Nineteen #2
Stephen returned with a salver overflowing with brandy, cheese, and cakes, but the king waved it off.
Stephen placed it on the table and, after a word from the king, went to alert the footmen of His Majesty’s momentary return.
When Peter and Charles were alone again, the king, evidently sensing the hint of insubordination in his friend, added as he passed, “Deliver her, Peter. One way or another.”
When the king’s footsteps receded into the street, Peter picked up the decanter and hurled it against the wall.
* * *
“No service?” This had been her only potential lifeline.
Cam’s eyes began to sting. She was sunk.
She’d only meant to buy a book, and now she was cut off from her friends and loved ones forever.
Here, she had one friend and no home. When Peter put his paints away, she would have nowhere to go, nothing to eat, no way to earn money.
It had begun as an adventure—and had turned into an exhilarating one—but now she wanted to go home, or at least know she could go home when she wanted.
Something flickered at the corner of her eye.
It was a bar! A bar appeared on the phone!
Bless you, AT&T! She thrust the phone higher, and the bar disappeared.
Didn’t matter, she thought. When there’s one bar, there’s always another.
Why, one time she’d scrabbled down three rows and across seven chairs at the local cineplex to find out how Jeanne’s text stream ending with “…so embarrassed, but my partner, whom I’d never met before, said not to worry, he could come in spades” began, only to find Jeanne had been recruited into an impromptu bridge tournament at her great-aunt’s house.
Cam held the phone high. No joy, and no matter how close she got to the windows, the bar just flickered and disappeared.
She tried opening the window, but it was stuck.
She pressed harder, and it moved a bit. One more push, and the window opened a degree.
Then it was simply a matter of pushing it a little harder…
Ta-da!
She shoved the phone as far outside as she could reach, peering at it through the odd, wavy glass. Still nothing. Then suddenly one bar appeared, then two.
* * *
Peter felt rather than saw Stephen behind him, gazing at the burgundy-stained wall, and Peter was in no mood for questions.
“Sir?”
“One more interruption tonight and ’twill be your job.” He strode out, leaving Stephen openmouthed.
He had no intention, of course, of providing Camilla in any form to the king. Even the thought of painting her head on one of his model’s bodies made him angrier than he thought possible, though if push came to shove, he’d have to do it.
She was achingly beautiful, of that there was no debate. And he had seen the fire that ran in those veins. He found himself quite lost in the picture of her, as canty as a jade, lying before him, her breasts shifting with each movement—
He took the stairs two at a time.
She might not be his, but for the next glorious hour it would be as if she were.
She was gone.
“Camilla?”
Silence.
He hurried to the other side of the fireplace. The space was empty.
* * *
“Great,” Cam said. “My hand has two bars’ worth of phone reception, but my mouth is in no-man’s-land.” She pulled the phone in and pushed the window again. It probably hadn’t been opened since the last time Isaac Newton visited.
It creaked and groaned, but at last gave way, enough way for Cam to thread her shoulder out and, with a little more effort, one of her breasts. “Sorry,” she said. “I know I’ve put you through a lot today.”
The window was on the second floor—a tall second floor—and Cam got her first view of the world beyond the studio.
Dozens of people in period dress—well, contemporary dress to them, she supposed—filled the street.
There were couples laughing, a group of young men shoving and talking, an obviously drunk woman retching, and four or five dogs fighting over a scrap of food—in short, just like a late-night stroll down Craig Street in Pittsburgh.
She held up her phone and with three proud bars showing dialed Jeanne’s cell.
“Holy Christ!” Jeanne screamed. “Where are you?”
“You’re kinda not going to believe this.”
“You freakin’ blew out of here like Dorothy from Kansas. There’s orange Crush everywhere.”
“Calm down. I’m okay. Well, relatively.” Cam thought she heard a noise at the door and looked over her shoulder, but the noise stopped.
“Where are you?” Jeanne repeated.
“Okay, remember how I told you I was looking for a book on ?”
“Omigod! You’re starting this story with book shopping on !”
“Jeanne, I found a book I needed there. I started to search inside. When I clicked ‘Surprise Me!’—poof! I disappeared.”
“But where are you?”
“In the sixteen hundreds.”
“In the sixteen hundreds where?”
“In the sixteen hundreds of the sixteen hundreds. Sixteen hundred. One-six-oh-oh. The century. You know, Shakespeare, Galileo, the Great London Fire—Oops.” Cam wheeled around to check the candles in the room.
“You’re telling me you’re in a different century.”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t buying it. You’re hiding somewhere. Can you see me on the phone?”
“Jeanne, really. I’m here. It’s London, sometime in the reign of Charles the Second.”
“Send me a picture.”
“I can’t.”
“I know you can. You do it all the time. I even got to share your joy when your Snuggie blanket arrived. Send one.”
“What are you, from Missouri? You could just try to believe me.”
“Two words: pic ture.”
Muttering, Cam clicked on the camera and stretched her arm as far out as she could. “Can you still hear me? I’m taking the picture.”
“Goody,” came the faint reply.
She angled the camera so the armor chest plate and stuffed boar were directly behind her. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but there was still light in the sky.
Click.
“Did you hear that?” She pulled the camera in and sent the text. “It’s coming.”
Whoosh. The picture went.
“Hang on,” Jeanne said, and Cam heard the keyboard clicks. “Got it. Jesus. Are those cutouts for breasts?”
Cam turned to look at the armor breastplate. “Yes.”
“You’re not in the sixteen hundreds. You’re at some lascivious costume ball.”
“Jeanne, it’s like nirvana for a researcher,” Cam said excitedly.
“The studio was filled with nude models when I landed. Peter spends half his time hiding the king’s mistresses from one another.
Nell Gwyn thinks I have an excellent eye for gowns.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out how the old breast-out-of-dress thing happens. ”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“Jeanne.”
“Gimme a break, huh. You’re asking me to believe you’re hanging around with, like, Marie Antoinette.”
“She was a French queen and a hundred years later, but I see your point. Nonetheless how else are you going to explain the orange Crush?”
There was a long pause. “I’ll give you a temporary pass. Very temporary.”
“Thank you. I feel better knowing someone believes this.”
“Peter Lely, huh?”