Chapter 7
“Louisa, why don’t you show Miss Grey her quarters? She’ll be staying in the Emerald Room,” the duchess said. “You two go on. I feel a headache coming.”
They named their rooms? Emmeline scolded herself for her priorities; how were room names a problem when she had a fiancé out there?
Well, she didn’t. Miss Grey did, but she currently was Miss Grey, or at least pretending to be. She wasn’t yet sure what was happening in this not-quite-like-a-dream place.
But what she was absolutely certain about was this: she was in knee-deep trouble.
“Yes, Mama.” Louisa looped her arm around Emmeline’s and led her to the foyer.
“And lend her some of your gowns, please. Miss Grey was attacked by highwaymen.”
“Oh, how terrifying!” Louisa’s gasp indicated excitement rather than horror. “Were any of them handsome?”
“Louisa!” the duchess scolded from the sitting room.
“Don’t mind Mama,” Louisa whispered to Emmeline as they went upstairs. “I can never do or say anything right for her.”
“I understand that very well.”
“I adore your dress, though. Fascinating style. Is that what’s fashionable in Wales?”
Emmeline detected no mockery behind Louisa’s words, so she simply said, “Yes.”
“I should love to go someday. Perhaps once you and Daniel are married, you can take me when you go visit your family? I’d love to see all the sheep—the Welsh Mountain, you know, the small ones—”
Emmeline blinked. This was rapidly devolving into a more nonsensical dream dialog.
“Here we are.” Louisa opened the door, leading Emmeline into a richly furnished bedroom deserving of its name.
The plush deep green brocade furniture matched the canopy of the wide four-poster bed, decorated with sea-blue fringes.
An intricately carved chest of drawers, a writing desk, a vanity table with a round mirror, armchairs with fluffy pillows—it was all incredibly fancy, but also old-fashioned, like a well-preserved palace room.
“This is where you’ll stay,” Louisa said.
“But let’s go to my room for the dresses.
” And Emmeline was carted off again, farther down the hallway, into a room similar in furnishings, only the fabrics were a mix of light pink and soft yellow, and it was clearly lived in.
A shawl hung over an armchair, the writing desk was full of crumpled-up papers, and a stack of books was left on the bedside table, the top one proclaiming to be Theory of the Earth.
“These should all fit you.” Louisa laid out a bunch of dresses on the bed. “You’d look wonderful in pink. Mama keeps insisting on pink gowns, even though I’ve told her dozens of times it makes me look sallow. But the objection is coming from me and, therefore, is wrong.”
Emmeline looked over the dresses as Louisa ranted.
They varied in materials, from light, almost sheer cotton to fine silk, but they all shared a high-waisted design.
The high waist was coming back into fashion, and Emmeline owned a few such dresses herself, but these still felt off.
The sleeves, whether long or short, were overburdened with ruffles and lace, as were the bottoms of the skirts.
Then Louisa lay down a jacket in a fashion Emmeline had never seen before.
The bodice was short, barely covering the chest, and the deep purple velvet had the braid trim of a military uniform.
“You can take them all.” Louisa swept up the dresses and dumped them into Emmeline’s arms. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re staying with us! Even if it’s only for a month.” She hugged her, crushing the dresses between them.
“Y-yes,” Emmeline squeezed out. Louisa finally let her retreat to her room. She deposited the dresses on her bed, then sat down next to them and bit her nails, rocking back and forth as she stared at a far wall.
If only I could be someone else. Be anywhere else, have a different family, a different life.
Had she made that happen?
All of this was too much for a dream. But how could she have altered reality?
How could she have made a new life for herself?
It didn’t seem possible—and yet, here she was, in the exact life she’d have imagined.
A veritable palace to live in. A new name, a new family, a young woman who’d be her friend, a handsome young man as her fiancé …
And then there was Leon. She had no idea why she’d twist reality so he’d end up wounded, almost dead.
But Leon would be fine. The duchess said she’d take care of it, and Emmeline could do nothing more for him until he woke up.
She breathed until her shoulders relaxed.
Maybe she shouldn’t be worried about this strange, alternate reality.
She should enjoy it—it was what she’d wanted, after all.
Yes. It would be like a play. She’d been whisked away to Neverland; she only needed to assume her part.
The costumes were ready. The characters, she was getting familiar with.
She only needed a bit more information about the scenes.
Emmeline chose one of the less intense gowns—a day dress, cream with thin pink stripes—and headed downstairs. A footman stood in the foyer, motionless, like a statue clad in fine black-and-lavender livery. He said nothing, even as Emmeline went through the servants’ entrance.
Leon’s wound had been covered in a pristine white bandage, and he’d been left alone.
Emmeline paused by the side of the bed. “Leon?”
He was still sleeping, but he shifted his head as she called his name.
She kneeled beside him. “It’s me! I’m not sure what’s going on yet, but I’ll find out. And you’re going to be just fine.”
His eyelids twitched. “No,” he murmured.
“Yes, you will be, I promise.”
“Ship sinking … get off … get off … Jean-Baptiste …”
“No, no, the ship is all right. I’m not sure where exactly it is, though,” she said, even as she realized he wasn’t responding to her. He was dreaming. An unpleasant dream, by the sound of it, but she didn’t dare wake him up from his rest.
“Everything is going to be all right,” she repeated, in case he could hear her, and left.
It was only when she was already out in the hallway that it hit her. He’d spoken in French.
The footman was still in the foyer when she returned. She cleared her throat and made a side-step toward him. “Uh, library?”
He sprang to life. “This way, my lady.” He showed her to a double door, and Emmeline stepped into a long room, bordered by windows on one side.
Books in all shapes, sizes, and covers, filled the shelves that occupied every available inch of the space.
The curtains were half-drawn, reducing the light to a cozy, dusk-like setting and making the room feel as if it was a treasure to be hidden from the outside world.
Well, it was—that, and heaven.
But as much as Emmeline would’ve loved to curl up with a good romance book for the next few hours, she had a mission.
Books said a lot about people, and she needed to know more about these people.
Louisa, for example, seemed to prefer scientific titles.
But what else did the family like, and who were they?
She passed between bookshelves, brushing her fingers across the spines. A fair bit of fiction. She pulled out a sturdy, leather-bound edition of the Divine Comedy. Goodness, this thing looked old—and valuable. Golden illuminations and hand-painted illustrations …
“You must be the young lady my son is marrying,” a voice said from behind, making Emmeline yelp and almost drop the book.
An older man sat behind a writing desk, shoved into a corner as if it was but an afterthought. His bushy, graying sideburns twitched as he smiled at her.
“I’m so sorry!” She put the book back on the shelf. “Your Grace?”
He didn’t correct her, so she must’ve assumed correctly.
“No need to apologize, especially for wanting to read.” He approached, tilting down his spectacles. “Divine Comedy. Good choice. I don’t think my son deserves you.”
“Uh …”
“But my wife will appreciate you not laughing at my jokes.”
Now, she did laugh.
“Oh! You’ve lost her.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she said. “I thought I was alone.”
“Well, if you need any help, I’m here to serve.”
“Do you have any books about nobility? Noble families, and such?” That would be of great use.
She didn’t know how prominent the Greys were, but if she was marrying a duke’s son, they had to be titled, and they’d be in the book, along with this family.
She desperately needed any information she could get.
What if someone asked her—Miss Grey’s—father’s name and she didn’t know it?
The duke lifted an eyebrow.
“I like reading about them.” She shrugged.
“Hmm. And I thought Louisa had eccentric taste. But, Debrett’s should do.” He brought over a thick book bound in wine-red leather. He set it on a table by the window and gestured to Emmeline.
She sifted through it. The first dozen pages held drawings of noble family crests, but afterward, pages upon pages of dense text followed.
It would be a pain to peruse, but most likely would prove helpful.
She ran over a few titles, separated in capital letters, in case she’d find the Greys, when her eye stopped on a familiar name.
Sebastian Winters, viscount Haverston of Charlingham Hall, co. Somerset; born May 18, 1789; succeeded his father, Thomas, the late viscount, Nov. 23, 1810.
That was her family! Well, her mother’s side of the family.
The paragraph went on, recounting how the current viscount was unmarried and had no heirs and listing other relations, but there was no mention of Cousin Reggie and the rest of the family.
And besides, why were all the dates a hundred years in the past?
“Will that do, dear?” the duke asked.
She wrangled herself out of her thoughts. “Yes! It’s perfect.”
The duke shook his head, amused. “Never say women only like light reading. You may take it to your room if you wish. Perhaps Louisa will join you with her Cattle of the British Isles manual, and you shall hold discussions entirely inappropriate for the dinner table.”
Emmeline laughed. “Thank you.”
Settled back in her room, she sat on the bed and opened the book in her lap.
She read everything about the Winters family—the viscounts who went all the way back to the seventeenth century—and then searched for the rest. The more she read, the stranger it got.
She knew many of the noble surnames from Mother mentioning them, but she recognized none of the people themselves, and the most recent date was 1814.
Something strange was going on in her fantasy.
Emmeline slept like a baby that night, despite her many unanswered questions. When she rolled down for breakfast (being kindly pointed toward the breakfast parlor by a footman), only the duchess was there, sitting by a cloth-covered round table, carefully cutting thin slices of bacon on her plate.
“Here you are, dear.” Her tone was more polite than friendly. “Do sit down and help yourself. I hope you’ve settled in well?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Even though it was slightly inconvenient when she’d discovered the house didn’t have bathrooms, and the only two options were a chamber pot or an outhouse. Or when she’d found out she had to light an actual candle to illuminate the way.
“Mama!” Louisa walked in, munching on a cupcake-looking pastry topped with jam. “You’ll never guess the rumors!”
“Where did you get that?” The duchess narrowed her eyes at her daughter as Louisa sat down next to Emmeline.
“Cook is making them for supper,” Louisa mumbled through her chewing. “But never mind that. Have you heard?”
The duchess sighed. “Have I heard what?”
“Rumor has it they found a uniform of a French soldier on the beach yesterday,” Louisa said, her eyes wide. “Actually, I don’t know why they call it a rumor when the uniform clearly exists. Mary saw it earlier when she went to the town—”
“Why have you been talking to the kitchen maids?”
Unfazed, Louisa went on, “And if there’s a uniform, there must also be a man. A slightly undressed man.” Her eyes glittered as she looked at Emmeline. “A French spy!”
“He would be a rather bad spy if he walked around in a uniform, wouldn’t he?” Emmeline said.
“That’s why he took it off, obviously!” Louisa turned her attention back to her mother. “Not that I’m particularly concerned about an invasion. In fact, you wouldn’t believe it—”
“Most likely not, indeed,” the duchess muttered.
“But it’s been in the newspaper this morning that a grand battle had occurred in the Netherlands, near this place called Waterloo, about a week ago, and—and,” Louisa inhaled sharply, “They say Bonaparte is defeated, and his army in shambles, and we have won!”
“Louisa, how many times have I told you to not disturb the servants while they work? If they’re preparing the newspaper, that’s meant for your father …”
Emmeline tuned the duchess out as, with clarity offered only by crisp mornings such as this, the puzzle pieces fell into place.
She’d seen that uniform. She knew to whom it belonged, because she was the one to undress him, toss the uniform onto the sand, and bring the man here. The man who, when he dreamed, spoke in French.
She knew what Louisa was talking about. The Battle of Waterloo, a famous battle of the Napoleonic wars in 1815, which sealed Napoleon’s fate once and for all. She’d read that entire chapter of Les Miserables, even though her eyes threatened to close halfway through.
The house. The antiquated carriage. The strange outfits, the lack of decent amenities—a rich family like this would surely own a shower bath, a phone, and not illuminate their house with candles—even the accurate but outdated information in Debrett’s Peerage.
This wasn’t Neverland.
She, Emmeline Marshall of the twentieth century, had somehow found herself in Regency England.