“But you have one?” he asked eagerly. And with that, Claire realized he’d just given her the way to keep him in the 21st century for another day.
“Would you like to go for a spin?” she asked, and was rewarded with a full, handsome smile she seldom saw.
“If you mean a ride in your carriage, indeed I would.”
Her carriage. Smiling, Claire found a thermal barn jacket in the spare bedroom closet which she gave St. John. He held it up and said, “Surely you don’t expect me to wear this monstrosity. It looks fit for a farmer.”
“This is New England. It’s probably about twenty degrees today—if we’re lucky.
He studied her, thinking. “I’ll bring it with me. To be worn only if wholly necessary.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “I have a problem.” To her questioning look, he said, “I need Fletch.”
“Your valet!”
“Yes. He shaves me.”
Claire approached him and ran her hand along his chin and face. “I rather like it,” she said. He caught her hand and turned it palm up and kissed it. Trying to ignore the lovely sensation of his mouth on her skin, she said, “If you can wait a day to shave, when we go out I’ll buy you an electric razor.”
He looked mildly alarmed. “An electric razor?”
“They’re very safe! You guide it; it’s nothing like the razors you’re thinking of.”
But he shook his head. “A gentleman does not leave the house unshaven.”
“Now sit still.”
“Fletch shaves me daily—do you think I cannot sit still?”
Claire had St. John positioned in front of her bathroom mirror. She’d found a canister of shaving cream next to a few disposable razors and sprayed some into her hand. She carefully covered St. John’s face and chin.
“This is fun,” she said.
“Have a care with the razor,” he replied.
Minutes later, as she toweled off his face, she stopped in front of him and said, “I rather envy Fletch his job.” He caught her about the waist, and drew her up to him. Claire’s heart thumped. He kissed her shortly upon the mouth, then did so again.
Claire looked dreamily up at him.
“We’d best go,” he said.
There was a small garage adjacent to the cottage that housed Claire’s ten-year-old silver Chevy Capri, a mid-size four-door she’d bought used. When St. John saw it, his eyes lit up as though it was a limousine.
“Fantastic!” he murmured, going about the outside, and running his hands along the doors and hood. He looked over at her. “Imagine it—a mechanical engine that will propel it forward!”
Claire smiled at his boyish excitement. He squatted by a front tire and felt the rubber and the rim. She opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get in. As he started in, he saw the wheel and said, “I’d like to sit by the helm, if you don’t mind.”
“The steering wheel, and you can’t sit there. I have to drive, because I have a license.”
“You need a license to drive?”
“There’s a learning curve,” she said. “A license is issued after you learn how to drive.” She turned to him. “Watch me buckle up; you have to do it, also.” He watched her, found his seat belt and closed it.
“Ingenious,” he murmured.
He watched keenly as she put the key in the ignition. “The carriage must be unlocked?”
“Car. Call it a car.” She’d never thought of the ignition key as “unlocking the carriage,” but she supposed in a way it did.
When she turned the key and the engine revved to life, he stared in delight. He watched as she put the car in reverse and pressed on the gas.
“Foot pedals, too,” he said, and then watched in fascinated silence as they backed out of the garage. “Backwards!”
Claire smiled. “Yes.”
As she navigated out of the drive over light snow cover, he was touching the dashboard, the door, the glove compartment, and then the control panel and CD player. “What material is this?” he asked, after removing a glove to feel the dashboard.
“Some kind of plastic,” Claire said. She tried to describe how plastic was made, but admitted, “I don’t know, exactly.”
“What makes the mechanical engine run?”
“Gasoline.”
“A gas!”
“No, it’s a liquid.” Claire was beginning to feel like a kindergarten teacher. She thought of how she’d marveled at mundane things in his world; now it was his turn.
She turned from the drive onto the main road, which was lined with large blue spruce, heavy with snow. She said, “Now we can go a little faster.” With the bright blue sky above the trees, it was a beautiful day. A black truck moved off the side of the road behind them, but Claire barely noticed. St. John had been raising and lowering his window with a look of concentration, but he glanced ahead and cried, “You’re on the wrong side of the road!”
“No, this isn’t England. We drive like the French, on the right.” As she picked up speed, St. John seemed energized, even delighted. He stared out his window, then the front; he spied the speedometer.
“MPH. Do these numbers signify miles…per…hour?” he asked, in amazement.
“Very good! Right now we’re at forty...now fifty.
“Fifty!” he said, in wonder.
“tI can’t go any faster on this road. There’s a speed limit by law, but it changes according to where we’re driving.”
He stared ahead, saw a car approaching and watched it with rapt attention. He turned swiftly as it roared by to watch it disappear behind them, at the same time noting a black box-like carriage coming up on their rear.
“How fast can this carriage go?”
Claire glanced at the speedometer. “Car. Theoretically, up to a hundred and twenty miles per hour.” To his look of stunned excitement, she added, “I would never go that fast. I’d lose control of the car if I tried.”
St. John glanced in his side mirror and said, “Well, you may need to go faster than you are now; there is a black equipage coming up fast to our rear.”
Claire nodded, glancing at the rear-view. “It’s a truck. I see it.” When the truck did indeed get very close to their car, she sped up by another five miles an hour, but they did the same. “Tailgaters!” Claire said. St. John smiled at the term.
“We’ll part ways soon,” Claire said. “I’m getting on I-95.” Smiling, she added, “Solely for your benefit, because you like speed. But they probably won’t follow us onto it.”
In a few minutes she was on the entrance ramp to I-95, which was Maine Turnpike. Behind them, the black truck followed closely.
“Well!” said Claire. “Now they can pass us and we’ll be rid of them. I hate a tailgater!”
As she eased onto the turnpike, the black truck followed. The road wasn’t busy, so Claire signaled and moved into the middle lane, and then into the left. She was creeped out when the black truck did the same.
“They’re still with you,” St. John said, watching the progress from his side mirror. He turned in his seat to try and see the driver, and saw a big, dark man with a stony visage who would not meet his eyes.
Claire frowned and looked in the rear-view. “I don’t know what their problem is—” But suddenly her eyes widened, and her heart rate jumped into hyperdrive. She returned her gaze to the road, reeling inside. In the passenger seat of the black truck Claire had seen a sight that was as unsettling as it could possibly be. She wouldn’t tell St. John.
It was Clarissa.
You often meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it.
Goldie Hawn
CHAPTER 51
One Day Earlier
Miss Andrews blinked and tried to assess her surroundings. Margaret was gone; her home was gone! She was standing on a wooden balcony of some sort, which was attached to an inn or lodge. There was a great wall of windows before her through which she saw people—strangely dressed people. They were mingling and holding drinks in their hands. She shivered—her legs and feet
were cold. In fact, the air was cold! Far colder than it had been of late.
She looked at herself and saw she wasn’t clothed properly! Her shoes had heels that were too high, and her legs were showing! She had a thick, heavy coat on of an unknown fabric, and a shawl about her neck. She carried something on her shoulder—a stiff pouch of some sort. Could it be a reticule? And beside her was a large container—a type of portmanteau, she guessed. As she tried to take in the strangeness of it all, a door opened and a man stepped out, smiling. He was tall and good-looking with very light hair, although utterly ill-dressed for an evening party; but so, Clarissa realized, was she.
“Claire!” he said. “I’m so glad you’ve come!”
An American! Who thinks I’m Miss Channing!
He held out a hand, and Clarissa automatically went forward. “Come in, come in,” he said. “You look frozen.” He grabbed the large portmanteau with one hand and ushered her in with his other arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”
Before Clarissa could answer, another man was suddenly there, an older man. “Look, Dad, it’s Miss Channing,” the first man said. “She’s come to our mixer—and with luggage—she’s accepting the suite.”
“Miss Channing. I’m delighted,” said the old man. “You won’t regret cooperating with us. We’ll make sure of that.”
Having no idea what this meant, Clarissa merely nodded mutely. He stepped forward and reached for her hand, but Clarissa saw with horror that she was wearing thick, fat, ugly gloves such as she’d never seen before.
“Here, let me take those,” the younger man said. He reached for her gloves, those horrid thick things, though Clarissa had to admit they’d kept her hands warm. He proceeded to take them, then the stiff reticule. He helped her out of her coat and shawl. Clarissa stared. Her shawl—it was Claire’s, the magical shawl!
“Your scarf is torn,” he said, holding it up. “We’ll get you a new one. The lodge has a great gift shop.” But Clarissa grabbed it from him, as well as the strange, hard reticule and shoved the scarf in it. “No need; I’m fond of this one.” To her shock, she sounded utterly American!
The old man said to the younger one, “It has sentimental value. She must keep it, then. She’s losing enough with the cottage, eh?”
Clarissa nervously glanced at her dress and straightened it, trying to pull it down lower, as it ended—shockingly—above her knees. Meanwhile, the older man was saying something about it was high time to bury the hatchet, and how delighted they were to have Claire as their guest. He congratulated her for having the sense to vacate the cottage in time.
Clarissa had no clue what most of his speech meant, but she did understand that both men took her to be Miss Channing. She bristled at the mistake, though she realized it was propitious in that she would learn all about that Channing creature now. The younger man handed Clarissa’s coat and portmanteau—luggage, he’d called it—to a person she guessed was a hired hand. He gave the man a room number. Then a young girl in a wheelchair came rolling up to them. “This is Adele, my little sister,” he said.
“Thank you for letting me keep Charlie,” Adele said to her. Clarissa smiled, wondering what kind of servant Charlie was, and why Miss Channing had let this child keep him. “I adore him!” Adele added. At that moment a big shaggy dog came bounding toward them. “Oh, here he is!” she said.
Charlie was a dog? Clarissa was not fond of dogs and steeled herself as she saw it coming. Charlie, fortunately, was fond of all human beings, and came, tail wagging, and even jumped up at her—almost as if she had been his former owner, Clarissa hoped. She smiled and patted him, but he started whimpering, and jumped down. Adele wheeled closer and took him by the collar. “C’mon, boy,” she said, pulling him away. She looked back at Clarissa. “I think he’s forgotten you.”
Clarissa saw the man was staring at her curiously. “You’re awfully quiet, Claire,” he said. “You miss your dog, I suppose.” His gaze swept over her. “But you look stunning. I’m really glad you came.” He took a step closer. “You know I’ve always wanted us to be better friends.”
She looked uncertain for a moment, for she felt anything but stunning—yet Clarissa was well versed in recognizing male admiration and could see it was genuine. She smiled. “Thank you.” The man returned a bigger smile.
“I like it when you smile,” he said. He took her hand. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you around. We’ll talk about the cottage later,” he added. Clarissa went along with him, walking carefully on the high heeled shoes, and feeling better about her legs showing because, to her astonishment, all the women she saw also had their legs revealed. She had no idea what “talking about the cottage later,” referred to, but she’d worry about that when it came up.
During introductions—which were wholly confusing—Clarissa could find neither rhyme nor reason to them, for older people were introduced to her as if she were the superior, and other times she was introduced to younger people, as if they were! It made no sense. But she learned a great deal quickly. The man’s name, for instance, was Adam, and she—Claire Channing, they thought— an author living in a cottage on land belonging to Adam’s family, the Winthrops. So this is where she came from! Clarissa thought. An author! She recalled the pages of notes Claire had left behind at Lady Ashworth's. Notes about mundane stuff—now it made sense. At the same time, she realized it was no longer 1816—a magical shawl, indeed!
She slowly ascertained that she—Claire, rather—had apparently been asked to vacate the cottage but had held out until now. Her arrival tonight signaled to the Winthrops that she was ready to accept their terms, that, in exchange for leaving the cottage voluntarily, they would furnish her with an excellent suite right in this very lodge for as long as she needed it or until the end of the year.
As people politely inquired about her books, Clarissa smiled and insisted she never spoke about her work. How did she feel about losing her grandmother’s cottage? She would shrug and say, “Some things can’t be helped.” And then, while marveling still at her own Americanized speech, she would swiftly turn the conversation around. Now and then she would chance to see Adam—always his eyes were upon her, with a pensive and admiring look.
She studied him in return, trying to imagine how he would look in a proper outfit of breeches and stockings with a shirt and cravat. When he came back to her—as she knew he would—he said, “There’s one more neighbor you need to meet.” He took her to a tan- skinned man named Omar with very thick, black hair, and an intense facial expression that made him look perpetually angry. But he smiled upon the introduction. Omar, she learned, was a “contractor,” a man who hired himself out for any need imaginable. He’d escorted people across deserts and mountains, but he’d also run grocery calls, purchasing and delivering food items. There wasn’t a job on the planet, Adam said with a wink, that Omar wouldn’t do.
“I may have work for you,” Clarissa said. “If we can agree upon a price.” As soon as she spoke, she realized she had no money in this world. Or did she? She found a water closet, and gawked at the gleaming fixtures and then at herself in the mirror—for she looked so different! Her gown was totally without style, though it displayed her figure admirably enough and her hair was in a plain chignon without any adornments whatsoever. She opened the stiff reticule. She had money! American dollars. And lots of them. How propitious.
When she left the water closet, Adam was there. He came up close. “Claire.”
“Call me Clarissa, if you would. It’s my full name.”
“Claire’s a pen name, then?”
Clarissa nodded.
“Clarissa,” he said, taking her arms, “I want to apologize once more, for hitting that man, Julian. Was he okay?”
Clarissa gaped at him, and forgot herself. “Was Julian here?”
“With you at the cottage,” he said, with surprise.
“Oh, yes. And you hit him?”
He blinked at her. “Don’t you remember? It was an accident. He startled me
, came out of nowhere. On your porch. Did you forget?” He chuckled. “Well, I guess that answers my question. If he was hurt badly, I don’t think you’d have forgotten already. ” He went on. “And I take it that means he isn’t important to you, since you forgot so quickly. That’s a relief,” he added with a smile. His look became more serious. “I honestly didn’t think you’d come tonight. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you did. You can stay here as long as you need to.” He moved closer to her and, impertinently, put his arms about her waist.
It was a serious breach of manners, but Clarissa also found it rather fascinating. No man of her day would have dared. With a quickened pulse, she said nothing but simply stared up at him. Adam gazed at her with surprise—and longing. He kissed her, a short, tentative kiss. When she still said nothing, he said, “Claire! I mean, Clarissa!” And he pulled her up against him and kissed her again, much longer this time. Clarissa enjoyed every second.
“Be with me,” he said, softly. He added, “I’ll make sure you have everything you could ever need.”
“Will you?” she said.
“Yes! Name it, beautiful lady,” he answered, smiling.
She smiled back sweetly, but said, “I need Omar.”
Adam required knowing only that Omar was not a love interest of Clarissa’s before leading her back to the gathering and to the man. Clarissa motioned Omar aside and said she wished to hire him, that his work for her must be a secret, and that she needed him immediately.
He asked for details; they spoke at length. Adam kept sending worried glances in their direction, but Clarissa was focused only on her business.
“I’ll need a retainer of $1,000 upfront, and $5,000 afterward,” Omar decided.
Clarissa checked her reticule and gave him the stack of bills.
In a moment he looked up. “That’s a lot of cash to have on hand, but only half the retainer.”
She frowned. “It’s all I have at the moment.”
“Let’s go,” he said.
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