Inside the dressing room, the clerk helped St. John from his jacket and waistcoat, without a word about them. When he held up a yellow-checked sport shirt, St. John looked at the tag and said, “Irish linen? Do you have only Irish linen?”
“It’s very good quality, sir,” said the clerk.
“I don’t want very good quality,” returned St. John. “I want your best.”
“I see,” said the clerk appreciatively. “I’ll be right back, sir.”
When Claire looked up, St. John was before her in a blue-checked sports shirt, a merino wool cardigan in denim blue, brown herringbone sport coat, and dark brown merino wool pants. He wore classic leather brown penny loafers on his feet. She hadn’t expected the sheer muscular strength of St. John to translate so well in contemporary clothing, and just gazed at him admiringly for a moment. “You look wonderful,” she said.
“Doesn’t he?” agreed the clerk.
Julian’s lips curved into a reluctant smile, but he pulled at the shirt’s standing collar. It looked nice, but somehow wasn’t right. Was it too tight? Claire cocked her head to one side, trying to pinpoint the problem.
The clerk walked up to St. John and started opening the top button of the shirt. “I tried to convince him to keep this top button opened,” he said, as he undid it. But no sooner had he done so, than St. John, now frowning, began to close it.
“No, leave it!” Claire cried, jumping to her feet. He dropped his hand. She went to him and smoothed down the shirt. There was just the smallest hint of a dark blue T-shirt showing; and the open button transformed his look from one of mild discomfort to that of casual suavity. He looked ready to board a yacht or meet a friend for lunch at an exclusive private club.
The clerk was as admiring as Claire. While another clerk talked with St. John about the sport jacket, the first one came and sidled by Claire, stopping by her ear.
“I had to work on him to give up the neck cloth,” he whispered, holding a hand over his mouth. Then, standing up again to his full height, added, “But I do think it was a worthwhile effort.”
But St. John was unconvinced. He thanked the second clerk, but motioned to Claire and then leaned in to her. “Much of my neck is showing, you realize.” He looked down at himself. “And more.” He went to close the button again, but Claire stopped him.
“Every man’s neck is showing. It’s perfectly acceptable.” He looked doubtful, so she added, “It’s expected!” She smiled at his still doubtful expression. “You look exceedingly handsome, if you must know,” she assured him.
People underestimate their capacity for change.
John Porter
CHAPTER 53
Outside the mall, Clarissa Andrews and Omar were just pulling into a parking space.
“I must say, your locating device is ingenious!” Clarissa said. She gazed admiringly at Omar, but when he saw her expression, he cracked a smile.
“You mean the tracker? I didn’t invent it,” he said. Studying her a moment, he added, “But I’m glad you approve.” They made their way to the entrance, stopping people for questioning as they went.
Clarissa wore jeans and a blouse under her warm L.L. Bean coat, a hat, gloves and thermal-lined boots. Unlike St. John, she’d not had to buy anything, for like Claire in the Regency, all the right clothing was magically provided. After watching a movie that mesmerized her at Omar’s house, she’d slept in a spare bedroom. In the morning, she’d found today’s outfit in her giant (to her) reticule. Only the boots hadn’t been in the bag, but were on the floor in place of yesterday’s high heels.
When she came out dressed differently, Omar hadn’t said a word. He must have thought women always carried extra clothing with them.
If it kept up, this magical supply of clothing, Clarissa saw a good reason for not returning to the past. Even St. John was here! And so many magical devices!
“Have you seen a man in costume?” she asked everyone they stopped. So far, they’d all shaken their heads; no, they had not. But a mother with a young child just leaving the mall overheard Clarissa as she passed. Holding the hand of the little girl, she stopped and turned back.
“What sort of costume?” she asked.
“I saw an actor!” cried the child.
Clarissa ignored the child but answered the mother, “Old-fashioned, nineteenth century.”
“Yes—like Charles Dickens!” cried the woman. Clarissa had never heard of Charles Dickens and just looked at her blankly.
“But you were with him,” said the little girl, staring up at Clarissa. Clarissa’s eyes came alight, for she knew this meant they’d seen St. John, who was with Claire, who looked like her.
“No, dear, she couldn’t have been,” said the mother. She turned back to Clarissa. “He had on a strange jacket—and a vest, and—and—something around his neck.”
“That’s him!” Clarissa cried. She motioned to the mall entrance. “Was he in there?”
“Yes,” the lady said. “Only minutes ago.”
Clarissa and Omar rushed into the mall. The little girl watched them go. “But she was with him, Mommy,” the girl repeated. “I saw what she looked like.”
The mother looked down at her daughter and just shook her head. “C’mon,” she said, moving them into the parking lot.
My sole delight the headlong race
And frantic hurry of the chase.
Walter Scott
CHAPTER 54
Claire turned to the Brooks Brothers clerk. “We’ll need another shirt. And a pullover sweater. Something in an argyle pattern.”
“Very good, ma’am. Will he try them on?” the clerk asked.
“No. Just add them to the other purchases.” With Clarissa in the present, it occurred to Claire that now Julian should be safe in 1816. But she was filled with the fear of losing him, for she had no certainty that two people could time travel together. She had to keep him with her for as long as possible.
That coaching accident had taken place north of London—a continent away, two hundred years away—surely he was safe here. And they’d managed to lose Clarissa, so she posed no immediate threat. She’d keep Julian for this one last night until the wrecking crew began their horrid work in the morning. Then she’d send him back, though it would break her heart, to where he belonged.
The clerk returned. “Ah, I see no winter coat,” he said, looking at St. John. Claire thought of the cost. This was, after all, Brooks Brothers. She said, “I think I’ll try Old Navy for that, or Macy’s.”
The clerk looked at St. John and then back at Claire. “For a man of such distinction?” He leaned in toward Claire. “We’re running a sale on a line of excellent coats,” he said.
Twenty minutes later St. John looked cozy in his new wool knit topcoat, which had cost only $598 instead of its original $998. The clerk handed her a shopping bag with St. John’s Regency clothing. “Allow me to remove the tags from what you’re wearing,” he said to St. John. He circled him with a small pair of scissors, removing the product description tags, which he handed to Claire, before going off to the register with the price tags and other purchases.
As St. John watched keenly, Claire paid with a credit card. The bill came to $3248.85. Must have been the sport jacket and top coat, she thought. St. John raised a brow, but Claire acted as though it was perfectly ordinary to spend a small fortune on clothing—reminding herself this was, after all, Brooks Brothers, and it was only a tiny bit of the large advance coming her way. And Julian, besides, was used to wearing the best. She wanted him to be comfortable. She felt quite happy, in fact, to take care of him in style. In the Regency, she was totally dependent upon his generosity—at least, until Grandmamma showed up. Here, she had a chance to be generous to him.
Thinking of Grandmamma gave her a pang. She hoped she would be able to return to her, to that world, to that time. St. John unquestionably had to return. Here he was without an identity, without his home, his family respectability, his fortune. If he remained, Claire h
ad earned enough to keep them going for some time, but she doubted he would be happy living off a woman. In his day, men sometimes lived off a woman’s fortune by marrying her. But it wouldn’t be the same, now.
When they’d left the store and were in the mall, he said, “Are all prices that shockingly high?” But there was no time to answer. Claire saw something that had her turning him around and hurrying in the opposite direction.Clarissa and that man! Again!
How had they been found? Claire hurried Julian around a store directory so they weren’t in Clarissa’s line of sight.
Sporting Brooks Brothers clothes, St. John no longer garnered curious stares, but did catch the eye of two young women for quite another reason. Both wore heavy makeup.
“Hello,” one murmured with a little smile, as she passed.
Claire looked after them with an indignant expression. “I think I updated you a little too well,” she said.
“Not to worry,” he answered. “Such face paint strikes me as disrespectable. And I’ve seen nothing in modern clothing that is attractive.” He gazed at her, and his voice softened. “With the exception of you.”
She smiled. And remembered that Clarissa could be approaching.
After checking the directory to be sure they would not walk past any lingerie stores—for that would give St. John a conniption, Claire was sure—she located a restaurant and headed for it. He continued to people watch, and saw two couples walking along, their arms entwined around each other. Claire saw, too, and turned to him. “Put your arm around me like that,” she said, “We’ll look normal.”
St. John hesitated. He saw yet another couple walking that way and shrugged. “As St. Ambrose said, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans,’ he said, circling his free arm around Claire. She snuggled against him, sure that Clarissa would never recognize them as the two people she was searching for, especially with St. John in his new clothing and from behind.
She hurried Julian into a restaurant, and asked the maître d’ for a booth in the back. She hoped Clarissa and her henchman would never think to search there.
St. John read the menu cover to cover. “Shrimp?” he asked.
“They’re like prawns,” she said. She wondered if she ought to order for him, but he settled upon N.Y. strip steak with shrimp, salad, and hot rolls. When the waitress turned to Claire and said, “And you, ma’am?” St. John looked at her and with mild irritation said, “You will serve this lady exactly what I ordered.”
Claire found it amusing, the way he assumed it was his part to order for her. She was about to make a snide remark when he asked the waitress what kinds of ale they had. He shot her a look of disdain when he was told she wasn’t sure. “I’m new,” the waitress explained.
“Make it Madeira,” he said, as if he was settling.
The waitress stared. “Uh…I don’t think we have that,” she said. Julian’s lips compressed. “What do you have?” The woman hurriedly produced a bar menu.
He searched it for a moment but Claire said, “Just give us a bottle of red wine.”
The waitress said, “We only sell wine by the glass.”
Julian said, “Do you have good wine?”
The waitress looked to Claire in consternation. Claire had been reading the menu and said, “Bring us the Merlot.” When she left, Julian gazed after her a moment. He leaned toward Claire. “Why is her hair sticking out like a tail?”
Claire glanced at the waitress, who was taking an order at a nearby table. “Amazing, you described it that way!” she said. “It’s called a ponytail.”
“Do you mean to say, ’tis a fashion?”
Claire looked back at the woman. “A casual fashion.”
At his frowning countenance, Claire said, “You’ll feel better once we eat.” She smiled, still admiring his new look in modern clothing. The waitress brought the wine and moved off.
He looked around the restaurant and then settled his gaze on a couple seated across the aisle in another booth. Claire noticed him staring at the pair, who were young. The girl wore a nose ring, lip ring, and eyebrow rings, besides numerous earrings. The man also had earrings and one eyebrow ring.
St. John leaned forward again. “Are they slaves?”
Embarrassed, Claire hissed, “No! We don’t have slavery today, not in this country, anyway.” She could hardly bring herself to raise her head she was so mortified that they might have heard him.
“Does England?”
She shook her head.
“None?” he asked, with real curiosity. “Not even in the shipping trade?”
“Slavery was abolished in England in 1829,” she told him. “Thanks in large part to Wilberforce.”
He sat back with a smile. “Fantastic! I must tell William not to despair. His day is coming.”
Claire was in awe. “Do you actually know William Wilberforce?”
“We are recently become friends. Before I was, eh, reformed, we had little sympathy for one another.” He smiled.
“What is he like?” Claire asked, rather fascinated.
“He’s a good fellow. Intense…you might say, about his convictions. A Christian man.”
Claire savored every moment of their meal. In the back of her mind the thought hovered that it could be her last dinner with Julian, filling her with an aching regret. She watched him closely, trying to memorize every nuance of his expressions, every look, every shade of change in his voice. Now and then he would level his gaze at her and it would soften before her eyes, and he would reach for her hand across the table. Such moments were precious to Claire. Soon she would have to tell Julian that the shawl only worked in conjunction with the cottage, and that he must be gone before they razed it tomorrow, or he’d lose his home and life in 1816 England. She’d also have to tell him that one half a shawl might not be enough to take them both back. But not now—it could wait until they were at the cottage.
Before they left, he looked once more at the metallically adorned couple across from them. “If they are not slaves, why do they wear face rings?”
St. John hadn’t spoken loudly, but the young man heard something. He stood up in a huff. Coming to face St. John, he demanded, “What did I hear you say?” He sized up St. John and lost some of the bravado in his eyes, but Claire said hurriedly, “He’s never seen jewelry like yours, that’s all,” she said.
“Indeed I have,” Julian responded, nonplussed, keeping his eyes steadily upon the young man as though daring him to make more of it. “On slaves.”
The young man’s eyes widened. He looked ready to pop a gasket.
“He’s from another country,” Claire said hurriedly. The young man stared at St. John as though considering what to do next, and let out a few choice oaths.
“Hold your tongue in the presence of ladies!” St. John growled. “If you wish to meet me on the field, so be it, but do not forget yourself in mixed company, sir.” His words were ground out in silky venom.
There was stunned silence on the young man’s part. His companion said, “C’mon, Tino, sit down! Sit down. Just ignore him!”
“Where are you from, man?” asked the boy.
“From very far away,” Claire said, apologetically, as she pressed Julian to move on. “Trust me. Very far. I’m sorry.”
She urged him toward the exit, and hissed, “Do not make any assumptions about people based on their appearance.”
He gazed at her with surprise. “That is the best way to ascertain anything about people,” he returned. “By their attire and speech. One can tell instantly what class a person is by such things.”
“Not today,” she said. “Not like in your day.”
After a young woman thanked them for coming, he said, in Claire’s ear, “Have many women all but shaved off their eyebrows in this century?”
Claire gave him a sideways smile. “You evidently haven’t seen Brooke Shields.”
Back in the mall, Claire stopped and looked warily around.
“You are concerned that Miss Andre
ws is here?”
She nodded. “One never knows with that woman.”
“Do not even think of it,” he replied. To Claire’s delight, he circled an arm around her waist and drew her closer to his side with a little smile. “Not all customs of today are disagreeable.”
Claire took them to the nearest mall exit, but remained guarded. She wouldn’t relax until they’d arrived safely back at the cottage. It niggled at her that Clarissa knew the cottage’s location. She’d been waiting on the main road with her driver to follow them. But once they were home tonight it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing Clarissa could do to Julian there, and Claire would send him home to 1816 come morning. Clarissa didn’t know that. She’d stay in the present and Julian would be safe.
They stopped at the entranceway to put on their coats. Outdoors, Claire got her bearings—they were on the opposite side of the mall from where she’d parked. But she wouldn’t dare go back inside though it offered a shortcut. “We’ll have to walk around,” she said. St. John didn’t mind the extra time in the parking lot, looking keenly at the cars they strode past in the weak late-afternoon winter sun. He gazed admiringly in all directions.
He stopped by a Mercedes Benz that resembled one he’d seen online. Claire had to tug at his arm to move him on. Then they came across a forest green Jaguar, and he came to a decided stop. He stared at it. When he continued to stare but said nothing, Claire asked softly, “You like this one?”
He went up to it and looked it over, peering in the window. “Like it? I cannot think of anything I’ve seen that is quite as beautiful as this.” He came back to his full height and turned to her. “Aside from you, that is.”
Claire smiled, but pulled him along. “No wonder they put women in car commercials,” she murmured. “Two things men love to admire.”
“Car commericals?” he asked, while giving a last, sidelong look at the car. Claire pulled him along.
Forever, Lately Page 23