Grandmamma sniffed. “If they destroy the cottage, you can’t come back.”
Claire sat up in consternation. “But I have the shawl. I thought it was the tallit that brought me here.”
“It’s the combination. The tallit only works from the future through that cottage. Here, it seems not to matter where one is. It takes you back, regardless. But if the cottage is demolished, and you’re not here already—there’s no coming back. What’s a book when you might have a man who loves you? And such a man! Many of our sex secretly swoon for him. And with St. John’s standing in society as well as mine, you will be a star in our little world—you’ll have all the fame you desire.”
“But—St. John doesn’t love me.”
“He told me he’s very much in danger of doing so.”
“He said that?” Claire thought for a moment, remembering how it felt to be swept into his arms, earlier. He’d lifted her with such a concerned expression. She thought of how he’d kissed her. It seemed heavenly, now. And he was a kind, intelligent man, someone she could engage in meaningful conversation with.
She smiled. “He makes me blush like a schoolgirl, not at all the way I feel when I’m home. I may be a mid-list writer, but I know who I am. When I’m with St. John, I feel like a scatterbrain!”
“But you are a smart woman, and somehow he knows it.” She paused, studying Claire. “I’ve known him a long time, Claire. I’ve never seen him with serious intentions before. And he’s ready for a wife. Don’t throw it away.” She looked behind her to make sure St. John hadn’t entered the room. “And don’t forget—only twelve days now! Surely you can stay that long. You must to save his life!”
“Grandmamma—when I return, I’m usually sweating and weak. But this time it happened here. Why?”
The older woman stared at her, thinking. “Your pathway is shrinking. The two realities are merging. Your return path may be gone already. You may as well accept it.” She went on to detail how wonderful Claire’s life would be if she stayed. She would have the finest England had to offer, the use of servants and a fine wardrobe. She would have the love of an intelligent and kind man. “You will enjoy all the entertainments of the season; meet the royal family—and more.” Claire listened but with a heart that still wanted to be a successful and famous writer. She’d worked so hard at her craft, and for many long years. How could she give it up?
“We’ll speak more tomorrow when I come back for you. Julian insists upon your staying here to rest, but I’ll send one of my servants so there will be no question of impropriety.”
After she’d gone, Claire was troubled by the idea that her return pathway was shrinking, or worse, might be gone! She’d only been back and forth a few times. Could it happen that quickly? Why, it would make more sense, she thought, if the pathways grew stronger over time, not weaker. Stronger by reason of use.
The maid came back in, followed by St. John. Claire tried to rise when she saw him, but he admonished her not to in gentle tones. “A day’s rest will restore you. The library will await your pleasure.” He gave a small smile.
“Do you get the papers?”
“The Morning Chronicle and The Times. Do you wish to see them?”
“Yes, please.” He turned and gave the maid a look. She took off at once to fetch them.
“I feel much improved,” said Claire, sitting up again. “I do not need to stay abed.”
“I just sent off your Grandmamma, insisting that you do. You’ll need to humour me, I’m afraid.”
Claire said, “I can recline on the settee in your library. We can both read, and I will still be resting.”
He seemed to consider her proposal. “If Mr. Wickford approves, so be it.”
“Mr. Wickford?”
“My personal physician. He’s en route as we speak.”
When Mr. Wickford had examined the patient’s pulse, listened to her heart and lungs, checked her eyes and complexion, he pronounced her well enough to remove to the library. St. John took him aside and said something in low tones. The physician looked at Claire with interest and returned to the bedside. “Miss Channing,” he said, “Will you be so good as to answer a few questions for me, ma’am?”
“Certainly,” she said.
“What year are we in, ma’am?”
Claire didn’t blink. “Do you not know the year, sir?” St. John chuckled but put a hand to his chin and stifled it.
The physician frowned. “I do, ma’am, but I ascertain to know if you do.”
The maid dropped the newspapers upon Claire’s bed at just that moment, and one glance was all she needed. “’Tis 1816,” she said. She looked at Julian and whispered fiercely, “I was right!”
Mr. Wickford eyed the papers and sighed. “Who is our king, ma’am?”
“King George, of course!”
“And how does our king at present, ma’am?”
Claire gazed at him. Modern medicine had debunked the theory that madness was the ailment afflicting the king, for now many believed it was porphyria. She said, “You consider him to have gone mad.” To the physician’s look of perplexity, she added, almost to herself, “Oh, I know what you want to hear.” Louder, she said, “He’s quite mad.”
Julian came and whispered something to the man, who looked back at Claire with understanding. “Ah,” he said. “Where do you live, Miss Channing?”
“On Berkeley Square with the marchioness. My Grandmamma Ashworth!” She said, as if any dolt should know it. She glared at Julian for a split second, though, for she realised why the physician was questioning her. Happily, she had no problem answering to his satisfaction. When Julian questioned her, she was somehow compelled to tell only the truth—but not for this man.
Mr. Wickford cleared his throat. “What year were you born, ma’am?”
Claire looked away. She’d have to think about that one. Math was never her strong point. If it was 1816 and she was—
Mr. Wickford pounced on her hesitation. “What year, ma’am? You shouldn’t need to think on it. Everyone knows the year they were born.”
“I cannot recall,” she admitted with reluctance—and another sidelong glance at Julian, who was studying her intently. Mr. Wickford turned and looked at St. John, his brows raised as if to say, “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”
“What is your father’s name, ma’am?”
Claire stared at him.
“Ma’am? Do you know your father’s name?”
Claire turned to St. John. “May I have a word with you, please?”
He motioned to the physician that he would speak with her. With a frown, Mr. Wickford obediently turned to leave. “I’ll be right in the corridor, sir,” he said. “Call me when I may return. I like to study cases like this.”
St. John came to the bedside, looking expectantly at her.
“Why are you subjecting me to this? If you wish to know anything about me, all you need do is ask!”
“I do wish to know more about you,” he said with a sparkle in his eye.
“Like what?”
“What year were you born?”
“Nineteen ninety-five.”
He compressed his lips. “Why didn’t you say so to Wickford?”
Claire felt equally cross. “I don’t have to tell him the truth. Only you.”
One thick brow went up on the masculine face. “Only me? And why am I to be favored with the ‘truth’ if no one else is?”
She gazed at him. Her expression lost its anger. Earnestly she admitted, “Because I shan’t trifle with you. I must be honest with you.”
He crossed his arms and put one hand on his chin. “You may tell Mr. Wickford anything you would tell me. I told him of your malady.”
“And let him put me in a madhouse? In this day and age? I’d rather die!” To herself she added, “I think I would die.”
“Of course not.”
She sat forward. “Can you guarantee it? If I told him the truth?” Their eyes met.
“I would n
ever allow it,” he said softly. But his resolve seemed to waver.
She lay back down. Looking up at him she added, “Please get rid of him?”
He put his head back, surveying her thoughtfully. “As you wish.”
You need to be a little bit crazy.
Crazy is the price you pay for having an imagination.
Ruth Ozeki
CHAPTER 30
After watching St. John leave to dismiss the doctor, Claire sighed, resting her head against the pillow. She pulled up the blanket, realised it was the tallit, and examined it. Why should a mere shawl be magical? It looked ordinary enough, and fit the Regency fashion admirably. Staring at the doves, she had the strangest thought. That this magical shawl was made to bring people together—like its love birds suggested. Hadn’t her grandmamma said she had been thrown into the marquesses’s path by the shawl? And hadn’t Claire been thrown into St. John’s path by it? Oh, what could it all mean?
She sighed and held it to her chest. A loud noise suddenly drowned out all else and the room grew dim. She blinked to get her bearings.
She was back home, in the cottage.
Very often the protagonists happen upon time travel against their will.
Rudyard J. Alcocer
CHAPTER 31
St. John bade the doctor off after ascertaining that whatever malady was afflicting Miss Channing, she was otherwise hale in body. With that assurance, if she felt perfectly well, he’d return to his scheme of plying her with a small amount of negus. The beverage could be made very weak such as for a public ball, or with more spirits. He had instructed it be made with a middling amount of alcohol. He didn’t wish to undo Claire in any manner—but to get at the truth. He felt sure she wasn’t intentionally dishonest, but wondered if she might know more than her sober mind could access. With Her Ladyship gone, he had the opportunity to test his theory.
He had a tray brought to the library and went to fetch Claire. He arrived at her chamber and found the bed empty. He turned to the maid, who sat sleepily in a chair against a window. “Where is Miss Channing?” he asked.
She came alert, blinking. “In’t she in bed, sir?”
“She’s not.”
The maid stared at the bed in astonishment. “Bless me, sir, I saw her there, only a few moments since!”
With a frown, he turned and left the room. That wayward girl had no doubt tried to find her own way to the library.
Soon, every servant in the house was scurrying about searching for the lady. With dismay, Grey had to inform him that Miss Channing’s bonnet and gloves were also gone.
Fifteen minutes later, St. John had to draw an infuriating conclusion. Miss Channing had vanished.
What is a Wanderess? Bound by no boundaries,
contained by no countries, tamed by no time…
Roman Payne
CHAPTER 32
Note to self: Don't play with that tallit! Claire looked around at the cottage in surprise. The tallit was at her feet. She picked it up and draped it across the brow of a chair. Everything looked so normal and just the same as ever. But Claire wasn’t the same. She thought of St. John; he’d be angry at her disappearance. She ought to go right back—perhaps he hadn’t discovered her absence, yet. She caught a glimpse of her cell phone on the counter attached to the charger. Perhaps her agent left a message. Perhaps that publisher, the one he’d said was “somewhat interested,” had asked for the complete manuscript.
She didn’t have a complete manuscript yet, but felt confident they’d love whatever she gave them. How could they not? With the details she had now to plug into the book, it was bound to ring with an authenticity that would wow anyone.
But her only message was from Adam. He’d left two words: “Twelve days.” Claire’s first thought was of St. John. Grandmamma had said there were twelve days left before the accident. How ironic that her cottage was slated to be destroyed on that very same date—two hundred years later. But it wasn’t two hundred years later, because in the past—the past she visited—it was yet to happen!
She checked Facebook and email. By the time she returned the phone to its charger and plugged it in, twenty minutes had passed! Oh dear. She rushed for the tallit.
When Claire stepped out of the water closet into the corridor of St. John’s town house, a maid scurrying by halted with a look of shock. She stared at Claire, her eyes wide as saucers. She swallowed. “The master’s lookin’ for ye, mum,” she said with a curtsey. “He be lookin’ all over for ye!”
“Oh, please tell him I’m—I’m—”
“That ye’r ’ere, mum?”
“Yes! Thank you.”
As the maid scurried off, Claire realised she was wearing her bonnet, shawl and gloves. Normally, her clothing magically fit the occasion of wherever she appeared, but now she would have to try and explain why she wore outdoor clothing. Why hadn’t she simply appeared properly dressed, such as when she was at the ball? She would now have to admit having left—or at least, having been prepared to. She undid the strings of her bonnet, removed it, and after admiring it once again (for it was just so pretty and lined with silk) placed her gloves inside it.
She decided to head to the guest bedchamber where St. John had left her.
Julian was at the front door, whip in hand, when the maid caught him.
“Oh, sir! Miss Channing—she’s ‘ere, sir!”
He turned and stared at her. “Are you certain?”
“Aye, sir! I just seen ‘er! In the corridar, sir!”
Grey’s hands were already out, and St. John had merely to quickly place his whip, hat, and gloves into them. He hurriedly undid the buttons of a beautiful twin-tailed topcoat and the servant just as speedily helped him out of it. “Have Brutus returned to the mews,” he said, and without another word, St. John hastened to the stairs and took them—two at a time.
Claire heard him coming just as she neared the bedchamber door. She turned guiltily. His mouth was set in a firm line—his eyes, not promising.
He stopped abreast of her, glancing at the bonnet in her hands and asked, “Where were you?” His blue-grey eyes pierced hers.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to flummox you. I—”
“But you did, Miss Channing,” he said, leaning closer. “In fact, you quite begin to plague me, if you must know.”
“Oh dear!” Claire swallowed, rather in awe of the strong, disapproving gaze. “I didn’t mean to—to plague you, sir, you must know—!”
“What did you mean to do?” he asked, coming closer yet. His eyes were veiled and dark, his tone grave. Keeping his eyes glued to hers, he wrested the bonnet from her hand—and let it fall to the floor. Claire stared at it, dumb with surprise. St. John was different. He seemed odd. She glanced up at him, almost afraid of the stern, handsome face.
“Why did you mean to leave?” he asked, his face rigid as though he was suppressing anger. He moved right up next to her. And then what Claire saw in his eyes set her heart pounding. His head drew closer; his lips were perilously close.
“I tried to explain,” she said, as his mouth came towards hers, “how I do not control it—when I come or go.”
He hesitated. “So you have. To no purpose, as yet it explains nothing.” His mouth almost grazed hers. But suddenly he pulled back and his eyes blazed. He turned her about to face the bedchamber and with one hand about her waist, ushered her in.
“I believe I must put a guard at your door,” he said, sounding annoyed.
She turned to him suddenly—once again their faces were only an inch apart. “I should leave!” she blurted.
“No, Miss Channing. You should stay.” He took her about the waist. “You must.”
She looked up in surprise at him.
“I am sorry I kissed you that night in my library,” he said, “for if I had not, I could resist you better now.” He lowered his head. Claire knew she was about to be kissed. She knew she could not let him kiss her, for she had no intention of stayin
g in the Regency. It would be wrong to lead him on.
He placed his mouth gently upon hers. Now, Claire thought. Now I should stop this!
But he deepened the kiss and picked her up so their heads were at the same height, pulling her tightly up against him. Claire circled her arms around his neck. It felt wonderful—goodness, she cared for St. John. She didn’t wish to care for him—she wanted to think only of her book! But she returned his embrace, and her lips were just as eager as his. He gently closed the kiss, but continued to hold her, nuzzling her face and brow.
Claire felt something she’d never experienced before: it was like coming home, it was like Christmas, it was belonging. A thousand lights flicked on inside her soul. He wanted her, and she belonged there, in his arms! When they came apart, her breathing was quickened, as was his.
He put her gently upon her feet and said, “Miss Channing—Claire.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “There is nothing for it except for you to become my wife. Say that you will.”
Love is a lot of magic and madness followed by marriage.
--Sriti Jha
CHAPTER 33
Miss Andrews hadn’t waited for her great-aunt Lady Ashworth to return the last time she called at Berkeley Square. Thus, the following morning when she appeared at the town mansion, she was determined to see her relation. Miss Margaret had clamored to come along—an annoyance to her elder sister—but Clarissa gave in. Miss Margaret’s whinging could be burdensome if she did not get her way.
Yates showed them to the yellow saloon, where Her Ladyship set aside the morning paper and waited with a small, polite smile of greeting.
“Dear Aunt Ashworth,” Clarissa said with outstretched hands and a cloying smile, as she crossed the room to her relation.
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