By dinner hour I'm climbing the hill to thorne Manor. I have texted my shop clerk to let her know I was called away on a family emergency, which is not untrue.
She will close the shop doors in my absence and I have scheduled her weekly pay deposit for the next two months. I will make long-term arrangements through William. That presumes I will cross over, but I cannot think of any other possibility and therefore will act as if it is a given.
Once at Thorne Manor, I slip in the back door and race up the steps, as if the portal is a door already closing.
Yet even as I pass through the rooms, I take more notice than I have
during my last few visits, and I marvel at how truly singleminded I must have been to have missed the changes.
When I dart into the tiny bedroom, now an office, I see a photograph on the desk that has me stopping, shoes squeaking on the wood floor. It's a shot of William holding his daughter on a pony. Leave it to William Thorne to teach his daughter to ride when she can barely walk. What gives me pause is the clothing. It clearly comes from my time. The picture, though, is taken with a modern camera.
They can go back. Take a camera, snap a photograph and return.
That's when I notice the other two subjects in the picture.
A man and a boy. The man stands back a step, laughing, as the boy sits behind young Amelia, his hands firmly on her waist. The boy could be holding the child in place, but his expression suggests he's holding on for dear life, as if this
baby will save him should the horse bolt.
I look at the boy, and my tears well, and in a single blink, they're streaming down my face. The preschooler is the
spitting image of the man behind him, the laughing,
impossibly handsome man with dark blond hair and green eyes.
"August," I whisper. My fingers move toward him, but instead, they slide to caress the face of the boy. Of my son.
"Edmund."
My knees buckle, and I fall against the desk, heaving for
breath I cannot find. I knew my son was no longer a baby.
Rationally, I understood that. Yet I held fast to the hope that time had not progressed in their world. Here is the proof that
denies that dream. My son is no longer a baby. He is a boy,
one who has never known a mother.
Never known a mother? I have no reason for saying such a thing. As soon as I disappeared, August would have had
women queuing up on his doorstep, offering to mother his abandoned infant.
My son has almost certainly known a mother. It just wasn't me.
I take deep, shuddering breaths until I'm able to slowly straighten.
My husband may have a new wife, and that will cut me to the core, but I will accept it. My son may have a loving mother, and that will cut just as deep, but I will accept it, too. There will still be room for me. Living in this world, I've
seen families with more than two parents, children raised in an abundance of love.
I'm turning from the desk when a shape appears at the door. I jump, yelping. A cat fixes me with the most disgusted
glare, tail swishing as she comes into the room.
A cat. A calico cat.
The kitten from the box. Not a kitten anymore, but a full-grown feline. One who has crossed and come back again just
like William and his daughter and wife.
I take the photograph from the desk. Then I lift my bag and stride to the time-portal spot. I clutch the picture of my
family as I fix my gaze on the cat. One is a sign of where I
need to be, the other proof that such passage is possible.
I close my eyes and picture this room in William's house.
I let my son's and husband's faces hover before me, a tether to that world. The time is right, and the way is open, and by God, I will pass if I need to ram through time itself.
I clutch the photograph and focus on my family and on the cat. If she can cross, I will, too.
I will, I will, I will.
I do not. Even with my eyes closed, I know nothing has happened. The room feels no different. Sounds no different.
There's a meow, and fur brushes my bare legs as the cat rubs
against me. With a sigh, I open my eyes, and I'm staring at that same desk. Even the picture still sits there, in its silver
frame . . .
The picture sits on the desk.
The same picture I have in my hands.
I blink, and I see it is not the same photograph at all. Or it is the same pose, yet it is in black and white, with the sepia tone of a Victorian photograph.
I stare at that picture, and I throw back my head and laugh. Yes, it's the same desk . . . because they had one made for both homes. The same photograph, too, using a sepia
filter to look as if it belongs in my time.
In my time.
In this time.
My chest tightens, stealing breath. What if I'm wrong?
Perhaps there was a second photograph, and that's what I'm seeing. When I look about the room and discover I have not
passed through time at all, it will destroy me.
In these four years, I've broken down more times than I can count. Those moments where I no longer wanted to live
in a world bereft of every person I'd ever loved. Yet those black hours were spots of mold on a loaf of bread that I could
not afford to throw away. Cut them out and move on.
That's what I've done. I've made the new world my own.
I've allowed myself to see the beauty in it. I've allowed
myself to marvel and revel at technological advances. I've
allowed myself to marvel and cheer at social advances. But even then, in the back of my mind, I wasn't only thinking of
how wonderful it was to walk the streets at night and not be
thought a strumpet, to run my own shop and not be thought
a harridan. I learned everything I could, all the while only thinking how wonderful it would be to take this knowledge
home with me.
I could help August understand how his jealousy felt like
control. I would ask—no, insist—on resuming my trade in
whatever form wouldn't dishonor his family. I would tell my
sisters to pursue their passions, and I'd help them do it and
never let anyone tell them they were fragile things in need of
a man. I'd known all this in my heart before, but being in the
new world gave me the confidence to push harder for what I
believed in.
What happens if I look around now to see that I did not
cross and must accept finally that I will never cross?
I don't think I can bear it.
I will, though. For four years, I've kicked my fears from
the darkness and soldiered on, eyes on the horizon even as
my heart stayed in the past. I will do the same now if I must.
I slowly turn my gaze and . . .
THE THICK-CUSHIONED RECLINERS ARE GONE, REPLACED WITH DEEP
arm chairs. The shelves remain the same, but the books on
them are different, old titles still gleaming new. While the
structure of the desk also remains the same, it holds a very
different collection of goods. A jeweled inkwell and pearl pen
in place of a silver writing set. A stack of writing papers
where there had been a stack of printed pages. No laptop
cord snakes from a wall socket. There are no wall sockets at
all.
I take it all in, and then I collapse atop my bag. I grip that
bag tight as sobs of joy wrack my body.
Then I realize where I am. On the spot that holds the portal. I scramble up, gasping and clawing and stumbling until
I'm safely away from the spot. At a rumbling meow, I look up
to see the calico cat watching me with disdain, rolling her
feline eyes at this foolish human, making such a fuss over
something as small as stepping through time.
She stalks oŷ, and I rise, wiping my eyes and then
grabbing my bag and . . .
I stop misstep. Where exactly am I going?
Back to August, of course. To my son. To my life.
No. I cannot. Not like this.
On the trip to Thorne Manor, I'd realized that if I did
cross, I could not run pell-mell back to August. Unless he
was at Courtenay Hall, I'd need to take a train or coach to
London, which required not only Victorian currency but also
a bit of time to acclimate to this new world, lest I be thrown
into Bedlam for my bold and odd actions.
Yes, perhaps that shouldn't matter. I ought to run all the
way to Courtenay Hall, and if he's not there, run to London
itself. That is the impulsive and romantic solution. It is not
mine.
I'm finally back, and I will not end up in a ditch, dead of
exhaustion. My heart wants to fly to my husband and son.
My head counsels pragmatism and caution.
There is also the strong likelihood of August having
remarried. For everyone's sake, I must know his situation in
advance, lest I bring unnecessary turmoil and heartbreak to
a difficult situation.
The answer is simple. William's wife said they were in
York for a week. Her first visit had been six days ago. That means they'll be home tomorrow. I need only to settle in and
wait.
THREE DAYS HAVE PASSED WITH NO SIGN OF WILLIAM OR HIS FAMILY.
I'm certain they travel between the worlds. There is ample
evidence of a child in residence here in the nineteenth
century.
Yet the house is shuttered tight, and the longer I wait, the
more I must accept that William's family may pass between
worlds, but that does not mean they do so daily. It would be
easier, if they were in York for the week, to shut up Victorian
Thorne Manor for longer and give the staŷ a proper holiday.
I've noticed a local boy coming to tend the horses, but
otherwise, I haunt Thorne Manor unbothered. And I do
haunt it. I pace like a fretful ghost. With each passing day, I
ask myself how much longer I'll wait. How much longer I can
wait.
I search through their correspondence for hints about
August's whereabouts and, yes, his marital status. I discover
that William's wife's name is Bronwyn. I discover that he's
retained his London townhouse, but his solicitor still needs
to beg him to return, even briefly. I discover that, with
marriage, William has become slightly more sociable, but
that only means they accept the occasional invitation from
country neighbors. All this is lovely . . . and does not help me
one whit. If there is personal correspondence, it is not retained. As the fourth day dawns, I make the only choice I can. Or,
perhaps more accurately, the only choice I can without going
mad. I must find my husband and negotiate this situation
without the aid of a friend who can confirm my outlandish
story.
I am already prepared to depart. I did not sit on my hands
for three days. I discover to my relief that William has
allowed his housekeeper to continue storing secondhand
gowns here for her side business. In guest room wardrobes, I
locate two traveling dresses and a day gown with all the
required undergarments. As I don a dress that morning, I
unreservedly admit that of all the things I missed in my
world, the complexity and discomfort of the undergarments
is not one of them.
My bag contains several items accumulated for a very
specific purpose: to allow me to aŷect a disguise. I knew
years ago that I might require one when I returned, and so I
had all the accoutrements in my flat.
Two years ago, I cut my hair to shoulder length. The style
flatters me and is much easier to care for. Yet it is not the
hair of a Victorian woman. So I require a wig. I'd chosen one
of long dark hair, thicker and straighter than my own. I also
have contacts to change my blue eyes to brown. Modern
makeup allows me to shade my skin and alter my cheekbone
structure, as well as covering my freckles and adding a
birthmark. Yes, I watched far too many YouTube makeup
videos—being in a strange world with no social life meant
I'd had plenty of free time on my hands.
I've lost weight, too. I've always been slight of build, and
Victorian friends had teased I was a poor advertisement for my pastries. Since leaving that world, my appetite has
dropped to nil, and I've grown unhealthily thin. It does help
me now, though, along with a stuŷed brassiere to alter that
aspect of my figure. Add a pair of spectacles, and I look so
little like Rosalind Courtenay that August himself might not
even recognize me. I do not, however, intend to deceive him.
I simply need to make inquiries about August—to determine
his current whereabouts—without arousing suspicion.
Next, I steal Victorian currency from William. Of course, I
have every intention of repaying him, and so borrow would
be the correct term even if it feels like theft. I know from
experience that he keeps money in a kitchen drawer for Mrs.
Shaw to pay whomever requires paying, William not being
fond of purchasing on credit. I open the box, expecting to
discover a handful of shillings, perhaps even a full pound.
There are shillings, and there are also pounds, for a total of
nearly twenty guineas.
Really, William? You leave this unlocked in the kitchen
drawer?
If asked, he'd say that no one dares steal from him. True,
perhaps, if Mrs. Shaw found the box empty, William might
rage in public, but in private, he'd say what my parents did
when we came home one day to find our house burgled.
I trust that whoever took it needed it more than we did.
While I consider taking only part of the money,
practicality wins out. I can guarantee the Thornes full
repayment from my funds in the twenty-first century. To be
safe, I'll take it all. I leave a note apologizing for the theft
and promising it will be repaid with interest. I do not sign it. One last look around the house. One last peer down the
lane in hopes I'll see Mrs. Shaw coming to open the manor,
presaging her lord's imminent arrival. All stays still and
quiet. I take a deep breath, lift my bag and walk out into this
new-old world.
I WALK TO WHITBY. IT'S A BRISK AUTUMN MORNING, THE WIND
blasting over the moors as I cut through them. It's a shortcut
to the seaside town, letting me take the bridle paths that
cross the open fields, but it also means I can avoid people,
particularly those who might notice I wear white shoes
emblazoned with the name of a Greek god. When I draw
close to Whitby, I replace my Nikes with far less comfortable
footwear.
I have chosen the Whitby train because a coach from High
Thornesbury to York would have prompted questions for a
Victorian woman traveling alone. If anyone asks, I'm a
governess on my way to a new position. My appearance fits
the stereotype of the part—an unflattering, ill-fitting but
quality dress; spectacles perched on my nose, and soft hands
and clear skin that suggest I'm not accustomed to manual
labor.
Catching a train in the busy seaside town means I will
attract little notice on my journey. Once in York, I will make
inquiries regarding August Courtenay. He had a son, did he
not? Of age for a governess? All my questions about his
current abode and marital status will seem innocent enough then. When I board the train, it seems I will have a
compartment to myself. Yet after the journey begins, a
young woman pops her head in, takes a look at me and
enters with a sigh of relief.
"Please tell me that seat is empty," she says, gesturing at
the one across from me.
I smile. "It is."
She collapses into it with another deep and dramatic sigh.
"I was nearly trapped with two gentlemen who drank far too
much gin in town." She wrinkles her nose. "And ate far too
many fish. From the smell, I almost wonder whether they
were rolling in both."
"You are safe here," I say. "If they bother us, we will fend
them oŷ together. I have a very sharp shoe in my satchel."
She laughs and slumps in the seat to catch her breath. We
sit in companionable silence for a few moments before she
asks where I'm headed. I practice my story on her.
"A governess?" Her eyes widen with such delight you'd
think I claimed to be a princess. "My sister is a governess. In
York, no less. I must give you her address. Let me find my
notebook."
As she rummages in her bag, she asks more questions,
and I answer, happy for this excuse to test my performance.
Nothing in my story—or my speech or behavior—strikes her
as odd, which is an incredible relief, and soon we're caught
up in conversation, the notebook forgotten.
The young woman—Emma—is traveling to York to fetch
an aged aunt back to Whitby, where she's staying with
several elderly relatives enjoying a seaside visit. Emma was
supposed to travel with another aunt to pick up the newly arrived one, but that aunt took ill, and so she is making the
trip alone, and she is delightfully giddy at the prospect.
I try to picture a modern girl being so thrilled at a solo
voyage. It would more likely be a chore. For Emma, though,
it is as dangerously and scandalously thrilling an adventure
as a solo flight across the Atlantic, and I'm thoroughly
charmed.
We arrive as the sun is dipping behind the horizon. I'm
quiet for the last half hour of our journey. Emma is busy
writing in her notebook, and I'm contemplating where I'll
spend the night.
"Oh!" she says, slapping shut her book and tucking it
aside. "We're here!"
I startle, so deep in my thoughts that I didn't notice the
train slowing. She leaps to her feet as only a girl of her age
can, fairly clapping her hands in delight. As I gather my
things, her fingers clasp mine, and I look up into round eyes
shadowed with worry.
"What if she's not here? My aunt was supposed to arrive
from London an hour ago, but what if her train has been
delayed?"
"Then I suppose you'll have an hour to yourself. One last
gasp of freedom."
I smile, but worry darkens her face, and she looks out the
window. "It is much busier than Whitby. Do I wait in the
station? That's safest, don't you think?"
I want to tell her it's fine to go out and find supper,
perhaps a spot of late tea. Yet the sun is dropping, and she is
right to be nervous.
"If your aunt is not there, I will wait with you,"
I say.
She gushes her gratitude, and shame prickles in me.
While I'm happy to help, I'm also aware of how this could
help me. She will introduce me to her aunt, who will ask
where I'm staying, and I will admit I do not have a room yet.
While I don't expect an invitation to share theirs, it will be
much easier to rent a room if I'm accompanied by a
respectable elderly woman.
We disembark while Emma cranes her neck to look for her
aunt. I'm no help at all. At my height, all I see are men's
cravats.
"We should check whether her train arrived," I say.
Emma nods. "I'll speak to— Oh, there's a station clerk.
I'll ask him."
She zips through the crowd, and I'm about to follow when
I notice her bright yellow carpetbag on the ground. Good
thing the color blazes like sunlight on the dingy platform.
I clutch both our bags as people jostle past.
"There you are!" a voice booms.
A hand clasps my arm. I turn to see a middle-aged
woman, sharp nosed and sharp chinned, with a gaze that
skewers me like a mouse in a hawk's sights.
Her grip tightens, and she propels me ahead of her.
"Thank goodness for that hideous bag," she says. "I would never have found you without it."
"Bag?" I glance back at her. "Oh! You must be—"
"Mrs. Landon, of course." She glowers at me. "Did the
voyage addle your brain, child? Come along. The coach is
waiting."
This must be a companion or lady's maid of Emma's aunt.
She's mistaken me for the girl. Either she's nearsighted, or she's never met Emma, because the only thing we share in
common is dark hair and dark eyes.
I try again to protest, but the woman is surprisingly
strong for her age. The train whistles, drowning me out. I
look around and—
There is Emma, atop a grassy rise less than twenty feet
away. She's looking right at me, her expression calm, and I
decide she clearly does not recognize me. I wave madly to get
her attention. She still doesn't react. She just looks at me.
Then her lips part.
"I'm sorry," she mouths . . . and then scampers into the gathering dark.