Chapter 11
A few days later, after an impromptu lesson on nineteenth-century gender spheres, Lottie announced it was finally time to dress Eva as a doll. For the occasion, Henry promptly left the house, without so much as a word or passing glance at either of them, to gather provisions for their last few days together.
Eva had seen little of Henry since the day Lottie appeared and it was obvious that he was keeping a barrier between them. She wondered whether it was to prepare her for the change of roles in the public setting of Asheford Hall or whether he was still upset about the decision to take her in as a guest. Whatever the reason, she had bigger things to focus on, like wearing a corset for the first time.
“Everything that you require to dress is here,” Lottie said. “Now, as we’ve discussed, which item of clothing do you put on first?”
Eva stared at the layers of clothing on Henry’s bed. She wanted to throw up. Or cry. Maybe throw up and cry at the same time.
“The chemise and then the drawers,” Eva said after some thought.
“Very good.”
Eva approached and ran a finger over the soft material. Everything – except the corset, stockings, overskirt and jacket – was crisp white with details of fine lace around the edges. It looked expensive. Too expensive. She didn’t know where they had found the clothes and she was as sure as hell not going to ask.
Well, here goes nothing.
Eva reluctantly removed Henry’s shirt.
“Good heavens, what are you wearing?” Lottie said.
“What?”
“The black undergarment…”
Eva blinked and looked down. Her cheeks blazed with heat. “Um, it’s called a bra.”
“A bra…” Lottie tested the word. “How very scandalous.”
“Can you please turn around while I change?”
“Jane, dear, we have the same lady bits. There is no need to be prudish with me.”
Eva breathed slowly through her nose. Unlike her brooding brother, Lottie was a little firecracker and went out of her way to be friendly. It was a bit jarring and it took some getting used to, but Lottie exuded a certain confidence that made Eva feel at ease, as if the girl were a motherly figure to set both her and Henry straight.
“And what do you have upon your shoulder?” Lottie asked.
“A tattoo,” Eva said, slowly smiling.
Lottie was also incredibly curious. She was not the type of girl to keep anything to herself. It had only been two days and she must have asked about five million questions. Eva didn’t mind, though. It was nice to speak with someone eager to learn about her as a person, unlike Henry who kept a wall between them – which she understood because she was adding bricks to that wall too.
“Only sailors have those. Are you a sailor?” Lottie said.
“Yes, and a pirate, but don’t tell your brother. He takes offence to pirates.”
Lottie laughed and it sounded like magical wind chimes. Her cheery spirit was exactly what Eva needed and she couldn’t help but laugh in return.
After Eva had slipped on the chemise, she went to put on the drawers but halted. They were totally open in the crotch region.
Eva gasped. “There’s a hole in the drawers.”
“How else do you expect to do your business?”
“Business?”
“To tinkle, tinkle, little star…” Lottie gestured with a squat.
Eva snorted through her nose. “This hole is to pee?”
A sly smile touched Lottie’s lips. “Among other things.”
“Well, I guess … I guess that does make sense.” Eva shrugged and slipped them on. “Right, so the stockings come next and then the corset?”
“Very good!”
Eva slipped on the pale-beige stockings. They stopped short above the knee. Her finger brushed the tiny white bows sewn along the hem. More silk bows. At this rate, she’ll look like a birthday cake.
“Now for the corset. I asked Henry to fetch you a corpulent size as you must grow used to the restriction before we try a smaller, more fitted shape,” Lottie explained as she held up the pale-green corset.
Eva’s heart thudded at the mention of Henry. Oh my God. He’d picked the outfit for her? “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you just called me fat,” Eva said.
“Not at all. You possess a slim figure, although by our standards, you’re more of a giantess.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Lottie pressed her hands on Eva’s hips and spun her around. “Hold onto the bedpost as I lace the corset.” As Eva did what she said, Lottie brought the corset around her torso. “And being a giantess isn’t a bad thing. You are very regal, like an Amazonian warrior.”
Eva couldn’t help but laugh again. “You could have said that in the first place. I’ll take Amazonian warrior over giantess any day.”
“Isn’t this exciting?” Lottie jumped on the balls of her feet as she began tugging the laces. “You already look so beautiful. Once I’ve laced the corset, next time you will only need to tie the hooks in front. In a few days, we can slowly adjust the laces if need be. In case you need to loosen the lace yourself, the knot will be here.” Lottie jabbed a finger above Eva’s tailbone. “Pick the knot open and loosen the first few crosses.”
With every tug and pull, Eva gripped the bedpost tighter.
“All done. How do you feel?”
“Like a sausage roll.”
“A pretty sausage roll.” Lottie giggled and brought the suspender belt around Eva’s waist. “My brother certainly picked a handsome set of undergarments.”
Eva wasn’t sure if it was the lack of oxygen making her dizzy or Lottie’s words. As Lottie hooked the suspenders to her stockings, she took in the elegant details of the corset while running her fingers along the front clasps.
The material was soft green with a pattern of dotted emerald-green flowers. It matched the green silk suspender belt. There was also a trim of beige lace that framed the top and lined the bottom.
It was too nice. She would need to thank him. Or was that improper? Did ladies thank gentlemen for buying them undergarments?
“What comes next, Jane?” Lottie asked.
“The cotton petticoat with a skirt, then another skirt, then the underskirt, and finally the overskirt,” Eva said. “I don’t get how you manage all these layers.”
“Grin and bear it, my dear. Although, you did miss the corset cover.”
“Right,” Eva said with a sigh. “How could I forget the corset cover?”
She spent the next ten minutes adding layer after layer of cloth onto her body and when she reached the final layers of her costume, a pale-blue overskirt with a matching jacket, she studied herself in the mirror.
She was the colour of the sea on a sunny day.
Pale blue, with a skirt that folded around her legs like gentle waves lapping on the beach. It was simple, yet impeccably beautiful. Oddly enough, her favourite was the jacket. With sewn-in bone, it fitted along the curve of her waist and had white, laced sleeves that ended below the elbow. To finish the look, Lottie tied an embroidered choker around her neck and placed pearl earrings into her palm.
Eva’s breath wavered. “Lottie, I can’t take these.”
“No lady is complete without a set of pearl earrings.”
Eva looked at the shimmery pearls. They were blue. She had never worn pearls before and didn’t know they came in any other colour but white.
“Thank you,” Eva said. “I’ll make sure to return them before I leave.”
“They are yours to keep,” Lottie said.
“Oh, no, I really can’t,” Eva stammered. No one had ever gifted her jewellery before. “I can’t accept them, please. I’ll keep them safe and … and return them—”
“You will do no such thing.” Lottie put her hands on her hips. “We want you to have them.”
“We?”
“Henry and I.”
Eva’s eyes widened at the mention of Henry. “He does? But why?”
“No more questions, Jane. Sit before the mirror so I can proceed with taking out the ringlets in your hair,” Lottie commanded. “Now, do you want white flowers or pink ones to adorn that Amazonian crown of yours?”
***
Bondieux House was abuzz with the chatter of Lottie and Eva. Upon closing the front door, glances from both women strayed Henry’s way. He set the basket of provisions on his hip, opened his mouth to greet them but words failed him when he realized that Eva was no longer Eva.
Good God.
She was not a brutish little imp in black but an exquisite beauty in blue. A woman he could easily mistake for a wealthy, fashionable stranger in the streets of London or Paris. Yes, more so Paris. There was an air of French or Nordic blood in her features. With her honey-coloured hair adorned with white flowers, hazel eyes that gleamed darker against the pale-blue outfit, a pink pout that curled … oh dear God, she’s smiling at you now with a sparkle of mischief in her eye.
Yes. The imp was still there, beneath all those attractive adornments.
He may have smiled in return but the sensation on his lips was odd. A hot emotion surged through him and entered his cheeks. He hurried to his bedchamber and shut the door.
A muffled giggle was heard.
They are laughing at you.
Ah, well. He supposed it was deserved. He had run off without a word said and probably looked like a beet doing it. Just as he set the basket of provisions by the door, he caught a snippet of their conversation.
“As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted,” Lottie said. “A woman’s role is subsidiary, compared to that of a man whose intellect and power is always superior.”
“God, how awful,” Eva groaned.
“Yes, it is. Now imagine this, Jane. As women, we must always exude grace and femininity in our accomplishments. One must have knowledge of music, drawing, dancing, modern languages, embroidery and not in intellectual pursuits, lest you be named a bluestocking, and you don’t want such a title.”
“What’s a bluestocking?”
“Something which I secretly aspire to be,” Lottie whispered. “If I would dare, I would surely never marry. A bluestocking is a woman who has devoted herself to ruining a man’s natural inclination to intellectual superiority.”
“Right, so as a woman, I must make men believe they have the bigger brain at all times.”
“Precisely!”
“God, it’s no wonder your brother dislikes me for what I am. I’ve done nothing but stuff my intellect in his face.”
His pulse sped up. She thought he disliked her for that?
“Do not think that way.” Lottie brought her voice low. “A true gentleman would not care whether a woman was equally educated, and Henry is an example of that. Look at me. He has put me in school for most of my life and does not take offence when I question his authority or intellect … which I do quite often as you have probably noticed.”
A poignant silence followed.
“He has never made me feel uncomfortable for who I am,” Eva finally said. “I guess I was just surprised to hear him say that I was so different with my modern sensibilities. I can’t help but think that he’s right and I’ll fail you both by committing one social faux pas after another.”
“It does not need to be as difficult as you think. Jane Edwards can be whomever she wants,” Lottie said softly. “Let us continue our lessons and prove to my brother that it’s possible.”
He bit his lower lip.
Evaline Quinn thought he disliked her modern sensibilities. God knew that was what he liked most about her. He found most of society’s social conventions and traditions terribly dull, lacking human emotions and connections. All these petty constraints between men and women were hogwash. More of an irritation than a formality. Apart from his sister, he had never had a close relationship with a woman that was not some form of courtship. Spending time with Eva was refreshing. Slightly dangerous, but utterly refreshing.
He sank into his writing chair.
The papers that Eva had given him remained on his desk. After spending four days going through everything, he had concluded that Benjamin Cooper may have had the last missing time-travelling duplication. It was a hunch he first had back in London nearly a month ago. Now, with the evidence of two letters – the first being the one found in Cooper’s briefcase and the second a letter from Eva’s documents – he could piece together a better picture of the story, and the one link that connected the letters was this Clarkson fellow. Henry presumed him to be a London police lieutenant to whom Cooper was going to hand over the time-travelling technology.
The only problem was, it was not clear whether Cooper had had the chance to provide Clarkson with the evidence described in the letters. Henry wondered if there were more pieces of the puzzle missing. Maybe more letters? Perhaps more subjects involved? And what about the person Josiah and his father were searching for? It was futile to think about it. There were too many inconclusive outcomes. Too many risks. He needed to focus on one thing at a time. The only certainty was that Clarkson was involved somehow. Henry would need to contact him soon. Whether to tell Eva of this plan, he had not yet decided.
He mulled over the idea a while longer, wondering how on earth he could explain his finding without mentioning Cooper’s briefcase. Their relationship was already on thin ice, only held up by a mutual partnership built on one goal – to get Eva home. If he were to confess that he was there the night of Cooper’s murder, she would surely think him deceitful and the last thing he wanted was for her to enter Asheford Hall under such circumstances.
To successfully disguise her in plain sight, they needed to communicate as business partners, without tumultuous strain and with mutual trust. For now, he would continue to feign ignorance and claim slow progress was being made. He knew the truth would come out one day. It always did. All he had to do was keep it buried a little longer and the event at Asheford Hall would make that possible. There would be distractions for both of them. For once, he was happy to host the blasted event.
With a sigh, he decided he should at least start by speaking with Eva. They had not exchanged more than ten words in the past three days. He supposed what would come next would be entirely decided by fate.
***
As soon as he heard Eva’s soft singing, he knew she was alone. It was a sound he had not heard in a few days and he deluded himself in thinking he had forgotten about her talent. The truth was, her singing followed him everywhere, even making an appearance in his dreams. Maybe he had got it wrong. Maybe she wasn’t an imp, but a siren.
He rounded the corner of the hallway and leaned against the living-room arch. There she sat at the table, practising her calligraphy. The evening’s fire cast an orange halo around her body, and she looked as radiant as a little glow-worm in the night.
He tilted his head and smiled.
As usual, she was singing a song he did not recognize. She dipped her pen in the ink and hovered over the paper. A vulgar curse came from her lips. With a frown, she brought the pen to the ink jar and tapped it furiously against the glass a couple of times to remove the excess ink.
The song she sang was about freedom. Or at least, that was what he understood until it took a melancholic turn. His smile slipped and a tide of sadness filled his chest. Why did she always sing sad songs? He must have made a sound of disapproval since she turned and observed him with a bemused expression.
“Didn’t I tell you not to creep up on me?” she said. “Keep it up and I’ll put a bell on you like a barn cat.”
“I heard you singing,” he said. Why did he say that? He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d check that everything was all right.”
“Yes, everything is fine.”
“I see.”
Her eyes searched his face for something.
His blood warmed. If she continued to look at him that way, he would blush harder than a schoolgirl. Why do I feel jittery? Is it because he could smell her faint lilac essence in the room of ash and dust? Or was it because she was wearing a dress he had picked … because she was wearing the undergarments he had imagined her in…
“Lottie said I should practise my handwriting but it’s harder than I thought.” She frowned, returning to her work. “I have trouble grasping the darn pen.”
“The trick is to use your arm, rather than your fingers,” he said.
“That tells me nothing.”
The edges of his lips twitched. “May I show you?”
“If you promise not to laugh at what I’ve done.”
He took a seat next to her. “That would be rude of me.”
“And gentlemen are never rude.”
“Precisely,” he said. “Gentleladies, on the other hand…”
She handed him the pen and clasped her hands on the table. “Good thing I am not a gentlelady.” A wicked smile crossed her face.
He forced himself to look away from those eyes. The dress’s colour had been chosen to suit her complexion. He had considered selecting an ugly, bland outfit, but he could not go through with it. He was sure he would come to regret that decision. Now sitting next to her, he realized how the colour made the wild greens in her hazel eyes all the more vibrant. She was too radiant to pass off as a boring wallflower. Christ.
“Right,” he declared. “First order of business is to sit straight with your feet flat on the floor. Place both hands upon the table, with the pen in the right hand and your left hand upon the paper. Keep your elbows perpendicular to the table, neither slouch nor lean against the table as you will require the space to move your arm.” He demonstrated the posture, then dipped the pen in the ink. “The art of copperplate focuses on the movement of your arm rather than your wrist or fingers.”
He wrote his name on the paper.
“You see how my arm moves freely in this posture?” he said.
“I do.”
She leaned in. A shimmer of light caught one of her pearl earrings.
They were a small family heirloom and had belonged to his maternal grandmother. He was not sure why he decided to give them to Eva, but he could not help but want to see her adorned in jewels. Not regal, lush and extravagant ones either. Only delicate, soft ones, like these pearls that he was sure would suit the woman that was Evaline Quinn. Besides, they were only pearl earrings … it wasn’t like he had given her his mother’s ring.
He cleared his throat. “It is important to also hold the pen firmly, close to the nib. This will give you the control needed to draw clean strokes. Would you like to try?”
She nodded, took the pen from his hand, dipped it in ink and scooted into position. Slowly, she wrote her new name, Jane Edwards.
“Loosen your arm and keep the pen at an angle,” he instructed.
She frowned. “You make it look easy.”
“I do have the advantage of twenty-nine years.”
Her hand came to a halt and she went quiet, as if his words surprised her.
“You’re six years older than me,” she said.
“I am.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“November twenty-eighth, 1852,” he said, remembering to breathe.
They had not exchanged private information about one another since Lottie arrived. There was something freeing in revealing oneself to a stranger, and with Eva, that came unusually easy. She made him simultaneously forget and remember who he was.
“When is yours?” he asked.
“June fourteenth, 1995.”
“Hmm.”
His thoughts buzzed like bees, growing in volume like a wild orchestra with each passing second. She was born just before the turn of the next century. He wondered how much the world would change leading up to her birth.
“That is rather soon,” he finally said.
“I guess.”
There was something in her reply that told him she was not pleased. Perhaps she didn’t like celebrating birthdays any more than he did. Or maybe it was the mention of the sensitive topic of the future.
She continued practising her name.
He glanced down at her shaky writing. “It helps to twist the paper with your left hand while you write.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said.
“Allow me.” He gestured to the pen and she gave it to him. “It may help for you to place your hand atop mine while I go through the motion.”
She did as he suggested, prompting his heart to beat irregularly. He wrote Jane Edwards deliberately slowly, and when his pen came to a stop, she did not remove her palm.
“Again, please,” she said.
He did and wrote something new.
I’d like to officially welcome you to Asheford Hall, Miss Jane Edwards.
She leaned in to read and took her hand away with a gasp. She looked at him with a ravishing smile. “Officially?”
“You have done exceptionally well,” he smiled.
She reached for the pen, then wrote something.
I thought you weren’t happy with my progress.
He frowned and took hold of the pen. He dipped it once in the ink jar and wrote.
Because of my silence?
It was her turn.
Yes.
They exchanged the pen back and forth as they communicated through ink.
I did not want to interrupt your learning sessions with my sister.
You could have said hello once in a while.
Are you offended that I did not?
Very.
He smiled now as he wrote.
Am I to assume that you have missed our awkward small talk?
She gave him a pointed look and opened her mouth to speak but quickly shut it. After taking hold of the pen, she wrote.
Lottie tells me it’s gentlemanly to greet a lady. Are you not a gentleman or have I misunderstood the man that is Henry Asheford?
He snorted and gestured for the pen.
Yes, you are entirely right. A gentleman must greet a lady but when there is no lady to be greeted then I am surely not at fault for rude behaviour.
She took hold of her tea, leaned back in the chair and observed him as she sipped.
The air between them electrified.
“Will you sing me a song from your time?” he said, not knowing what possessed him to ask that.
“You can’t be serious.” She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.
It was an odd quirk that he admired.
“Entirely so,” he said, the words jamming in his throat. The cat’s out of the bag now.Go on, you fool. “I have taken notice that you enjoy music, and it is something that I too enjoy … when the occasion arises. Besides, I think we are both deserving of a night off.”
“How often do you listen to music?”
“When I attend a party or event. Once in a blue moon.”
Her eyes widened and she grabbed onto his forearm. “I have something I want to show you, but … well, it’s an oddity from my world.”
He wanted to say no, but her bursting enthusiasm was intoxicating. He nodded and she dashed from the table.
She returned in a heartbeat with her bag. “Henry Asheford, I want you to sit by the fire.”
He snorted. “Do you dare command the lord of the household?”
“You said you weren’t a lord.”
“A man is always the lord of his house.”
“Right, and I’m Queen Victoria.” She went to the liquor cabinet. “Whisky?”
“What on earth are you showing me that requires a hard drink of liquor?”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she murmured and poured two drinks. “Lord Asheford, I commanded you to sit by the fire. You better do as I say, or I’ll call upon my imp buddies to set you straight.”
He stood, fixed the hem of his sleeves, and watched the whirlwind that was Evaline Quinn in his living room. And he let her whirl about, like the free imp she was, because he craved her chaos to disturb the dullness of his days.
They sat opposite one another over a table of scotch and a small, black, rectangular device. She stared at him, briefly lost in her thoughts and a faint smile crossed her lips.
“When I press this button, music will play,” she finally said, gesturing to the device.
“Music?” His heart thudded hard. “Like the first morning I woke you?”
“Yes.”
“You want to properly introduce me to seventies music?”
She smiled. “You remembered the decade.”
“I couldn’t exactly forget the screeches of that whining woman.”
“Believe it or not, those were the screeches of a man.” She laughed. “Okay, are you sure about this?”
He was not. “I am,” he said.
“Here’s hoping that this song will make it up to you. It’s called Desperado by the Eagles.”
She pressed the screen of the black box. A piano began playing.
He swallowed hard. The music brought forth a wave of nerves he had not experienced in a long time. Like a cracking whip, a hot rush burst through his veins. Never mind that the music came from an odd black box, that it was crystal clear to his ear, that the instrumental composition was strangely different from the classical pieces he was accustomed to; the song itself was a glimpse into her world … into the future. He leaned back into the sofa and allowed himself to get lost in the male voice that sang. It was the song she had been humming earlier. Desperado. It wasn’t as sad as he had first thought. Rather, it struck a hopeful chord deep within him.
It is only music.
But he knew it was more than just music; it was another drop in the bucket of curiosity that would surely poison his soul. He was starkly aware of the strong beating of his heart as he observed the woman across from him.
It had been almost ten days since they met.
Ten days of being intimately close with a stranger whose fate crossed his. Bound together by murder and a mutual understanding of wanting freedom. How could he ever bring up Cooper’s briefcase now? How could he ruin their blossoming relationship with the truth? It was certainly beneficial that the house party was in a week. He could stay in her good graces for a little while longer because, God, it felt good.
The song ended.
“And?” She smiled. “What did you think?”
“I think you sang it better.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Be serious, I want to know your thoughts.”
A smile played on his lips as he picked up his whisky. He knew by the look in her brazen eyes that his delayed reply annoyed her, and he savoured every second.
“It was rather moving,” he finally said.
“Yes, and?”
“Relatable.”
“Because you ain’t gettin’ no younger?”
“And apparently I need to come to my senses,” he quoted.
And let somebody love me, before it’s too late.
She raised her glass in a toast. “That makes two of us. But I’m still not going to sing for you, Henry Asheford, so don’t bother asking again.”
He met her glass with his.
Somehow, he knew that to be untrue.