Byron's Child (5 page)

Her head whirling with plots, Jodie chose a gown at random and hurried to her chamber to scramble into it. It would take time for her plan to bear fruit, and she had no idea how long she had. She fidgeted while Dinah re-pinned her hair, then dashed down to the library.

Giles was lounging back in his chair with his feet on Roland’s desk, along with a neat stack of papers.

“Very pretty,” he said approvingly, smiling at her.

She looked down at the canary-yellow crape with its rows of ruffles at the hem. “It is, isn’t it?” She settled Emily’s white cashmere shawl about her shoulders. “I always did like Regency fashions.”

“Yes, the dress is attractive, but it was you I meant.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I see you are still twenty years out of date.”

“And growing very tired of this coat, to say nothing of the shoes, which pinch abominably. Charlotte wins: I shall have to buy some clothes.”

“We’re going to be here for quite a while, I take it. Have you done all the figuring you can without a slide rule?”

“Just about, though what stopped me now is that this blasted oil lamp Frederick brought me seems to produce more smoke than light. You’re the historian, can you do something about it?”

“Yes, we used to use—will use?—them for barbecues, filled with citronella oil to keep away the bugs.” She carefully turned the wick down a little, then sat on the edge of the desk. “It’s nearly dinner time anyway, so don’t start work again. I take it you’re planning to go to Oxford tomorrow?”

“Do I sense a challenge there?” Giles teased. “I shan’t try to stop you going with me. I’ve been thinking about the Conservation of Reality law, and it makes a lot of sense. As long as we’re careful I don’t see why we shouldn’t go out and about.”

“Good.”

“You know, the implications of this whole thing are enormous,” he said. “Emily’s talk of Micromégas yesterday made me think that there may be applications to space flight. If we ever succeed in travelling near the speed of light, time dilation will be a significant problem.”

“Space travel! For Pete’s sake, Giles, concentrate on getting us home. You can figure out the rest when you get back to your computers.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t actually done any work on it. It just made me wonder, when Cassandra Brown’s theory has so many fascinating implications, why she threw the whole thing up and disappeared…. Ye gods, you don’t suppose the same thing happened to her?”

“You mean she might have been thrown back through time like us?”

“She resigned, completely out of the blue, and had her stuff sent to M.I.T. That’s where she took her doctorate. But when I wrote to her there with a couple of questions, my letter was returned. No one seems—seemed—will seem?— to know where she went.”

“But if she took precautions like that, it sounds as if she intended to leave. Surely she wouldn’t have travelled to the past deliberately?”

“She might have, to test her theory. No family to worry about, I gather.”

“Unlike you and me.” Jodie had a sudden sinking feeling. Until now she had not really considered the possibility of being stranded in the past forever. Mom and Dad would be shattered if she vanished without a trace.

“Exactly.” Giles, too, had family he cared about. “If I could get in touch with her, we could work together on returning to our present.”

“She might be anywhere in time. Perhaps she went to the future.”

“No, I believe there must be some connection with this particular segment of time. Some interdimensional space-time curve, perhaps. There’s a good chance, I think, that if that’s what happened to her she’s not too far away.’’

“Where was her lab? You said near London. It might be worth writing to her, I guess, if you can figure out where to send the letter. Can’t hurt, anyway.”

“Luckily her lab was also in a stately home, believe it or not, though the family died out some time ago. Font House, in Kent.” He swung his long legs off the desk, pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards him and dipped a quill in the standish. “No time like the present. This is going to have to be carefully worded in case someone else reads it. ‘Dear Dr. Brown,’” he wrote.

“That’s no good for a start. Women couldn’t—can’t—take degrees, let alone doctorates. ‘Dear Miss Brown’? ‘Dear Cassandra Brown’? Perhaps you’d better just make it ‘Madam,’ and address it to Cassandra Brown without any title.”

“Okay.” Giles screwed up the paper, tossed it towards the fireplace, and started again. “’Madam,’—let’s see—‘If you recognize the name signed below, you will doubtless understand the situation.’”

“That sounds suspiciously mysterious.”

Again he crumpled the sheet, this time throwing it at Jodie. “All right, you dictate.”

“‘Madam, We are two stranded travellers who beg the assistance of a fellow-exile…’”

“Gothic, and bad Gothic at that.”

“Don’t tell me you read Gothics, Giles!”

“My sister Kate used to, and I picked one up by mistake.”

“Mistake—ha. No one could mistake one of those covers. Okay, so that’s bad Gothic. Let’s try again. We’d better ask her to address her answer to me, so we don’t have to explain about there being two Lord Faringdales.”

The library floor was scattered with balls of paper by the time they agreed on sufficiently innocuous wording.

“Now where does Roland keep his envelopes?” Giles opened a desk drawer.

“No such thing yet. You fold it, write the address on the outside, and then seal it with wax,” Jodie said, throwing the rejected sheets on the fire.

“That must be what these red sticks are. I hope you know what to do with the stuff.”

Jodie had an excellent theoretical grasp of the use of sealing wax. She discovered that the practical application was another matter altogether. She and Giles were helpless with laughter over a smelly pool of congealing red liquid when Lord Thorncrest entered the library, elegant and impeccable in black and white.

“You don’t use sealing wax in America?” he enquired, his eyebrows indicating disbelief.

“The composition must be different,” Jodie gasped, trying to stop giggling.

“Allow me to assist.”

“Thanks,” said Giles, “but I’m going to have to recopy the letter anyway.”

“Later then. Faringdale can frank it for you, of course, but if he is otherwise occupied I shall be glad to be of service.”

Seeing Giles’s blank look, Jodie said hastily, “Thank you, my lord. Giles, let us go and ask Cousin Roland if we may borrow a carriage to go into Oxford tomorrow.”

“No doubt you wish to replace the wardrobe you lost at sea, Faringdale,” said Lord Thorncrest as they went through to the drawing room. “Perhaps I can direct you to a tailor who is somewhat more conversant with modern modes than your American tailor appears to be.”

His tone was bland, but Jodie was sure he had every intention of mocking. She was ready to flare up in Giles’s defense when she caught his eye and he shook his head slightly. He looked amused.

“That’s kind of you, my lord,” he said mildly. “Perhaps you can also tell me where to go for scientific instruments. My slide rule was lost too.”

“Slide rule? Ah yes, I believe I know what you mean. I fear I never could spare the time for playing with numbers when I was up at Oxford. I daresay your cousin might be able to advise you.”

Roland was standing with his back to the drawing room fire, ostentatiously consulting his pocket watch. As they entered he nodded in satisfaction and put it away. “We dine in seven minutes,” he announced. “You were saying that I might be able to advise my cousins, Thorncrest?”

“Faringdale needs some mathematical knickknack.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Jodie crossly, her ire at last finding an outlet. “You cannot go on calling both Giles and Cousin Roland ‘Faringdale.’ They both have perfectly good first names and surely you do too?”

“My given name is Charles, Miss Judith. I trust it meets with your approval.” He was sarcastic.

“Charlie,” mused Jodie, noting from the corner of her eye Roland’s apoplectic face. “Or better yet, Chuck.”

“Judith, I must absolutely forbid you to address the earl by his Christian name,” Roland burst out, “whatever your heathen American custom.”

“Indeed, it would not be proper, Jodie,” Charlotte agreed, scandalized.

Unexpectedly Lord Thorncrest laughed. “If propriety prevents my being called Chuck, then long live propriety. I believe you might be permitted to call me Thorncrest, however, Miss Judith.” He turned to Giles. “Perhaps, to pacify your sister and avoid confusion, I had best use your Christian name?”

“By all means, Charles,” Giles responded gravely.

The earl was visibly taken aback. Jodie realized that he had not expected to reciprocate by allowing an American nobody the freedom to use his first name. However, he could hardly object now. Giles had scored a point and, looking at him, Jodie saw by the glint in his blue eyes that he was well aware of it.

What ridiculous complications! It made the California custom of addressing all and sundry by their first names appear eminently sane.

To Roland’s obvious relief, Potter announced dinner and they moved into the dining room. Charlotte set herself to smooth ruffled feathers all around. Between her gentle chatter of commonplaces and her cook’s excellent meal, she succeeded admirably.

Roland unbent sufficiently to offer a choice of carriages for the outing to Oxford on the morrow. When Giles admitted that he could not drive, Thorncrest confined himself to a curled lip, forgoing the opportunity for sarcasm. And then Jodie, sitting next to Roland, pleased him with her interest in his country pursuits.

“Of course, our English way of doing things is not at all what you are used to,” he said forgivingly, patting her hand. “If you will only heed Charlotte, you will soon learn. Charlotte is equal to anything.” He beamed at his wife with such fond pride that Jodie was almost prepared to like him despite his pomposity.

Only Emily, seated beside her future husband, was as ill at ease as ever.

~ ~ ~

When the ladies withdrew at the end of the meal, Jodie was alarmed to see that Giles was about to follow them. However, Roland merely said jovially, “I hope you will join us for a glass of port, cousin. I should like your opinion on a particularly fine vintage I have been saving for a special occasion.”

Giles turned back and sat down again, after a brief grimace for Jodie’s eyes alone. She gathered that he was not fond of port.

“It’s not fair,” she complained as the door closed. “Being a man, he can get away with any mistakes on the grounds of being an American and an absentminded scientist, while everything I do is wrong.”

“You are managing very well, is she not, Emily?” Charlotte encouraged her, but her worried air made Jodie feel guilty.

“I only wish I were managing half as well,” said Emily unhappily. As Charlotte turned away to direct the footman in the placement of a card table, she added in a whisper, “I do admire your boldness, Jodie, though that is not at all what Charlotte means. I wish I dared to emulate it, if it would not distress Charlotte and Roland as I know it must.”

“It would not suit you; you are by far too gentle-natured. There is no need, though, to go to the opposite extreme and be afraid of that wretched man.”

Emily smiled. “As to that, I believe I am already less afraid after watching you stand up to him. One of these days, I shall even be able to think of a sensible answer when he speaks to me.”

“Of course you will.” Charlotte had heard her last words. “Jodie, do you play cards?”

“Only Fish. Oh, and pinochle. My dad likes a game now and then.”

“Oh dear, I have never heard of it. Still, if you do not object, I daresay Roland will like to teach you whist. Emily, I hope you will give us some music this evening?”

Glad of an excuse to avoid conversation, Emily went straight to the pianoforte and began to play. She had a light but expressive touch. Jodie enjoyed it, though she was no expert. She listened with pleasure as she went to the card table and began surreptitiously to remove certain cards from the packs, pretending to shuffle.

Charlotte followed her and dropped into one of the chairs. She was far too agitated to pay any attention to Jodie’s activities.

“At last I can speak to you!” She clasped her hands and leaned forward. “Jodie, I do not know what to do. Roland thinks I am increasing.”

“Increasing?” It took Jodie a moment to realize what she meant. “Pregnant? And you’re not? Why should he—Oh no! You suddenly developed an interest in redecorating the nursery. I guess the servants could not wait to pass on the news.”

Charlotte nodded. “I gather Mrs. Briggs told Roland’s valet, and of course he told Roland. He is so delighted, I cannot disappoint him by telling him it is all a hum.”

“Sh—darn—drat, what a mess. I suppose you’d better wait until your next period and tell him you were mistaken. When’s it due?”

“Pray hush, Jodie!” Charlotte whispered, fiery-faced, glancing around nervously. “It—it will be three weeks; I have just—you know.”

“Perhaps by then you really will be pregnant.” Jodie patted her hand comfortingly. She remembered with relief that among the odds and ends she had bought in Oxford while searching for a transformer was a box of tampons. Rags, they used in 1816. Horrors!

At that inappropriate moment, the gentlemen came through from the dining room. Giles went straight to the piano and started turning pages for Emily. Roland fussed over Charlotte, asking if she was warm enough, if she would not like a more comfortable chair. Lord Thorncrest lounged against the mantel, his sardonic appraisal of the company suggesting to Jodie that he was unused to being one of a family party and did not care for the experience.

Under her husband’s solicitude, Charlotte had regained her countenance. “I shall do very well here, Roland,” she assured him. “I thought perhaps Lord Thorncrest might like to play a rubber of whist, if he does not mind being patient while Jodie learns the rules.”

“It will be my pleasure, ma’am. Miss Judith, may I hope you will permit me the honour of teaching you?” The earl sauntered over to the card table.

Jodie waited until he had taken his seat before she answered. “Thank you, Thorncrest, but I have a better notion. I shall teach you all an American game.”