of my novel, but he swept her hands aside and pulled her up against him and kissed her soundly. When she could speak again, she gasped, “You mustn’t—I do not belong—in your world!”
“Agreed. You are otherworldly. You put yourself here, though.”
He moved as if to kiss her but she blocked him by holding his head again. “I am certain I do not belong in your arms. Miss Andrews does.”
He drew his head back. “Miss Andrews? My dear Miss Channing, you must realise, I am rendered helpless to resist your charms.”
He started to remove her hands from his face, but she cried, “You are the hero of my novel! You must behave! You’re supposed to be scandalised at improprieties! It’s how I wrote you!”
Suddenly St. John seemed struck. He released her, looking at her thoughtfully. He stood and went before the fire, and gazed into the glowing coals. He turned to her. “I thought you were trying to bamboozle me. I begin to believe you are in earnest.”
“I am! Oh, I am! You believe me, then?” Her hopes rose.
With gentle eyes he said, “Someone is missing a sister, a daughter, a cousin—or wife?”
“I am no man’s wife.”
“In the morning, I’ll summon my best physician for you. I believe they can treat cases such as yours. A strong delusion brought on by some shock or disturbance, no doubt.”
Claire’s heart sank. St. John didn’t believe her. He thought she was mad.
And the worst of it was, Claire was beginning to think so, too.
What is life? A madness…An illusion, a shadow, a story…
for all life is a dream.
Pedro Calderon de la Barca
CHAPTER 18
There was a scratch at the door, and the butler entered the library. “Sir,” he said, and with wide eyes, nodded behind him. “Lady Ashworth, sir,” he said meaningfully.
“Thank you, Grey,” said St. John. He glanced at a clock on the mantel and then turned to face the visitor at her entrance.
An older woman dressed in high Regency style strode confidently into the room. She was followed by a footman in livery who went and stood against the wall. She stopped and surveyed first St. John, then Claire. Her brows were raised in an expectant posture, but at the sight of Claire, she smiled. She held out her hands, and St. John went to her, bowed, and took both her hands in his for a moment before letting them drop.
“A pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “And a surprise,” he added, pointedly.
“At this hour, I daresay, ’tis,” she replied, in a strong, throaty tone. “But all in good time.” She beamed at Claire, who sat fixated at the lady’s attitude, for she was positively glowing. “I must say, I am infinitely relieved, and proud of you, sir,” she said. Her voice was commanding, like her presence.
He surveyed her calmly. “I suppose I’ve done something to deserve that? Would you join me and my guest for tea? You can tell us all about it.”
The woman turned, still smiling, and looked at Claire. “My dear sir, allow me to inform you—for I know it has escaped your notice—that Miss Channing is my granddaughter!”
Claire gasped; her mouth hung open. St. John’s expression also changed, going swiftly from surprise to cauti
on. He levelled an accusatory glare at Claire. His mouth hardened.
Claire sat forward in astonishment and could not find her voice. This woman—Lady Ashworth, the butler called her—was her missing grandmother?
Her Ladyship moved towards the circle of furniture, but stopped to allow the perplexed butler to finally take her cloak. She saw St. John’s expression. “You must not be hard on her, sir,” Her Ladyship said, as she came and stood in front of Claire. “She suffers from a malady. Let’s see...what did the doctor call it?”
Claire stared hard at the lady.
“Ah!” She smiled. “Amnesia.”
St. John saw Claire’s frowning expression, but now his became disarmed. “I’ve heard of that,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Forgetfulness?”
“A severe case, I’m afraid,” said the lady.
Claire frowned at them both as he went and helped Her Ladyship to a seat facing Claire. Amnesia? A severe case? How mortifying for anyone to think so!
The older woman smiled at her. “You did not expect to see me here, I daresay?”
“I cannot say I know you, ma’am,” Claire said slowly, trying to reconcile this fashionable lady with the woman she remembered. Note to self: Ask Mother for family photos. The photos of Grandmother at the cottage were old, and in them she was dressed in regular clothing. This woman was tall and stately, clothed in the Empire style. She wore a grey figured silk dress with a turbaned headdress, and carried herself as a regal lady of means, with self-assurance and grace. Could it really be—her own grandmother?
Lady Ashworth seemed not the least put out. “Of course not; you have amnesia.”
Claire looked in consternation to St. John, who eyed her with a mild look. She shook her head at him to signify that she didn’t know Lady Ashworth. He only nodded reassuringly.
“I will be honest with you, sir,” the lady continued, while helping herself to a tidbit from the teaboard. “I had half a fright when I learned that you had escorted my granddaughter. I knew at once what the situation was, you see, for if she had known herself, she would have come to me.”
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