Claire turned in disappointment to retreat to her bedroom. I don’t like this St. John, she thought. And then she spied it—the tallit! It was on the sofa where St. John had rested before coming to. She went and picked it up.
“My shawl!” she said. “Or part of it. You must have brought it. How did it tear?”
He came and looked at it and shook his head as though he’d never seen it before.
“You brought it with you,” she said. “It wasn’t here before, or I would have returned to you. Think, Julian!”
He gave a polite cough. “Since we are to be on our best behaviour with one another, ’tis Mister St. John, if you please. It is quite disconcerting to have you using my Christian name.” He gave her a level stare.
Claire was still miffed at what had just happened and huffed, “I don’t see anything Christian about you or your name. But how did it get torn, Mister St. John?”
He stifled a smile but obediently turned his attention to the shawl. He slowly shook his head. “I did not bring that item with me.”
“You did.” She paused. “I asked you to destroy it the last time I saw you. But if you had—” She stopped, considering. “You wouldn’t be here, I suppose.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Are you suggesting this rag has something to do with my being here? Wherever this is?”
She put it down. “I told you where we are. And yes, it does.” She headed to her bedroom. She would not stay in a dress to make that—that—chameleon happy; far better not to be attractive to him since he refused to remember her.
When she returned, his gaze followed her. “I must say, those pantaloons are not altogether unseemly on a woman. Although your frock was more pleasing.”
She looked at him and sighed. “And you are infinitely more pleasing when you are your reformed self. I think ’tis well that you showed up here—now I see who you really are! You stand upon points when it pleases you, and discard them just as quickly if it suits the moment.” He listened to her with interest, as if he enjoyed her disapprobation.
“Bravo, Miss Channing! You read my character well. And now, perhaps, if you have a sufficient disgust of me, you will show me how to leave this shabby place.”
“I will show you—in the morning,” she said, with blazing eyes. As she headed back to her room, she realized that with the tallit back, there actually was a way for him to return! But wait—she couldn’t show Julian how to leave. It was unthinkable to let him go without her. And she had no way of knowing if they could go back together.
If only he would remember her and return to his old self! Or should she call it his newer self? Nothing concerning time was simple, anymore! But still there was the problem of how to get back to the Regency together. If they could somehow return, surely he would remember her and everything would be wonderful again.
And then Claire realized that if they did not return, Clarissa could not kill him in a coach accident. That was it! Despite the threat to the cottage, and despite her dislike of St. John the rake, she had to remember the man she loved and keep him in the here and now. Two more days was all it needed. He’d be safe here. All she had to do was bear with him that long.
Forget? Forget? And can it be?
And is there aught beneath the sun
Can wean my constant heart from thee,
Thou lovely and beloved one?
Monos
CHAPTER 47
No sooner did Claire reach her bedroom door—longing to escape and wallow in the solitary misery of having St. John here only as a stranger—than she realized she needed to install him in the spare bedroom for the night.
When she returned, he was at her laptop at the kitchen table, examining it. She almost smiled. There was something incongruous about a man in a waistcoat and cravat sitting at a laptop. But she was still too angry to enjoy the sight. He’d apparently removed his twin-tailed coat and—amazingly—even hung it in the closet himself, for it wasn’t in sight. Sensing her presence, he asked, “What is this contrivance?”
She came over and pulled her chair beside his. “A computer. Ada Lovelace, that is Lord Byron’s daughter—”
“Byron’s daughter is an infant. Her name isn’t Lovelace.”
“Her married name will be.”
He stared at Claire. “What has Byron’s daughter to do with this contriv—er computer?”
“Well, she becomes a mathematician. And she designed one of the earliest prototypes for a computer; I believe she called it an analytical engine—though it had nothing at all like the capacity of this one.”
“What is the capacity of this one?”
She frowned. “It grows late, and I came to show you to the spare bedchamber. I will be happy to explain what this does for you, tomorrow.”
He touched the lump on his head. “I rarely sleep with a headache, and this is a prodigious one.”
“Oh! We can take care of that,” Claire said.
He looked interested. “Not port, I hope. Brandy, perhaps?”
Claire said, “I do have brandy, but I have something much more to the point. It will erase the worst of your pain if not all of it.” He watched as she went to a cabinet and came back shortly with a glass of water and two naproxen.
He took the little blue pills and studied them. Then the water, but looked doubtful. “Is this plain water?”
“Do you prefer milk?”
“I prefer anything but water. ’Tis seldom without noxious elements. If you threw a swig of your finest whiskey in it, I might consider it.”
“This is clean water, I promise you.” Her grandmother had left a “House” file in her little desk, and Claire had gone through it hoping to find a deed to the property. She hadn’t found one, but she did read the results of the water test on the cottage’s well from only two years ago. The water was pristine. If she were a businesswoman, she could bottle and sell it.
He still looked uneasy, so she said “Trust me, sir.” Knowing he was in pain, her anger began to dissipate. Suddenly he was only the man she loved, so she added, with a great deal of affection, “You are the last person in the world I would wish harm to!”
He studied her in surprise. His gaze softened. “You are too kind, Miss Channing.”
“Take the medicine,” she urged. He looked at the pills again. “Don’t chew them,” she said. “They must be swallowed whole.”
“What exactly are they?”
“I’ll get the container—wait, let’s look it up on my ‘analytical engine,’ she said playfully. He’d already powered it up, but hadn’t been able to log on. Claire did so, and found a page explaining what naproxen was.
St. John began reading with avid interest, but he said, “The analytical engine is a compressed library?”
Surprised, Claire murmured, “Yes, I suppose it is,” but added, “But also much more than that.”
“Fascinating,” he murmured as he continued reading. She showed him how to scroll down. When he reached “Side Effects,” Claire closed the page. She didn’t want him to refuse to take it.
He turned to her. “Return the information. It said, “Side Effects. What does that mean?”
“Nothing important in this case. I take these all the time.” She looked at him squarely. “Do you want to be rid of that headache or not?”
He looked again at the pills. “The contrivance said they must be taken with food or milk.”
Claire nodded. “That’s right! I forgot, I’m sorry. What can I get you?”
He frowned. “Do you do your own cooking?”
She took a breath. “Of course. Everyone does.”
“I find that difficult to fathom. Is there no longer an upper class?”
She went and brought back a glass of milk. “Just drink this and take them.” She wasn’t about to try and explain how different things were now from his time.
He took the pills with one gulp.
“Drink all of it,” she said.
He smirked, but did so.
“
Come,” she said. “You must lie down, and I’ll get a cloth with fresh ice, until the pain subsides.” Unthinkingly, Claire put out a hand to bring him along. Rising from the chair, he looked at her hand with a small smile. She was about to take it back, embarrassed, but he took her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed it lingeringly, sending a delicious shiver up her arm. She pulled it back.
“You promised to be on your best behavior.”
“You offered me your lovely hand,” he returned, innocently. “What else could a gentleman do?”
“I didn’t offer it for a kiss,” said Claire irritably, motioning him to follow her.
He studied her as they walked. He cleared his throat. “So we are here alone, with no chaperon, no servants?”
Claire felt a small alarm, but turned forbidding eyes on him. “Of course we are! This is the twenty-first century and men are expected to behave themselves without a chaperon to ensure it.” It was a bald-faced lie, but he wouldn’t know it.
“Indeed? Am I to believe human nature has changed, then?”
Oh dear. St. John was too smart. She had already given him one whopper, however, so she tried another. “Men go to prison for misusing women.” She motioned him into the bedroom. He was still watching her and when she glanced at him, he smiled.
“I believe you are lying to me, Miss Channing.”
She bit her lip and thought about how to refute his suspicion, but her cheeks flushed red.
He considered whether to tease her for it, but instead said softly, “I’ve given you my word to behave. Have no fear.”
She met his clear blue-grey eyes. She saw only the man she loved. Her heart swelled. “In that case, I trust you of course.” With her heart in her eyes she added earnestly, “I’d trust my life to you, Julian.”
He said nothing about her use of his name, but instead looked uncomfortable. He turned to the room. “So this tiny box is my chamber?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“No fireplace,” he said, surveying the room.
“There’s central heat.” She went to the thermostat and turned it up. “You don’t need a fireplace.” She pointed out the register on the floor where the heat entered the room, and he went and felt above it just as the furnace kicked in and sent up a wave of warm air. He raised a brow.
She motioned to the furniture in the room and said, “I’m sorry; there’s nothing as nice as what you’re used to, and not even a desk.” She smiled, remembering his town house. “I especially liked the mahogany escritoire in your guest bedchamber. I enjoyed using quill and ink, too,” she said, as she turned down the blanket and then fluffed the pillow for him. She turned and smiled sadly. “Though, if you recall, my handwriting was atrocious. Nowadays, there is far less emphasis on a good hand, because of the—er, the analytical engines.” She met his gaze. “But you don’t recall,” she said sadly.
He’d been listening with an odd expression and now slowly reached a hand into his waistcoat pocket. He pulled out Claire’s note, but looked at it with confusion.
She stared at it. “Is that my note? You still have it! You remembered!” A streak of joy ran through Claire. She watched him with breathless hope.
He looked at it; he looked at her. He opened the letter and looked at her again. “An atrocious hand, indeed.” She waited while he read it, staring at him, hoping for some sign of recognition, something to show he’d remembered her. But his look was veiled. He said, “You might have put this in my pocket after I received that blow to my head.”
She put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. “And how do you account for knowing it was there?” With his intent eyes upon her, she blinked back tears. “I must tell you. I love you! Though you don’t remember me. You are not, lately, the man I knew. But I love you, and I always will. I will love you forever!” She rushed to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. He was so buffle-headed! Crawling into bed, she cried in earnest. It was no use. He’d never remember her, now. A kiss hadn’t done it. And if that letter didn’t jog his brain, what could?
Standing in the doorway to his room, Julian listened to the weeping woman. He felt very concerned. Miss Channing was a mystery, but she evidently did care for him. He wished she wasn’t crying. But what could he do?
The presence of that letter did trouble him. And the fact that he apparently was not in 1816 was even more troubling. He wouldn’t begin to believe such an outrageous thought if it weren’t for the ingenious contrivances in this hunting box, or, as he strongly suspected, a tenant’s cottage, despite Miss Channing’s denial. It made no sense, however, that such devices would be in a shabby box like this.
He removed his boots, cravat and waistcoat, and tried to sleep, but mulled over the letter. He thought about Claire’s manner, her earnest protestations of love, and of how disappointed she’d been when he kissed her without remembering her from the past. He thought about the lighting, the refrigerator, heat coming from beneath the floor, and the amazing analytical engine.
Unable to sleep, he wandered out to the small parlour with the fireplace and sofa. The fire was low; he added a few logs, marveling that there wasn’t even coal, here. So many advances, but they still burned wood!
He sat on the sofa and spied the shawl. Miss Channing had said he’d brought it with him? He picked it up and felt the fabric with his fingers, willing it to be familiar—only it wasn’t.
And then, suddenly, as he fingered the fabric, a series of images ran through his mind. Claire at the ballroom. Claire in his coach. Claire in his house. Claire in his arms! Lady Ashworth claiming her. Miss Andrews tugging on the shawl until it ripped in half. He stood up and stared at Claire’s bedchamber door. His face went through a series of contortions as he struggled with his emotions. He’d been willing to toy with her earlier, but—he loved this woman! What a scoundrel he was! He walked to the door. He hesitated. He walked away. He went back again. Suddenly, from inside, he heard a sob.
He listened to be sure. When he heard another, he knocked twice but then impulsively threw open the door. Claire had been on her side crying, but she turned in surprise and sat up. At first, she wasn’t sure whether or not to be frightened, for the look on his face was unfamiliar.
“Claire!” he said, with eyes full of intensity. And a second later, he rounded the bed and pulled her out of it and into his arms. “Claire,” he said again. “Forgive me!”
“Do you know me?” she gasped.
“I do. The enchanting Miss Channing.” He placed his forehead against hers.
But Claire had learned not to trust this St. John, and she pulled back, looking uncertain.
He saw her face and added earnestly, “I remember it all!” Smiling, he said, “I did offer for you. I want to marry you. But you disappeared!” She threw her arms around his neck, smiling through tears of joy.
“I came here! I didn’t want to,” she said into his ear.
“I know. The letter.”
He kissed her mouth, and kissed her again, and then kissed her cheeks, and her forehead.
Still blinking back happy tears, she gazed into his eyes. “I love you!” she said earnestly.
“And I love you!” They kissed again, a long, deep kiss. Claire thought her heart would burst for joy. She snuggled into him. He murmured into her hair. “I’ll get a special license. We can be married in two days’ time.”
She pulled apart and looked up at him. “If we can return.”
He said, “Do they not get married now?”
She smiled. “We can be married here, but—it might be tricky. You’ll need papers that we don’t have.”
“What sort of papers?”
“A birth certificate, for one thing.”
“Do you actually certify each and every birth?”
“We do. Big Brother. Oh, scratch that. It won’t mean anything to you.” She stared up at him and then wrapped her arms again around his neck. Looking up at him she said, “I can’t tell you what torture it’s been, you not knowin
g me. I missed you terribly! I so wanted to be right here, in your arms.”
“You’re here, now,” he said.
He sat down, putting her on his lap, for all this time Claire was in his arms. She snuggled against him again. “I don’t ever want to leave your arms,” she said into his chest.
He gazed at the bed. He compressed his lips. He gently extricated her hands from around his neck. But she was still on his lap, and he lightly moved a stray curl off her face.
“I apologize for what happened earlier. I am a scoundrel!”
She smiled. “You mean, you were. But I have you back, now. The real you.”
He frowned. “Unfortunately, that was also the real me.”
“But not anymore.” She ran her fingers through the thick hair on either side of his face.
He swallowed. “I’ll leave you to your rest. Tomorrow we can work on the problem of getting home.”
Home. The word had never sounded lovelier.
“And then we’ll be married,” he finished.
Another lovely thought! She hugged him tightly, kissed the side of his face and then his mouth. But afterward, his gaze suddenly darkened. “You won’t disappear on me again?”
“I don’t think so. But that reminds me, please don’t touch that shawl.”
He looked surprised. “It was the means of gaining my memory.” But then he looked concerned. “You once asked me to destroy it. Shall I?”
“No! It may be our only means of getting back. But don’t touch it unless I’m with you. I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”
In response, he held her up against him and kissed her forehead. “Nor could I.”
There is only one happiness in this life,
to love and be loved.
George Sand
CHAPTER 48
Miss Margaret called upon Lady Ashworth two days after her sister vanished. Unfortunately, St. John had missed an appointment with an important member of the ton, causing talk that perhaps the two had eloped. Miss Margaret had no standing in society, or she would have tried to put a quick stop to such speculation; but her great-aunt could do it.
Forever, Lately Page 19