Must Love Breeches (5 page)

She tried to harness and ride the insistent pounding. Part of her head felt bruised, painful. Wait, that must be why her head hurt; she’d fallen at the ball, bumped her head, and the rest was her over-active imagination.

Wherever she was, it was soft. And stationary. Yep, she’d open her eyes and be resting on a couch in the Ladies’ Room at the ball, a museum co-worker helping her.

How embarrassing.

A distant staccato sound intruded into her consciousness.

She groaned. No, no, no! It sounded suspiciously like horseshoes clip-clopping over cobblestones, trotting in syncopated time with her pounding headache. She moved her head from side to side. A tickling of nausea tripped through her stomach.

“I think she is awake,” came a gentle, feminine voice to the left. Skirts rustled and a door snicked open and shut. The voice sounded familiar.

Where am I?
Isabelle tested her senses further. She lay on a soft bed, not draped on a couch. The heavy covers anchored her in a way that negated her body below the neck. And she was thirsty as all get-out.

Well, nothing for it but to open an eye.

Through the dry, sleep-coated blur of a contact lens, Isabelle got a vague impression of a bedroom drenched in daylight. She inhaled deeply—fresh linen smell. Clean.

She risked opening the other eye and blinked until her lenses cleared, adjusted position.
Thank God for extended wear lenses.

An over-bright glimpse of a gorgeously decorated bedroom done up in soft pinks and Regency-era antiques swam into view. The chirp of a bird called for attention. A yellow canary fluttered back and forth, up and down, in a white ornate iron cage in a corner.

Someone had nice taste and a great eye for detail. She found the source of the voice from earlier: Ada Byron sitting in a chair, her brow furrowed. Then who had left the room?

Isabelle groaned. “Where am I?” She kept her head still, using only her eyes, so as not to tempt her nausea further. No more head shakes.

“Thank goodness you are well. We worried we might have to send for Dr. Somerville. You are in a guest bedchamber of his house in Chelsea.”

Isabelle digested this. Dr. Somerville? Oh yeah, Ada’s chaperone was a Mrs. Somerville. “What happened?”

“You see, when the footpad made off with your pretty silver case, you hit your head. After the horse bumped you, that is.”

Not the best question to have asked, then. For her sanity’s sake, anyway. Footpad? Horse? Fabulous.

Isabelle clamped her eyes shut. When she reopened them, she’d be back in her home in Guildford. Or, draped on that couch at the ball. Anything.

She risked a peek. Sight—Ada’s wan smile, obviously worried about her.

A logical, rational explanation existed. She was unsure what it would be, but regardless, one existed. What she suspected last night could
not
be true. However, she had no clue what to say next.

Ada took care of it for her. “Miss Rochon, Lord Montagu wished to pursue the footpad to retrieve your case. It seems you hold it quite dear. However, we determined it was more important to get you someplace safe. He deposited us here and returned to search, but he sent a note earlier informing me he had not met with success.” She took a deep breath. “Moreover, he said he would call this afternoon to inquire after your health.”

So, he was real, too. Had she imagined his good looks and the frisson of awareness he generated whenever near? His intoxicating scent that reminded her of woods after a thunderstorm—clean and elemental?

Agh.
She needed to stop thinking about him and make sense of last night instead. She stomped on the little flicker of excitement which competed with her nausea by dancing stupid butterflies in her stomach.

“So, it’s morning?” Isabelle swallowed, trying to get more moisture into her dry throat.

“Yes, almost eleven. You must be famished. I shall have the cook send nourishment and tea.”

Goose bumps pimpled Isabelle’s arms as several thoughts vied for attention:

1. Ada still sported a period costume, though less formal than last night’s.

2. They were in a house with at least one domestic servant.

3. Ada used words modern Brits would never use.

Isabelle sat up and rested her back against the headboard. Her vision swirled, and she bit down a new wave of nausea. She concentrated on staring at the embroidered flowers on her coverlet, willing them to stop moving. Oh, man, did she have a concussion? She closed her eyes, breathed several times through her nose, and opened her eyes. The flowers had stopped moving. She looked down and noticed:

4. That she wore a granny nightgown.

Okay, stay calm.
It was her imagination playing tricks.

The clatter of wheels over cobblestones and the pounding of horses’ hooves drifted through the window again. A high-pitched voice outside chanted: “Buy my matches, my nice, small, pointed matches. Do you want any matches, maids? Buy my matches, my nice, small, pointed matches.”

Isabelle squeezed her eyes closed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath.

“Are you feeling poorly? Do you wish for a little food?” Ada asked.

“No, I’m not hungry, thanks.” Isabelle’s stomach rumbled.

Ada’s eyebrows quirked up.

“Okay, I am.” She rubbed her stomach. “Sorry, just suffering from the shocks of last night, thank you.” She needed time to think, was all.

Her phone! If this was a big joke concocted by her co-workers, her phone would squelch it—they would have taken it to keep her guessing.

“Wait, before you go. My purse. Do you know where it is?”

Ada stopped at the door. “Purse? I did not see a bag of coins. Do you mean your reticule?”

Another term no one used anymore. “Yes, thank you.”

“I set it over here.” Ada headed to a Sheraton mahogany bureau with a white porcelain bowl and pitcher on top and returned with the purse. She set it on the nightstand. “It is an unusual reticule. You were fortunate the footpad did not snatch it as well. Most likely, he saw only the flash of silver on your other arm and took the opportunity that presented itself. I shall return with a tray, and you will feel much better after a dish of hot tea.”

Ada left, and Isabelle pulled her purse into her lap. Hands shaking, she reached in and grabbed her phone.

It is here.

Then the reenactor theory was probably out. Still, she ached to connect to the outside world, to dive into the stream and see what text and email messages she might have, to see if anyone wrote on her profile. Man, even to see the regular inanities posted on her newsfeed. She pressed the
space
key and the menu lit up. No red asterisks adorned any of her message icons.

“Well, poop.” She scrolled to the newsfeed, but it didn’t refresh. Nothing new posted since last night. She thumbed over to her social-networking feed. Nothing. She glanced at her signal strength—a red circle in the upper-right corner.

No signal.

All right, no reason to panic. Sometimes, it was rare, but sometimes, reception sucked in certain parts of London. Why hadn’t she switched carriers earlier? So, how to proceed from here?

Talk to Ada like normal and risk having the girl think her batty?

Wait, I am batty to even be thinking what I am. If it’s true, I’ve managed to travel back in time, and that’s impossible.

“Meaning―”

Meaning—she was batty.

Maybe a fellow party goer
had
slipped her a drug last night.

Or, she’d met some passionate reenactors who loved antiques, had a sick sense of humor, an overactive imagination, and too much time on their hands?

No. Pretend everything was normal.

On cue, Ada returned with a tray and set it on Isabelle’s bed. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread curled into Isabelle’s nose. Her stomach rumbled. Jam occupied little bowls along with heaping plates of toast, hot bread, eggs, and a steaming pot of tea. Isabelle spread jam on a slice of toast and took a bite.

Mmmm, apricot.
She nibbled and sipped her tea, using the time to think what her next step should be.

“Ada, thank you for taking care of me. I’m so sorry if I’ve been a lot of trouble. I’ll make it up to you.” She took a deep breath. Into the breach. “I need to get in touch with my friend Katy. Can I use your phone?” Innocent expression, bland smile. Breath held.

For most of Isabelle’s short speech, Ada made gestures of acceptance, nodding. On the last word, she cocked her head and frowned.

Isabelle’s stomach twisted. She set down the thick slice of bread.

“Phone?” Ada asked.

All right, nothing for it, girl, but brazen this out, come what may.

“Yes.” Isabelle concentrated on stirring her tea with a little silver spoon, though she’d not put in any cream or sugar. Stir, stir, stir. “I need to call her.” Stir, stir, stir. “Let her know I’m okay.”

“Oh, no trouble at all. I shall have Devin bring around the carriage later, and we can call on her.”

Isabelle swallowed. Back to the joke theory? No. That didn’t pan out or make sense. Back to severe head injury, and she imagined all this? Still a strong possibility.

She massaged the lump behind her head and winced. She
felt
awake. She stroked the bedspread, her fingertips tracing each embroidered stitch. No dream she’d ever had was this vivid. Okay, Severe Head Injury/Am Imagining This theory downgraded to a weak possibility.

That left—what?

She’d traveled back in time? Her mind flinched.

Wacky reenactors? Even fanatics never took it this far. Deep breath. “Ada, I’m a little woozy from the head injury. What’s the date?”

“The 10th of May.”

Okay, so it was the next day. “And the—uh—the year?” She screwed her eyes shut.

Silence.

Isabelle opened her eyes. Enough of her desperation must have found its way to Ada, because the latter cocked her head to the side and said, “1834.”

Isabelle shuddered and dropped her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth. She wrestled with the wave of panic threatening to engulf her.

Either she was crazy, or she’d traveled back in time. If the former—not good. If the latter, well, it would probably cause her to become the former.

“What is in your lap?” Ada asked.

Confused, Isabelle opened her eyes and followed Ada’s gaze to the phone. The insanity of her situation burbled up, like an instant and silly-giddy high, and she answered in an overly light tone: “Oh, this? It’s my phone!” She added a smile she feared looked scary.

Keep it together, girl.

Isabelle witnessed the inner struggle in Ada’s eyes: the desire to believe Isabelle sane, the worry she wasn’t, and the ingrained need to be polite.

How to proceed? Embrace the time travel theory? Isabelle also wanted to believe herself sane.

So. She had to convince Ada to help her, because—realization dawned to pierce through her with its cold reality—she had no friends, no money, no home, no clothes! And it wasn’t as if she could waltz out in her tattered ball gown and snag a job waiting tables.

Don’t panic.

Isabelle set down her tray of food and folded her hands. “Ada, I’m going to tell you my situation, and I need you to be open to what I’m going to say. Open to the possibilities. I need you, period.” Isabelle’s hands balled into fists, gathering in the folds of the bedspread. She relaxed her fingers and felt the sweaty heat warm the fabric. “I’m scared and unsure what to do. Do you understand?” She held her breath.

“Oh, yes. I knew when I first made your acquaintance you were different and had a story. Most of the time I find your speech difficult, but I am intrigued by the possibilities of your words.”

Their conversations last night
would
spark curiosity in an active mind like Ada’s. Words and their implications might allow her to bring Ada around.

Ada must have interpreted Isabelle’s silence as reluctance, because she spoke again in a rush. “I am different, too. I am passionate about numbers and mathematics, and the mysterious workings of the world. I attend lectures to expand my mind...” She trailed off, gaze averted. Had her good breeding kicked in and stopped her from boasting?

Isabelle stared at her phone. Should she do this? Was the phone the best way to illustrate?

Yes. Get Ada’s attention first.

Isabelle smiled and held out her phone.

Ada took it in her small, pale hand, holding it at an awkward angle, the round shape of the phone exactly fitting her palm.

“Punch any of the keys,” Isabelle said.

Ada frowned. “Punch?” She rotated the phone, inspecting both sides. She looked up.

“Any of the buttons.”

Ada looked at it again. “I am sorry, Miss Rochon, but I do not see any keys or buttons on this. It seems much too small to have either. And punching them sounds painful.”

Isabelle sighed. Damn the language barrier. Not only did she have a problem with modern Brits, now she had to communicate in a land of nineteenth-century ones. Words had morphed and changed through time, of course, to denote more modern inventions. A ‘key’ to Ada meant only a big metal object to open a door. A ‘button’, a fastener on an article of clothing.

Back up, take this slow
.

“See the little letters circling the edge?”

At Ada’s nod, Isabelle continued. “Press any of them.”

Ada did and gasped. She dropped the phone into her lap. Her eyes, now round, gazed up at Isabelle.

Oops, maybe not the best way to have proceeded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Isabelle held out her hand. “Here, let me have it, I’ll explain.”

After getting the phone from Ada, Isabelle sat back and considered her. Was she going to say this out loud to another human being? What if Ada didn’t believe her and they packed her up and carted her off to Bedlam—the real Bedlam—the insane asylum so notorious its name became synonymous with madness? Isabelle closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath.

“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound very strange, very unbelievable. In fact, what scares me most is you won’t believe me and will think I’m crazy.” She snapped her eyes open and captured Ada’s gaze. “I need you to promise you’ll listen, ask any questions you might have, and allow me to prove it by showing you some of how this works.” Isabelle held up her phone.