But Clarissa reacted by holding the shawl protectively against her chest. “’Tis mine, now. I’ll let you know if I see anything in it that is out of the ordinary.”
And with those words, suddenly Clarissa’s eyes opened wide, for she could hear nothing but a rushing wind. And then she vanished, right in front of Miss Margaret. Margaret stood there in shock, staring at the space which so recently her sister had occupied, her mouth opened.
As she returned to the parlour, Margaret wondered where in the world the shawl had taken her sister. Despite Clarissa’s cruelty, she felt a sense of loss. But at heart she mostly hoped that, wherever Clarissa had gone, she would stay there a good long time.
Some people are like clouds. When they go away, it's a beautiful day.
Bill Murray
CHAPTER 46
After thirty-five minutes had passed, Claire had no choice but to get dressed and follow St. John. He’d freeze to death before returning to her, she was sure. He was that stubborn—or proud. She hurriedly changed into jeans and a shirt, boots, gloves, coat and hat, and went to the door and opened it—and there he stood, suave and handsome and dressed to the nines in a dark jacket and waistcoat and spotless cravat—perfect for the Regency, but not for Maine winter weather.
She moved aside, and he stepped in, frowning. “How far is it to the nearest inn or coaching house?” His gaze swept over her—a look of disdain.
“There are none within walking distance,” Claire said as she removed her gloves, coat and hat.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Perhaps you will allow me the use of your carriage.”
“I haven’t got one.”
“A horse, then?”
“Sorry.”
His jaw hardened. “I am forced, then, to stop here for the night. In the morning, I will find my way.” He watched as she removed her outerwear and put it away. “I suppose you’ve no butler?” he asked.
“No. May I take your jacket?”
He didn’t answer, but just stood there surveying her and the room. She felt a wave of affection for him and wished she could throw herself into his arms. But his gaze moved over her, and he put his hands on his hips. He looked, if anything, disapproving. She shut the door of the coat closet.
“Why do you wear men’s clothing?” he asked.
Claire, unaccountably, blushed. “These are women’s clothes; they’re not for a man.”
He stared at her pants, then swept his gaze over her, toe to head. “Are you a servant?”
She sighed. “No. I have dresses, but they would scandalise you. I wish I had a proper gown—”
“You haven’t a single gown? What manner of woman are you?”
She looked heavily at him. “A modern woman.”
“An exasperating woman.”
Claire’s lips compressed. “The thing is, you are no longer in London, and you are no longer in your time.” Claire turned, heading for the kitchen.
He followed her. “What do you mean by that? No longer in my time?”
“You’re in the 21st century now.”
He stared at her. “Do you think I am a fool that I could for one moment consider that claim?” She switched on the lights and went to fill a teapot. The lights began to flick on and off; she saw that St. John was playing with the switch.
“I told you it’s not 1816. We have plenty of new things you haven’t dreamed of!” She leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Is there no maid to do that?”
“No. Here’s a major difference between your time and this. You depend upon servants and horses. We depend upon technology and electricity. Most people do not keep servants anymore.”
He looked scandalised. “Impossible.”
“We hire help for certain things, but no one keeps maids or butlers, except the fabulously wealthy, or royalty, I suppose.” Looking at St. John, she felt an incredible sadness. It wasn’t wonderful having him here after all. He didn’t know her. She moved toward him. He watched her warily. His eyebrows rose as she went right up to him.
“You must be Miss Andrews,” he said. “Though your hair is in desperate need of style, and your clothing is equally dismal.”
She swallowed. “Yes, yes, by Regency standards.” She stopped and surveyed him. “Yours is beautiful.” His eyes narrowed and he put his head back as if to see her better. She said, “When I was in your time, I appeared in perfect Regency style. I cannot understand why you aren’t in twenty-first century style.”
“Only a fairy tale could work like that, Miss—”
“Channing.” She sighed. The electric kettle was boiling and would turn off, soon. She went and got two teacups and teabags and poured the water. She almost knocked into him when she reached for a spoon because he had come to watch the proceedings. He first picked up a tea bag and let it dangle, dripping, into the cup. “Hmmm,” he said (approvingly, Claire thought). Then he picked up the kettle and examined it.
“This, too, is wired to a heating element?” he asked.
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I never succeeded in convincing you that I was not from your time, but now that you’re here, can you at least concede you are in the future?” When he made no answer, she said “Look”—and brought him to the toaster. She gave a quick demonstration while he watched closely, peering into the slots as they turned red with heat.
“I grant that you have…interesting devices,” he said. “Contrived somehow to support your outrageous claim.”
She handed him his tea and said, “I’ll get milk.” She opened the door of the refrigerator and found him peering in beside her. He put his tea down and stuck an arm in the refrigerator. A brow went up.
“This, too, is wired?” he asked. “But not to a heating element. A—a cooling element?”
“Very good, sir,” she said, turning to him with a little smile. He examined some of the contents of the refrigerator, reading labels, but his brows furrowed, and he shut the door.
She added milk to his tea, and handed him the cup, only when he took it, she did not release it. She looked up at him plaintively. “Can you not try to remember? You offered for me!”
He almost laughed, but St. John had breeding, and he merely stared down at her. “I grant that you don’t speak like Miss Andrews, and your manner is quite different, but this ploy is in keeping with what I expect from her.”
Claire frowned.
He glanced over her clothing again. “And I am certain that I could never have made an offer to you; I am sorry to say it plainly.”
She stared up at him sadly. “There must be a way to jog your memory.”
He moved away from her, took the teacup and began circling the kitchen, sipping it at intervals, looking at appliances. Claire realised that the old-fashioned kitchen was possibly not different enough to impress him with the vast changes in kitchens since his day, despite the refrigerator and toaster. But she had to keep trying to prove to him that he knew her. “Grandmamma said you were the favorite ward of the marquess.”
He glanced at her. “Anyone may know that. ‘Twas no secret.”
“My grandmamma loves you like a son.”
“The whole world knows that, madam.” He was examining a hand mixer.
“The whole world of today doesn’t know it!”
He gazed at her dubiously.
“What about this? I happen to know you are a reformed rake. And I was the first woman, according to Lady Ashworth, that made you—well, misbehave since you were reformed.”
He gazed at her interestedly. “I misbehaved—with you?” He put the mixer down and picked up his tea.
Claire blushed. “Not so very terribly.”
He came toward her. “How exactly, may I ask?”
She blushed again. “You kissed me. Numerous times.”
Gazing at her, he said, “I should think I would remember kissing a woman. Even you. Unless I was hocused?”
“Not at all!” Even you. She fel
t very hurt but tried to shrug it off. After all, St. John had fallen in love with her once. She said, “And why should you remember kissing me when you cannot recall offering for me? Or telling me you adored me? Or insisting I stay in your guest bedchamber in order to rest? You sent for Mr. Wickford on my account!” Tears were in her voice and eyes.
He gave her a quizzical look, put his tea down, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back against the counter. “You said you happen to know I am a reformed rake.” He paused and added, “I have been called a rake, I own. More often, a libertine or a scoundrel, which I believe is the preferred term the ladies use.” He looked at her squarely. “But I have not been called reformed.”
Claire gasped. “But you were reformed! You had shelves of books about religion in your library!”
“Everyone does, Miss Channing. I have the books; they were part of my inheritance.” Softly, he added, “But I do not read them.”
“But you did! We talked about Martin Luther! And—and other theological things.” An idea occurred to Claire. “You aren’t reformed yet, because you’ve forgotten you are! But I have to tell you, sir, you do become reformed. You are quite the gentleman.”
His eyes roamed over her from head to toe. “And you are not Miss Andrews?”
“I’m Miss Channing. Claire Channing.”
“And I’m not reformed, yet,” he said softly, with a half smile.
Claire’s eyes widened. “Don’t get any ideas! I only knew you as a proper gentleman, an upright man. And you were wonderfully good at it, very kind to me—except for those few small indiscretions.” She blushed.
He looked at her with interest, and started toward her, his hands behind his back. “Indiscretions, you say?”
Her gaze became wary. “Merely a few kisses, as I mentioned.” She added, “You offered for me, too, remember!”
He stopped in front of her. “We indeed kissed?” His gaze fell to her mouth. “How many times?”
Claire had the distinct impression he was toying with her. “Ohhhhhh, you are being the old St. John, aren’t you? The man without a conscience!” She moved away from him.
“I have always had a finely developed conscience.” He slowly followed her.
“But you admit to being a rake! A man who—who—no doubt ruined women!” She leaned with her back against the counter, folded her arms and surveyed him.
“I never ruined a woman.” He came and stood in front of her. “I only trifle with women who have already ruined themselves.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Well, I’m not ruined. I’m respectable!”
“Are you indeed? You threw yourself at me earlier.” He moved closer to Claire, making her come to her full height, up against the counter. “If I hadn’t mistaken you for Miss Andrews,” he said, putting his hands upon the counter so that she was closed in, “I would have been more welcoming, I assure you. Would you care to try that again?”
Claire gave him an indignant look, and pushed one of his arms out of her way in order to sidle past. “If you remembered me, you would know that we are—” She stopped and glanced back at him. “We were in love. I only expressed my joy at seeing you again. A man who loves me.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully, made a face as if to say, “Well, that’s that”—and moved away, again putting his hands behind his back. She looked after him with mixed feelings. She had seen a side of him she hadn’t known before. A side she did not relish.
As he continued looking around, stopping now to examine a wall thermostat, she reflected that time traveling—until now—had worked like a fairy tale. When in the past, she appeared in perfect Regency attire, spoke properly, and even had a marchioness as a grandmother. Why couldn’t the fairy tale aspect of her relationship with St. John continue here and now?
Then it occurred to her that fairy tale magic often involved a kiss. A magical kiss. One that would revive someone or restore them to former memories. And this St. John would be willing to let her jog his memory, the scoundrel! It was terrible to have him here when he didn’t know her. How she longed to be held in his strong arms, to hear his voice speaking affectionately to her, and to have his eyes gazing at her with love, as in the past. If she could only make him remember! A kiss might do it!
But first, because it might further help his memory, she must look more like the Claire he had known. She hurried to her bedroom and put up her hair. She let some tendrils hang around her face, and found a wide headband to approximate a Regency bandeau. Though she usually downplayed her bust size—for she never had romance on her mind except for her novels—she had one bra that emphasized lift as the Empire style required. She put it on. She checked her closet—yes! She had a maxi dress. It wasn’t the fashionable evening gown of the Regency, but it would have to do. She put on the sapphire necklace from the safety deposit box—bless you, Grandmamma!—and took a deep breath and returned to the living area.
“Julian,” she said softly, going toward him. He was in front of the mantel now, and had one hand on it as he gazed into the fire, but he turned and surveyed her. His head came up abruptly and he stood up straight. His eyes swept over her.
“Charming, Miss Channing.”
Without moving a muscle, Julian reminded Claire of a crouching tiger. Not that he was necessarily ready to pounce, but the sheer strength of the man said that he could. Nevertheless, she recalled when the tiger was tame—and she wanted him back.
She came up to him. She cleared her throat. “Please understand. I am not granting you permission to—to do anything like ruin me.”
A brow went up on the handsome face. “Yes?”
“But if you will allow it, I can try to jog your memory. Perhaps you will remember me if—” She blushed but her gaze fell to his mouth.
Enlightenment cleared his countenance. “I understand you!” he said, taking one of Claire’s hands gently and turning her toward the sofa.
“Do you understand? I only wish to know if—if you might remember me—if we—”
“I understand you completely,” he said, drawing her to the sofa and then taking his seat beside her. He turned to her and suddenly all the charm of Julian St. John the rake was on full display. His eyes were only for her; his hands held hers as if she were made of porcelain; he spoke soothing words of comfort and admiration for her; he stroked her cheek and moved a stray lock of hair off her face.
“Do not be insincere,” she said earnestly.
“I almost begin to think I remember already,” he said softly, for reply.
Claire’s eyes filled with hope. “Truly?” She felt a rush of gladness. The kiss would be magical, she just knew it!
He nodded, and then all the while gently drawing her to him, kissed her forehead lightly. He kissed the side of her face. He kissed her chin and then placed his lips gently upon hers and softly deepened the kiss.
Claire was touched. He was so tender. She felt fresh hope that she had done exactly the right thing. He was surely remembering her! Like so many other aspects of her experience since she first visited his world, this kiss, too, would work like a charm.
As he gently deepened his kiss, Claire threw her arms around his neck, loving that she was in his arms again. She kissed him passionately. Oh! If he were to remember how she loved him! She was right where she belonged—with Julian! She pulled apart and searched his eyes but could not read what was in their husky depths. She kissed him again, and laced her fingers into his hair. There was a sudden change in St. John. The arms circling her tightened, and he lifted her smoothly onto his lap, and now kissed her with passion, drawing her up against him.
She remembered this Julian, how his love for her had fueled just such a passionate kiss! She was so happy she could almost cry.
He drew his mouth apart to say, “How could any man forget you—the beautiful Miss Channing.” His eyes were husky and intent.
Claire realized he was merely bamboozling her! He had never before called her “the beautiful Miss Channing.” He low
ered his head for another kiss, but Claire drew back. She took his arms and tried to push them off, but he resisted. She stared at him accusingly. “I thought you meant it! I believed you—the way you kissed me just now!”
Slowly he said, “I meant exactly what I said. You are beautiful, Miss Channing.”
Again she pushed his arms off, and he let her scramble off his lap. She moved away, her arms crossed. When she finally peeked at him, he was watching her but with a look of slight impatience.
“I took you for a gentleman!” In a voice to mimic his, she said, “‘I will overlook that impropriety.’ Indeed!”
He chuckled. “Now there, I was behaving myself.”
She turned on him. “Only because you thought I was Miss Andrews! And, if you dislike her so, why do you respect her more than you do, me? You behave yourself for her, though I’ve given you no cause for dislike.” Before he could answer, she cried, “You are a dangerous man! I should throw you out into the snow!”
His head went back. “I only did what you asked.”
Claire bit her lip and turned away from him. He was right—she’d asked for it!
“And, if you must know,” he continued, “’twasn’t out of disrespect for you or dislike, but I accommodate a woman’s wishes if I can—with the exception of Miss Andrews. I would not have been accommodating for her.”
Tears filled her eyes. She turned back to him. “But you kissed me just the way you used to!”
He took a breath. “You mustn’t approach me like that again. A gentleman can be expected to withstand only so much.”
She pursed her lips, hovering between anger and hurt—and concern. Perhaps she ought to call the EMT after all. St. John really had amnesia—probably a concussion. But her resentment spoke first. “It isn’t fair! To you, I’m just a female. But you are the man I love! I thought there was meaning in your kiss—feeling. But there was none on your part!” Utterly disappointed, she added, “Do not trifle with me again!”
To her satisfaction, he looked almost contrite. He took a deep breath and came to his feet. He bowed. “I beg your pardon. I will endeavour to be on my best behaviour.”
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