Lady Ashworth dismissed the servants, made sure the door was shut, and then spoke with Miss Margaret. When she learned what had happened to Clarissa, she was uncertain what to make of it. On the one hand, it was good to be rid of Clarissa, at least temporarily, but it meant she knew their secret regarding the tallit and time travelling. And Claire had not returned, and she wasn’t sure where St. John was keeping himself. Was Clarissa now with Claire in the future? It was all rather befuddling. She hoped for Claire’s return, but dreaded Clarissa’s.
“If I can find St. John,” said Her Ladyship, “we could put an end to the speculation.” She sighed. “He wouldn’t believe me, you know, about why Claire disappeared. And he has the other half of the tallit.” To Miss Margaret’s questioning look, she said, “The shawl, my dear.” Her Ladyship’s face brightened. “If Clarissa could vanish with only half the tallit, I don’t see why, if I can get it from Julian, that I couldn’t also. I can find out what’s happening with Claire and your sister.”
“Aunt Ashworth,” said Miss Margaret—finally sure enough of herself to use the term of a relation to the marchioness rather than the more formal “my lady”—“if St. John has half the tallit, what is to prevent him from vanishing? Perhaps that is why he has gone missing, also!”
Lady Ashworth put a hand to her chin. “Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose he may have.” Her face crumpled into a frown. But then her countenance lightened. “Well! If he did, he’ll believe me, now. Our relationship will be restored. The boy quite broke my heart when he last walked out of this establishment.”
“Is there no danger of their not coming back, then, ma’am?” asked Miss Margaret.
Lady Ashworth stared at Miss Margaret as she considered that question. Finally she answered, “I’m afraid that is a danger. There is no telling whether we shall ever see either of them again.” She looked worriedly off into the air, reflecting on that sad possibility. Even Miss Margaret seemed sufficiently struck by the thought of never seeing her sister again.
After the younger woman had taken her leave, Lady Ashworth reflected upon everything that had happened. If Clarissa was in the future, it would mean that Julian was safe from that coach accident—that was a good thing, providential! But if Julian was also in the future, who knew what devilry Miss Andrews might conjure there?
Lady Ashworth could almost wish that Claire had never discovered the tallit. Almost. But if St. John survived and they returned and were married, she could never rue that day. How she wished it could happen! In the meantime, she must discover if Julian had taken a journey in time. If he was still here in 1816, she could get the shawl from him and try to fetch Claire.
If not? If he had indeed gone to the future with Clarissa there as well? Then Claire must keep them apart. Surely she would realise that—wouldn’t she?
Lady Ashworth called for her coach.
It is difficult, when faced with a situation you cannot control,
to admit you can do nothing.”
Lemony Snicket
CHAPTER 49
Julian gently moved Claire off his lap and stood up. The best way for him to guard Claire’s honour and his own sanity was to exit the bedchamber. Now.
“I am only just accepting the enormity of being in your time,” he said, looking down at her. “And I am utterly wide awake with the implications of it.”
Claire rose and slipped into her robe. “Come. Let’s eat something.” But he suddenly peered into the little bathroom off to one side. Soon he was examining the fixtures. He admired the “standing bath,” and admitted that getting water warm from the tap was a marvelous invention. She showed him how the standing bath worked, which he declared “infinitely superior” to any he had seen, including one at Carlton House. “You must try it,” Claire said. “It may help you sleep.”
Though he had no change of clothing, Claire found a spare robe in her grandmother’s closet and left it with him. After demonstrating how to use the shower, she left him to it and decided to catch a few minutes of rest—she wouldn’t sleep, but rest while planning what their next move should be. It was past two a.m.
When Claire blinked sleepily awake, the clock said five a.m. St. John! She shot out of bed. She found him standing at the stove before a frying pan, cooking bacon. She suppressed a grin. He wore his tight-fitted trousers and shirt, though no waistcoat. His cravat hung around his neck, still to be tied. He sported a “five-o’clock shadow” and looked amazing, Claire thought.
“Shall I finish that for you?” she asked, coming beside him.
He glanced down at her with a small smile. “You ought to sleep longer. I seem to be getting along. I must say, this instant flame is a fine advance in a stove.”
Smiling, she removed the fork he held and put it down. She got a spatula, and brandished it. She saw he had already found the eggs, but also on the counter was an assortment of condiments. Ketchup, barbecue sauce, soy sauce, and mayonnaise. Avocado oil and olive oil stood beside Worcestershire. She looked at him with faint amazement. He shrugged. “Thought I may as well be adventurous.”
When they sat to eat at the small kitchen table, Claire was hardly able to keep her eyes off him. Julian’s hair was no longer damp, but it looked different; curlier. When they’d finished and he’d helped her clean up—a lovely surprise—he then took one of her hands and covered it inside his two. “I should like to understand that fascinating analytical engine more; after that, if you can get us back home, I should terribly enjoy relieving you of kitchen duties, among other things.”
She smiled with sparkling eyes. She got the laptop and powered it as he watched keenly, reading the screen. “Password. Is that a code?”
“I suppose it is,” Claire said with a smile.
“What is your code?” he asked.
Claire was surprised to find herself hesitating. Why shouldn’t she tell him? “Regency1814.”
“Indeed. Why 1814?” He waited for her to meet his eyes. “For me, that was only two years ago.”
Claire gazed at him with wonder. “Despite having been in your time, I can hardly fathom that.” Looking back at the screen, she asked, “What would you like to know?”
“I’d like to know why 1814 is your code.”
She suppressed a smile. “Because of the fashions. There are loads of illustrations from magazines of your day that I can find through this,” she said, nodding at the computer. “And out of all the years of the Regency, I like 1814 fashions best. Not to mention all the fascinating world events going on for England.”
“Out of all the years of the Regency,” he repeated, looking at her. “That begs the question, dearest,” he said. “How many years is the Regency?”
“Oh dear,” Claire murmured. “Now we’re getting into a new difficulty. Do we explore things you shouldn’t know?” Her wide blue eyes surveyed him questioningly.
“Knowing you and being here makes that a moot question,” he returned. “If you please, when does the Regent become king?”
Claire sighed. “Very well; 1820.”
“For how long?
“Ten years. He dies in 1830, I’m sorry to say.”
Julian looked thoughtful. “I am sorry for him, though most of England will not be, for then Charlotte will reign.”
She said nothing, but looked hastily away.
He gazed at her with concern. “The Princess does reign after her father?”
Claire’s lips pursed. “I don’t think we need talk about that.”
His eyes narrowed. “How long does she reign?”
“There are other things that will interest you more,” she said, looking back to the screen. “In fact”—she stood up—“I have other devices that will fascinate you.” She thought of showing him a movie—anything to get his mind off the subject of Princess Charlotte. But he caught her about the waist and gently led her to sit again. He looked at her expectantly.
Frowning, she admitted, “She does not live beyond her father. I’m sorry.”
/> He stared at her, as thoughts roiled behind his eyes. “What happens?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. You must love your princess.”
“Of course; she is shamefully abused by her father. Tell me why she doesn’t outlive him.”
Claire looked troubled. “She—she dies in childbirth, I’m afraid.”
He shot up out of his chair and began to pace.
Claire felt terrible. The British feeling of affection for their royalty ran deep. Even she considered Princess Charlotte’s death a tragic, wasted loss. She wouldn’t dare tell him that it was because of nineteenth century medical ignorance, one mistake upon another. Or that, had it been today, the Princess would have done just fine; that her stillborn son might even have lived.
“Her marriage is only just approaching,” he said. “We can attend the wedding, if you like.”
Claire’s breath caught. The very idea! Of seeing Princess Charlotte wed! A woman, to her mind, who had died tragically so long ago! It was a thought both breathtaking and terrible. This is what awaited Claire in the past—a life of knowing much about the future before it happened. She wondered if that knowing would make life harder, or easier to bear.
He stopped and pointed at the laptop. “You didn’t once use your—your analytical engine.”
“I’ve studied your period extensively for my novels.”
He stared at her. “I’d forgotten about that. I thought it was part of your delusion, your being a writer of novels.” They smiled at each other. “You write books like Mrs. Radcliffe, I suppose?”
Claire smirked. “I hope not.” Anne Radcliffe wrote Gothic novels such as The Mysteries of Udolpho, filled with long descriptions of scenery, fainting heroines, mysterious castles and dark dungeons. Claire had no ambition to write in that vein.
“Like Mrs. Burney, then?”
“Something like that,” Claire hedged. Just then her cell phone rang. St. John looked around in surprise as Claire rose to grab the phone, which she’d left charging on a kitchen counter. She stopped and said hurriedly to him, “People can talk this way today.” It was a pathetic explanation of the telephone, but she had to give him some warning. When she picked it up, Adam spoke.
“Claire. I see you’re still at the cottage.”
“Are you aware that it’s only”—she glanced at the clock on the stove—“six o’clock in the morning?”
He cleared his throat. “I saw the lights. I could tell you were up.”
“How could you tell?”
He cleared his throat again. “I have binoculars.”
Claire felt her blood pressure go up. “That’s spying! Now you’re a peeping Tom?”
“Look, I didn’t expect you to be there. I’m concerned about you. I thought you had more sense than to still be there. It’s Thursday and you only have until tomorrow. You know my father means business.”
Claire came slowly back toward St. John, who was on his feet, watching and listening keenly. “Give me a few more days and I promise you, I’ll be out of here,” she said.
“The old man won’t negotiate anymore. You lost your chance for that.”
St. John’s eyes narrowed. Claire knew he could easily hear Adam’s loud voice.
“Just tell him I said I’ll go willingly if he’ll give me a few more days.” Claire thought ruefully that the days would come in awfully handy if they had any trouble getting back to the past together. Even a single extra day could be vital! If the cottage was demolished while St. John was still here, he’d be stuck in the present. “You can’t raze the cottage when I’m in it. You have my word I can be out of here—in less than a week.”
Adam took a breath. “You said a few days—now it’s almost a week? Look—I’ll tell him. But don’t expect a miracle. The equipment’s scheduled to show up bright and early tomorrow morning. If you’re not out”—he lowered his voice confidentially—“the sheriff will serve a warrant and haul you out of there, Claire. You’ve gotta be out.”
“I’ll call the papers and local TV,” Claire said, “and tell them I’ll be in residence. Don’t make it get ugly. I’ll be out in less than a week if you’ll just wait.”
To her surprise, Julian motioned that he wanted the phone. She didn’t have time to consider what he would say or how he would use this new “contrivance,” but he took the phone and said into it, “This is Julian St. John. To whom am I speaking?”
Claire tried not to smile.
“Excuse me?” Adam asked.
“Who are you?” Julian repeated, while Claire stifled a titter.
“Adam Winthrop. Who are you?” she heard.
“Mr. Winthrop,” Julian said, in an acid tone, “Am I to understand that you are pressuring an unmarried woman without protection to remove from her home? Are you utterly heartless?”
“Who is this?” she heard. “Claire, are you there?”
“You will speak through me, sir, if you wish to say anything more to Miss Channing.”
Adam hung up. Claire laughed out loud. She turned to Julian and gave him a hug. “Do you know, I’ve never managed to get him to hang up before? I’ve always had to end our conversations!”
“He is a scurrilous cove,” Julian said, but he couldn’t be impervious to her proximity, and he took and kissed her. Inwardly, Claire had to shake her head. Julian had no problem getting romantic without a shred of feeling behind it—she’d experienced that—but apparently, evicting a woman from her home, no matter how humble, was against his idea of decency.
When he released her, the phone was still in one hand. He shut it, looking at it keenly. “What do you call this?”
“A cell phone. It works via…er…airwaves.” He turned his head and gave her a quizzical look. “Well, invisible waves that go through the air,” she amended. He still looked flummoxed, so she said, “I don’t know! I can barely understand how these things work, I’m sorry.”
“What about your analytical engine? Can it tell me?”
“Good idea!” They went back to the laptop. Claire was relieved that he’d asked no more questions about Princess Charlotte’s death.
She did a search for “How do cell phones work?” and left Julian to read while she got changed.
As she dressed, she considered their options. They would of course try to return together using the tallit. If only one of them went back, she’d be stuck without him again—that was unthinkable! But then she realized she had to consider letting him return without her. She ought to send him back, in fact. It was safest with the demolition scheduled for the following day, as his return path would close! She couldn’t risk having him stuck in the present. He belonged in his own time. But then she remembered Miss Andrews's threat was still very real in 1816. If she sent him back, it would be to his death!
All of this ran through her head as she dressed. If only the Winthrops would give her more time! She decided to say nothing as yet to Julian about the urgency. If he left and she lost him again—oh! There had to be a way for both of them to return—and she must think of it! Returning together wouldn’t erase Clarissa’s threat, but if Claire was with Julian, she could prevent the tragedy.
She thought it through. Julian would want to get a special license, as he said. But Miss Andrews might follow in her coach as he went for the license, or as they left to get married! In fact, their wedding could serve to drive Clarissa to hound him to death! Claire wouldn’t put anything past that woman.
No, it was safer for Julian to be right here in the present. Two hundred years away from Miss Andrews. There was really no choice in the matter. Claire had to make him stay until just before the demolition began. His life depended on it.
Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee.
Robert Burns
CHAPTER 50
Claire put her hair up for Julian’s sake—he liked it that way—and donned a skirt and blouse. She didn’t want to wear the maxi dress again, so the knee-length skirt was the only a
lternative other than jeans or slacks. As she brushed her hair, it occurred to her that Julian might be looking up things he ought not to know on the laptop—such as his own death! She adjusted her blouse before the mirror and hurried out to join him.
When she peered at the screen over his shoulder, she was relieved to find him reading a history of inventions. She left to make a pot of coffee. When she returned and sat beside him, he had opened a page about cars. Of course he’d be fascinated with the modern car, she thought. What man wouldn’t?
He glanced at her and did a double take, staring at her legs. His gaze traveled from her legs to her face. His demeanor wasn’t promising.
“What are you about?” he said.
“This is perfectly normal today,” she assured him. “This is how women dress.” He looked again at her legs.
“’Tisn’t normal to me, and if you do not cover”—he bent his head down to get a better view—“your beautiful legs, I will not be able to remove my gaze from them.”
She pursed her lips. “This skirt is modest by today’s standards.”
“Then today’s standards are depraved.”
“They are, no doubt, but it’s all I have.” She gave him a look of indignation.
“Put on the frock you wore last night.”
Shaking her head, Claire rose to do so. For some reason she glanced back as she left. He was staring at her legs.
When she returned in the maxi dress, he looked her over and nodded. “I thank you.” As he turned back to the screen, he asked, “Do you have a car? I would have called it a horseless carriage, but I’ve discovered the new nomenclature,” he said. “I particularly like…this one.” He scrolled down to a black Mercedes Benz.
“You would,” Claire said. “My car isn’t nearly that nice.”
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