Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Suddenly, the thought of that—of St. John falling in love with Miss Andrews—did not seem like a happy thought. Her story was flawed. She might have to discard her outline. But she couldn’t stay here in the past like Grandmother. She was going to use everything she’d learned in her book. It would be a blockbuster and make her name household words, like J.K. Rowling.

  Claire’s room was Regency luxury itself. Besides an ample four-poster bed and side table, there was an elegant satinwood escritoire, large dresser and wardrobe, and off to one side, a sitting area. A fireplace crackled with a flickering fire, sending warm shadows to the ceiling. An exotic rug graced most of the floor. Still, the air felt cold to Claire’s modern sensibilities, but she allowed a maid—by the name of Mary, she was told—to help her out of her gown and into a clean chemise and robe. She was given heated bricks wrapped in wool for her feet, and a bedwarmer had been applied to the rest of her mattress, making it comfortable from the moment she rested her head.

  “Will there be anything else, mum?” asked Mary, with a curtsey.

  Claire thought for a moment. “Is there paper and ink in the desk?”

  Mary smiled. “O’course, mum.”

  “Then that is all, thank you, Mary.”

  “Goodnight, mum.”

  Claire hated to leave the warmed sheets, but she hurried to the escritoire. After rummaging in a number of drawers out of sheer curiosity—most were empty—she took a few sheets of paper, a quill and ink bottle. She had visions of Catherine in Northanger Abbey searching the old desk in her room, and realised the book might not have been published yet! St. John never did tell her what year it was, and she’d forgotten to ask Grandmother.

  She wanted to curl up in bed and write her notes from the day, but looking at the quill pen and ink bottle, realised she’d be bound to cause ink splotches. But there were so many things to write down! Why, she might already have enough details to be the best Regency writer ever—for who else could describe anything near what she’d seen and touched and tasted? That publisher who had shown “promising interest” would be drooling to get their hands on her book! She sat on the rug beside the fire and began to jot her impressions.

  Where to begin? And to think—she’d found her own grandmother! It would be lovely to really know Grandmamma, but the older woman was staying here, in the past. Claire couldn’t do that. If her grandmother was right and St. John’s life was in danger, she’d try to help, of course. But there had to be a less drastic way than marriage. And if she went back and finished her book, who knew if she could return? She had no power over when she came to the past or went back to the future. Each time had been different. She couldn’t control it.

  After filling only two pages with exquisite impressions of things she’d seen, of St. John, of Clarissa, of St. John’s carriage, the water closet, and the library, a deep exhaustion fell upon her. She recalled that, when she had appeared back in the cottage, she was covered in sweat. Somehow this time traveling took its toll on her, even if it accented beauty in her that went unnoticed before. It was taking that toll on her, now.

  She crawled between the sheets—the bricks still had faint warmth—and tried to sleep. But despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t stop peeking at the cozy flickering lights of the fire as it bounced off the walls, and she loved the thought that there was no cell phone, no tablet, TV, or other device—nothing at all to ring or claim her attention. It was peaceful. It was amazing.

  She fell asleep.

  Lady Ashworth dismissed Marie, and though ready for bed, summoned the butler, Mr. Yates.

  “Find the shawl that Miss Channing came with and dispose of it.”

  “Dispose of it, ma’am?”

  “Yes. And do not give it to someone you know. It must go in the fire, she said sharply.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mr. Yates blinked at his mistress in surprise. But, like the well-trained butler he was, found the offending shawl, brought it to the kitchen and threw it on the flames. None of the other servants were about, fortunately, for they’d surely try to prevent him from burning a perfectly fine shawl. Servants often supplemented their incomes with cast-offs from their betters. He waited only until the shawl picked up a curl of flame, then turned and left the room. He’d seen enough things burn to know it would soon be engulfed.

  As Yates walked away from the fire and out of the large kitchen, the flame in the shawl flickered out. There were flames still behind and around it, but the tallit did not burn. And then suddenly it disappeared from the grate altogether.

  It appeared upon Claire, asleep upstairs.

  Two things never mix: one is enchantments

  and the other is meddling with them.

  Lloyd Alexander

  CHAPTER 20

  The next morning the servants at the home of the marchioness were in a tizzy. The young miss had vanished and no one had a clue as to how, when, why, or where she’d gone.

  Even the marchioness, a woman of rare affability, was in high dudgeon. She demanded to see where the butler had burned the shawl, and even poked about in the grate. Upon learning that a maid had already cleaned out yesterday’s ashes—including those of last night—she sent the poor girl to the ash pile and told her to check it for the slightest remnant of a shawl. Nothing was found.

  In her heart, Lady Ashworth knew it was hopeless. Somehow that tallit had survived. Claire had returned to the future! If only she could get there herself to bring her back. She remained in a brown study all morning. When St. John called as promised, she told him her granddaughter had taken a sudden ill. She bade him call again on the morrow, hoping against hope that Claire would return.

  She hadn’t explained the power of the tallit to her grandchild. She didn’t want Claire to know that she might control her path through time with it—until that time ran out, as it had for her, Lady Ashworth, and the tallit had disappeared on her. She'd been left in the past, and was happy to be there. But she had to ensure Claire stayed there, too. Lady Ashworth’s best chance of keeping a young woman in a society that had died out generations ago, and had none of the modern advances of medicine or technology, she felt, was to make her stay. If she could get Claire back and destroy the shawl—that would do it.

  Next time, she’d burn it herself.

  St. John was both relieved and disappointed not to see Miss Channing again. Disappointed because he had been looking forward to seeing that beautiful, maddening girl, though she was half out of her mind. And relieved for the very same reason. She was a beautiful, maddening girl half out of her mind.

  A person needs a little madness.

  Nikos Kazantzakis

  CHAPTER 21

  Claire awoke in the cottage. She opened one eye lazily, then shot up in bed when she saw where she was. From across the house, she heard Charlie bark and scramble to his feet. He came bounding in, tail wagging, and exuberantly jumped on the bed.

  “No, down!” she said. “You know you’re not allowed up here.”

  Charlie was behaving as though she’d been gone for a day—of course. She had. He began whimpering. “You poor thing!” she said. “You need to go out. And you’re probably hungry and thirsty!”

  She threw off the covers, including the tallit—huh! It had come through with her again! And discovered she was in the clothing she’d had on before going back in time—jeans and a shirt. She grabbed socks, donned boots, and quickly went for her coat. She checked Charlie’s bowls as she headed for the door. He still had some water and a little dry food—good. At least she hadn’t left him to starve. But the poor animal hadn’t been walked—for how long? Claire didn’t know.

  He was all over the door before she had it open, and then into the yard in bounding leaps. He stopped at the closest bush to do his business. Claire breathed in the cold Maine air, sweeping her gaze over the pretty, snowy landscape. Such a change it was, from Mayfair!

  How had she returned? And why? Her grandmother would be so disappointed! But Claire had a lot of writing to do. Unf
ortunately, the pages of notes she’d written at the marchioness’s house hadn’t come along for the ride, but she still had things fresh in her mind.

  After waiting while Charlie relieved himself of a day’s worth of endless pee, she let him romp around. She followed him for a ways, enjoying the wintry beauty. And then, there he was! St. John—on her property—again!

  Now, why was it that when she appeared in the Regency, she was dressed appropriately for the day? But here he was in the twenty-first century and still dressed like a Regencian. She cautiously approached. Her pulse picked up, but this time she felt excitement. St. John was dreamy, after all. He had a big heart, too, for he might have “taken a disgust” of her and simply kicked her out of his coach on a dark London street. But he’d gone against his better judgment and allowed her into his home. And he’d kissed her passionately, twice—also against his better judgment.

  “Mr. St. John?” He was bending to scratch Charlie around the ears, but he ignored her. “St. John,” she said again, getting closer. He still ignored her! How odd. Finally she went right up to him. “St. John!” When he continued to scratch Charlie around the ears, saying “There’s a good boy,” she put out a hand to touch him—and he was no longer there. He’d vanished!

  Claire gasped and nearly fell back. Charlie shook out his coat and licked Claire’s boot. He didn’t seem disturbed in the least by the man’s disappearance. But he was only a dog.

  Note to self: When St. John appears, take his picture!

  This time traveling was getting out of hand. Not only couldn’t she control which time she was in, she was seeing St. John in her time when he apparently wasn’t really there! But Charlie had behaved as though he was. What could it mean?

  She remembered her grandmother’s words. He has two weeks left. Was St. John appearing in her time as a kind of SOS? To remind her that he needed help?

  Back in the cottage, she made a quick egg omelet with cheddar, and got online. She needed to see Julian’s fate for herself. She entered his name over and over with different keywords, history of, genealogy of, and other searches. Nothing went back as far as the Regency. Finally, she came across a parish record that said it had information about a Julian St. John—at a price. Before paying it, she tried another link. And found an article with St. John’s name highlighted. Her breath caught at the simple headline. “Fatal Accident.”

  “Last night occurred one of those dreadful catastrophes, the result of which has so stunned the country with horror that sober people will, we trust, not engage in that madness called racing, which we fear led to this terrible and melancholy event. On Saturday afternoon a coach belonging to Julian St. John, a respected member of our gentry, met with disaster on the road to Wembley, about three miles below Harrow, owing principally to the recklessness of his coachman. Coming to a precipitate turn, he dashed around the bend at full gallop. The velocity was so great his horses could not clear a turnpike post. In an instant the carriage was split in two. By the tremendous shock, Mr. St. John was dashed from the coach and instantly expired. A companion, Mr. Timbrell, was conveyed away in a chaise for surgical aid, but in the greatest agony with fractured limbs. A second equipage (belonging to Sir Cecil Andrews, of London) nearly partook of the same fate, but managed, by a narrow hair, to escape the calamity. Miss Clarissa Andrews, the amiable daughter of Sir Cecil, was its sole occupant and, though she suffered no harm, witnessed the horrible end of her friend.

  Claire stopped and huffed, “So she is responsible! And “amiable?” They got that wrong!” The article continued:

  The coachman, Will Smithton, claimed he was following orders to outrun the Andrews's coach, but Miss Andrews vehemently denied the accusation, backed by the word of her driver, who also witnessed the unspeakable horror. “Was it not a race?” she was asked; but at this the fair damsel nearly swooned, exclaiming upon the strongest terms that she disavowed racing of any kind, detested, even, the thought of it, and could only thank Providence that her own carriage did not collide with that fatal post. Her horses, she said, had taken up the reckless pace of St. John’s coach, owing to that mad, drunken coachman, putting her in the gravest danger. It is with inexpressible grief that the Chronicle notes that Mr. St. John himself was a noted whip, a respected member of the Four-in-Hand Club, and an undoubted horseman. We express our deepest sorrow HE was not atop the board on Saturday, and our purest hope that justice will prevail against his reckless and mad coachman.

  Indignation rose in Claire. Anyone who knew Clarissa could see, from this article, that she had certainly been badgering St. John, chasing him in her carriage, and that he had tried to escape her. Poor St. John!

  She shouldn’t have proceeded to find and read his obituary, but couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know all there was to know. She read of a “stately and frigid show of solemn mourning” in a “long, gloomy parade” with “mourning carriages, and mourning horses, and mourning plumes.” The casket was strewn with “chaplets of flowers,” and when a light rain began, it was “as if heaven cried,” said the Chronicle. The hyperbole ought to have undercut the solemnity but a tear escaped her eye as she closed the browser window.

  That Clarissa! She really would kill St. John if someone didn’t stop her! Surely that must be the reason why he was appearing in her world! He needed her help. And if she could save him from this end—well, she had to try.

  She’d write up the exquisite details of her last visit to the Regency and incorporate what she could into her book, for she must keep working on it. Then she’d risk returning to the past. And it was a risk, if Lady Ashton was right about one’s return path drying up. But Her Ladyship, er, Grandmamma, had made many trips before her return was blocked. Surely Claire could safely make another. Grandmamma’s idea of Claire marrying St. John seemed unlikely, even extreme, but there must be something she could do! She had to try.

  Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice.

  William Jennings Bryan

  CHAPTER 22

  Clarissa Andrews stepped daintily from her coach, dropping the hand of the groom assisting her. She surveyed the town mansion that belonged to her great aunt, Lady Ashworth. She’d learned an hour ago on a morning call that Miss Channing had been claimed by Her Ladyship as her granddaughter! How could it be that Clarissa and her family had never known of her? She studied Debrett’s, the society book, as much as anyone—possibly more than most.

  The butler informed her that the mistress was out.

  “Is Miss Channing at home?” asked Miss Andrews. She had little hope of it, but wanted to question that woman.

  “No, ma’am.” Yates gazed at her doubtfully. He was under no obligation to inform her that the young woman had vanished. Yates despised gossip. He said nothing more.

  “I’ll wait, Yates.”

  “As you wish, ma’am. I cannot say when Her Ladyship will return.”

  Clarissa entered importantly, handing the butler her things with an impatient air.

  Meddling is the evil, not indifference.

  Marty Rubin

  CHAPTER 23

  When Claire sat at the laptop to record her notes from visiting the Regency, she was half prepared to disappear into the past. She’d draped the tallit across her lap, as even Lady Ashworth seemed to afford it special reverence. And each time she’d gone back, she’d been at her laptop, just like today. But it didn’t happen. If only she knew what the mechanism was. But at least she was able to write up everything she could remember from the visit. She described jewelry, Chinese-style wallpaper, the tea board, and her own gown and tiara.

  Most of it was what she’d written at Grandmamma’s house, but which hadn’t come through with her. If only the tallit had a pocket—she might be able to sneak such small things to the present. She pictured everything, the sights and smells and tastes of the Regency, and wrote as much as she could. It wasn’t exactly progress on her novel, but it would all come in handy in one scene or another. For now she was satisfied just to
record it.

  As she described St. John’s masculine presence, Claire stopped writing, hardly realizing it. She saw him in her mind’s eye, bending that handsome head in for a kiss. She remembered with guilty pleasure his lips meeting hers, and his strong arms around her. Even now, she felt a delicious shiver go through her.

  What was she doing? She mustn’t let St. John go to her head. Though he wasn’t fictional, he fully deserved a woman of his own time. If only Claire really could induce Clarissa to change her tactics. That was the key to this whole mess. If Clarissa had hopes of St. John—real hopes—she wouldn’t have to resort to foolish and dangerous larks to win his attention. She wouldn’t chase him to his death on that fateful day.

  Claire suddenly realized what she needed to do when she got back in time. She wouldn’t try to win St. John’s hand in marriage. That was a longshot at best, and ingenuous, for she would have to return to the present. She’d finish her book and become a celebrated author. With her firsthand knowledge from the past, wasn’t it almost guaranteed? But she couldn’t leave St. John to die such a death. She’d have to win over Clarissa and convince her to play nice—be more missish. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

  Her phone rang. Adam. That man needed a life. Just in case there was good news—maybe the town had found the deed proving her grandmother’s ownership—she picked up.

  “Claire—I was thinking we ought to call a truce.”

  Smirking, she replied, “Does that mean you’ll let a day go by without pestering me?” She wandered into the living room to check the fireplace.