Time Passage: A Time Travel Novel, page 6
Feeling as though I’d fallen down yet another rabbit hole, I gazed at the spacious room, richly adorned in a lush, cream floral carpet, hardwood furniture with a bone-white finish and silver brushed accents. There was a loveseat and matching chair, round gilded mirrors, two landscaped oil paintings of the Rocky Mountains, and a four-poster bed with a silk canopy.
Mrs. Grieve turned to face me. “This is your room, at least for the time being. Mr. Gannon may have you moved, depending on whether it suits him.”
I thought, Suits him? What about me? But I didn’t speak.
“Your personal lady’s maid, Alice Wells, will come presently and also, as per Mr. Gannon’s wishes, you will have breakfast in your room in the morning. He will want to meet you tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock sharp.”
Just then, Thomas appeared in the doorway, with my trunk resting easily on his broad shoulder. With Mrs. Grieve’s nod of permission, he brought it in, stooped and lowered it near the closet doors, tipped his hat and left.
Mrs. Grieve folded her tight hands at her lap, lifted her imperious chin, and marched for the door. “I will say good night.”
And then she was gone, closing the door behind her. I didn’t move for a while, waiting for Alice. I was utterly exhausted, and I needed to use the bathroom. Did they even have bathrooms? I removed my coat and hat and dropped them on the bed. I glanced around, spotting an open door and a softly lighted room.
I stepped inside and froze. I couldn’t believe it. It was a golden bathtub. A big golden bathtub. There were also two oval porcelain sinks with gold fixtures, and a toilet with a pull chain. I stood there, staring. Placed on a golden rack were plenty of soft, white, fluffy towels. Scented potpourris sat on the sinks, and there was a lovely rose basin with a matching pitcher on a marble top cabinet.
“Well, it’s a whole lot better than any other jail I’ve been locked up in,” I said aloud.
I poured some of the water into the basin and, not finding a toothbrush, I used a washcloth to clean my teeth. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d brushed them.
I managed to use the toilet, fumbling with that big dress and those crazy undergarments, but it wasn’t easy, and I wasn’t graceful, and I cursed, shifted about, and cursed again.
Back in the bedroom, I heard a light knock on the door, and I stilled. “Yes…? Come in.”
My lady’s maid entered, her eyes cast down. She bobbed a bow and closed the door behind her.
“Good evening, Miss,” she said, in a formal tone.
“Hello…”
“I’m your lady’s maid, Miss Adams, Alice Wells. I’m sure you are quite weary after your long journey. I’ll help you undress and prepare for bed.”
I stared at her, a clear-eyed woman in her late twenties. Her posture was erect, and her chestnut hair combed back into a modified bun. There was an air of confidence about her, suggesting she was efficient and comfortable in her own skin. She wore a plain, loose, gray dress, simple black shoes, and a wedding ring. Although Alice wasn’t a beauty, she was attractive, with thin lips, a sharp nose and alert eyes that swiftly evaluated me, then lowered.
“This must be late for you,” I said.
“Not to worry, Miss Adams. Shall I help you undress?”
I was a bit self-conscious. No one had ever helped me undress, except my mother, a couple of female correction officers, and maybe a boyfriend or three.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah… cool…”
Alice gave me a look, and I realized my modern slang confused her. I made a mental note to drop all that. I didn’t want to stand out. Standing out was never good when you were incarcerated.
I quickly said, “I mean, I’m a little cool… and… yes, I guess I’m tired and ready for bed.”
Alice went to work, removing my dress, the petticoat, the corset, and the undergarments. I’d never felt so free and relieved, and at least fifty pounds lighter.
From the closet, Alice brought a cotton nightgown with embroidered primroses and trimmed with lace, and a pair of black velvet and floral silk embroidered slippers that actually fit, and they were incredibly soft, warm and comfortable.
Alice worked silently, with concentration, and I didn’t speak, not knowing what I should say, and feeling it was better not to say anything until I got a sense of the place and the people.
Wearing the gown and the slippers, I sat before a massive, Victorian vanity while Alice left for the bathroom, and soon returned with a hot cloth. After gently blotting my face and neck, she wiped my hands. Finally, Alice brushed my hair in long, easy strokes, and I became so relaxed, I nearly dropped off to sleep.
I longed to take a hot bath, but by the time Alice had finished brushing my hair, I was completely wiped out.
At the door, she said my breakfast would arrive at eight o’clock and she’d come by at nine. I thanked her, she offered a little bow, wished me a “good night” and she was gone.
I switched off the lamps, climbed into bed and slid under the heavy quilt, feeling a crushing fatigue, too tired to think and too tired to cry.
My last thoughts hung in the air above me. In the morning, would I be back home in 2022? Would this nightmare be over? Would I wake up to find Cliff lying next to me? I’d tell him all about my silly, crazy dream and we’d laugh, and he’d reach for me, and the entire nightmare would just fade away like all bad dreams do.
But then, Cliff Prince was a bad dream, too, wasn’t he?
CHAPTER 11
I awakened with a start, making a choked sound of fear. My eyes snapped open, and I lifted on elbows, feeling as if I were looking up from out of a well. The truth of time and place struck like a hammer, and I collapsed my elbows and dropped back, my head sinking deep into the pillow. I inhaled a few breaths and tried again, sitting up carefully, leaning back against the richly padded headboard.
It wasn’t a dream. The nightmare hadn’t faded into the night. I was in the Gannon Mansion, outside Denver, Colorado, living in 1880.
A moment later came a knock on the door. Then two.
After a swallow, I glanced over. “Yes? Who is it?”
The door opened and a young woman entered softly, stepping into the room, just beyond the threshold. She wore a blue uniform, a white apron and a cap bonnet, and she appeared to be in her early teens.
“May I enter, please, Miss Adams?”
“Yes… Yes, come in.”
She gave a little bob of her head, took a tray from a pushcart and entered, carrying a silver tray, topped with two silver dome covers.
“I have your breakfast, Miss Adams, as ordered by Mr. Gannon. May I place it on the side table by the bed, or will you be wanting it on the far table next to the loveseat?”
The smell of the ham and coffee awoke me fully. I was ravenous. The meal I had eaten on the train seemed like days ago.
I sat up. “Please put it near the loveseat. I’ll come over.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The girl lowered her eyes. “I’m Tara, Miss.”
“It’s nice to meet you. What’s your last name?”
“O’Hanlon, Miss Adams,” she said, crossing to the loveseat and setting the tray down on a table with elaborately carved scrolled legs. I swung my legs to the floor and yawned. “What’s on the menu? It smells good.”
“It’s eggs, ham, beans, buttered bread and coffee, Miss Adams.”
“I’m so hungry. Who cooked it?”
“As I said, Miss Adams, Mr. Gannon ordered it for you and Mrs. Dockery herself prepared it.”
“Mrs. Dockery?”
“The head cook… Mrs. Dockery is in charge of the kitchen.”
Tara was a thin girl, with delicate features and slightly stooped shoulders. She had a pretty face, but her skin was pale, and her eyes nervous and watchful. She didn’t look at me when she spoke.
“You can call me Cin…” Cindy said, then stopped, catching herself. “I mean, you can call me Rosamond, Tara.”
Tara’s gaze fell to her shoes, and she stiffened. “Oh, no, Miss Adams. I would not do that. It would be improper.”
My feet found the slippers, and I stood, walked to the loveseat and sat, while Tara removed the domes. Steam rose from the eggs, ham, and beans. Under the second dome was sliced toasted bread, warm applesauce and a small silver coffee pot and a ceramic cup.
“This looks awesome!” I said.
Tara kept her gaze focused on the carpet. “Will there be anything else, Miss?”
I reached for the bread, spread some of the applesauce on it, and took a bite. I closed my eyes, falling into bliss. It was absolutely delicious.
“Oh my God, this is totally awesome!”
Tara stood stark still, eyes focused on the carpet.
I swallowed down the bread, and then reach for the coffee pot, poured the coffee steaming into the cup, blew off the steam and took an eager, careful sip.
I glanced up. “Where are you from, Tara?”
“I’m from New York, Miss Adams.”
“New York? Really? How did you end up way out here?”
Tara still held the silver dome covers, her eyes shifting. “I came on the orphan train, Miss Adams.”
I’d heard of orphan trains, but I knew little about them. “How old are you?”
“I’m thirteen, Miss.”
“How old were you when you came here?”
“Nine years old.”
“And how did that work? I mean, how did you get here?”
Tara shifted her feet. “A chaperone brought me. Both my parents died, and I was living on the streets.”
I stopped cutting the eggs and looked up. “Both your parents died?”
“Yes, Miss Adams. Mother from the fever. My father from a fall while working.”
“So a chaperone brought you here to the Gannon Mansion?”
“No, Miss. I was led off the train in Denver and taken to a public gathering in a church. There, I was selected by Mrs. Grieve to work here at the Gannon Mansion.”
I tried not to show my alarm. “Mrs. Grieve? The head housekeeper?”
“Yes, Miss Adams.”
Tara looked toward the door like a frightened rabbit ready to bolt. “I should be going, Miss. Mrs. Dockery will be asking after me. Will you require anything further?”
“No, Tara, thank you.”
“I will come by later and clean out your fireplace, if that meets with your approval?”
“Yes, of course. Come anytime.”
Tara curtsied and hurried from the room, closing the door softly behind her.
As I finished my breakfast, my mind was active, imagining the afternoon meeting with John Gannon. I dreaded it. I also thought about Tara. She had a sweet face and a shy manner that touched me. I wondered how many hours a day she worked, and under what conditions. I hoped Mrs. Dockery was a more pleasant woman than Mrs. Grieve.
After I’d inhaled the breakfast, and finished the coffee, completely buzzed, I left the loveseat, went to the closet and slid back the doors. To my surprise, I saw lavish gowns, day dresses and petticoats. Inside a wall of broad drawers I found corsets, corset covers, a dozen pairs of silk stockings, fans, gloves and hats. Obviously, they had prepared for the arrival of the real Rosamond Adams. Didn’t this mean that John Gannon had already made up his mind to marry her? I gulped.
It was time to explore the trunk and its contents, so I sank down on the floor beside it, released the front brass latch, and lifted the heavy lid.
What I found, to use 2022 slang, nearly knocked me on my ass. I knelt over the trunk and rummaged through the clothes. There were undergarments, two day dresses, one gray and white, one a deep magenta, and one carefully packed stunning bustle dress of purple silk and crushed velvet, with a lavish matching hat with feathers. There were also two bonnets, a mirror, a hair-brush, two pairs of shoes, two books, and a brown bag of mostly broken gingerbread cookies.
But it was what I found at the bottom of the trunk that stunned me. There was a small change purse, a black purse with gold silk embroidery, and a black leather diary with an unlocked latch. Intrigued, I first removed the diary, then the change purse, and finally, the black purse, spreading them out before me on the carpet.
Sitting cross-legged, I reached for the change purse. It had a lovely flowers motif, crocheted with beadwork glass beads. With a twist of fingers, I released the ball clasp and opened it. I gasped. It was cash!
Excited, I shook the contents onto the carpet, spread them out, and took in a sharp breath. I couldn’t believe it! There were twenty-two one-dollar bills, with George Washington’s image. There were four smaller fifty-cent bills, which I had never seen before; I had no idea they’d ever existed. Finally, there were five ten-dollar bills with the image of some grumpy looking guy I didn’t recognize. Lying beside the bills were seven shiny, thick-looking silver dollars. I said, “Wow!” much too loudly.
How much was that? Eighty-one dollars? In 1880, was that a lot of money? I had no idea, but what was it doing in that trunk?
I grabbed the black purse, opened it and stared bug-eyed. With anxious hands, I reached in and removed everything: a pair of rose gold earrings; a gorgeous, turquoise and pearl yellow gold necklace; a rose gold diamond ring that flashed with fire; two brooch pins; a small gold watch; and a silver bracelet.
Stunned, I sat staring—breathing and staring at the money and jewelry, struggling to understand what they were doing there. Then I reached for the diary, turning it over and running a hand along the worn leather. My breath was coming fast as I released the latch, opened the diary and thumbed through the pages, finally coming to one of the last entries. My eyes widened on the words.
I met a gentleman, and he has captured my heart in a manner which has left me nearly breathless to describe and impossible to translate onto the page. He has been most candid with me and conveyed in fine speech and with impeccable manners that he is a gambler. Yes! But not a ne’er-do-well, rakish gambler of low station, but a successful one, a gentleman who comes from a good Boston family! And his fine name bears this out. Percy Blackstone. And what a lovely name it is, dear diary!
I quote here what he corresponded to me after our first meeting in New York, Thursday last.
“My dear Miss Adams, since our first encounter, I have no longer been master of my own heart. Your beauty, charm and good qualities have enslaved it, and thus I offer it to your acceptance. Please grant me the pleasure of another such meeting. Your lovely society was, to me, a source of the purest delight. When we meet again, then you may be the judge, therefore, from your own sentiments, how miserable a man I am when I am not in your company. Dare I say it, you have driven me almost to despair.”
I raised my eyes from the page and nearly gagged. Did people really write like that in the 1880s?
Turning the page, I found an entry about me, and I stiffened, nosing in closer.
There is an ailing young woman on the train about my own age; perhaps she is truly sick of mind. She doesn’t know who she is or where she came from, and her dress and manner are quite foreign to me, and strange, and more than a little vulgar. Passengers had been talking, believing her to be a foreigner from some distant country, and some said she should be removed from the train, and others demanded action by the conductor. She was moved to a private car, and that’s when I was seized by an idea.
But she is most attractive and, dare I say it, similar in body and facial makeup to me, so that she could pass as my sister. Fate has come to my aid when I needed it the most, and I have swiftly conjured a plan. With Mr. Percy Blackstone’s help, I am nearly certain I can convince this poor, daft creature to take my place with Mr. John Gannon.
I will then be free to travel without any fear that Mr. Gannon will come after me and commit bodily harm. And then, San Francisco will be my new home, with my beloved Mr. Blackstone, and I know we will be blissfully happy together. My entire happiness depends on persuading this woman to take my place, and I will do whatever I must do to accomplish my goal. I must go now to work on my plan.
I lifted my eyes, smiling, delighted by the revelation, feeling a delicious satisfaction surge through every vein. Clever Nellie had screwed up big time, and made a bad mistake. No way would she have purposely given me a trunk containing her jewels, her money, and her private diary. No way! And I was sure that Percy Blackstone, from that good Boston family—yeah, right—knew about those jewels and the money. What would he do when he discovered what had happened, and, if Nellie was so clever, why hadn’t she seen through Percy Blackstone’s bullshit?
My grin started small and then grew into a triumphant laugh. In her impatience to toss me off that train, she’d given the porter the wrong trunk, or he had mistakenly taken it. Either way, it was Nellie’s trunk! I was still laughing when I heard a knock on the door.
I slammed the diary shut, gathered up the money and jewels, stuffed them back into the purses, tossed the diary and the purses back into the trunk, and closed the lid.
More knocks.
CHAPTER 12
“It’s Alice Wells, Miss Adams. May I enter?”
I unfolded my legs and stood up. “One moment, please.”
I cast my gaze about the room. Where could I hide that trunk? No idea. It would have to wait.
“Yes… Come in,” I said, running a hand through my hair and stretching my face, hoping to look awake.
Alice entered with a formal smile, her shoulders back, her head up, the perfect image of energy and efficiency.
“How did you sleep, Miss Adams?”
“Good… Just fine.”
Alice went directly to the bed and began thumping the pillows.
“So, I guess I’m meeting Mr. Gannon at one o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of Mr. Gannon, Alice?”
Alice reached for the top sheet, tugged it up, smoothed it out and arranged the pillows. “He is a fine man.”
I waited for more, but there wasn’t more.
“Has Mr. Gannon ever been married?” I asked, keeping the formal style, since everybody was so formal.
