The Seventh Miss Hatfield (5 page)

‘I look like a sixteenth-century pageboy in this.’ I was astounded by the clothes Miss Hatfield had dressed me in.

‘My aim is to make you look like a lady.’

‘Not even my mother wears anything remotely as old-fashioned as this,’ I complained. The clothes Miss Hatfield had chosen were beyond absurdity. They puffed up in odd places and were skintight in others.

‘Hopefully this corset will change your current sixteenth-century-pageboy appearance into that of an early twentieth-century lady,’ Miss Hatfield muttered, pulling the garment around my middle and over my hips. ‘Hold on to the bedposts. I’ll have to lace this up quite tight in your case – you’re quite behind in developing your figure.’ She yanked on the laces and the corset’s stays contracted around my midsection. ‘My mother started putting my sisters and me in figure-developing corsets from the time we were six, and our neighbour chided her for starting so late.’ She jerked the laces again and I gasped as my breath was forced out of my lungs. ‘This will just have to do,’ she said. ‘You’re petite, but luckily this will probably still fit you.’ She pulled an elegant-looking dress down over my head as I peered into a dirty full-length mirror, trying to see what I’d been transformed into.

My body swam in the endless sea of fabric draped over me, but even the crack running from the top of the mirror to the bottom couldn’t mar the sheer beauty of the garment. It was of a colour similar to burgundy but a bit brighter, which somehow made it more emotionally uplifting.

‘This was your dress?’ I asked Miss Hatfield.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I do think it looks much better on you than it ever did on me.’

I looked from my face in the mirror to Miss Hatfield’s behind me, and in addition to the similar smile we both wore, we looked so much alike now that we could have been mistaken for sisters.

‘The colour contrasts quite nicely with your pale skin and auburn hair. It’s beautiful,’ Miss Hatfield said. I smiled gratefully and reached a hand up to touch my hair, which she’d piled up on top of my head like another mop of dark fabric.

My mother called my hair colour that same shade Miss Hatfield had – auburn. I always called it brown, but she would shush me, insisting it was auburn. Easy for her to say, I’d thought, since her hair was a light blonde – the kind everyone wanted and admired. She’d called my hair beautiful, too, but I noticed with a pang that her words had already begun to fade into a distant memory.

‘You look like a true Gibson Girl,’ Miss Hatfield proclaimed. I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, but took it as a compliment.

‘Are you sure the corset isn’t too tight?’ I asked her, to the sound of her laughter.

‘Of course not. You should be wondering if it’s not too loose.’ She laughed softly again, then grew serious once more. ‘Do you remember everything I told you?’

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t ready, but she’d promised this would be only a short job. I asked her many times why she couldn’t buy it from its owner, or even steal it herself, but she would only mumble that the owner would never sell it and she could be recognized.

I tried to convince myself that all I had to do was go in, grab the portrait, and come right back out. I was doing the right thing, especially as the man had stolen the portrait from Miss Hatfield in the first place.

I didn’t know much about this portrait I had to take from the man’s house. All I knew was that it was a painting of a young woman, and that it was somehow important to Miss Hatfield and this whole mess I was in.

‘You remember how to get to the house?’ Miss Hatfield asked me for what must have been the third time at least as I followed her into the kitchen.

‘Go down Second Avenue and turn right onto East Sixty-Sixth Street, then cross Third, Lexington, and Park Avenue. It should be the first house on the left,’ I recited, exactly as I’d learned. As Miss Hatfield wound the golden clock to the correct date, I watched in wonder as its hands spun around in circles, stopping where she wanted it to. There was no question in my mind that it really did work – my older, stranger face was proof of that – but somehow I still couldn’t believe that such a simple-looking instrument could transport someone like me through time.

‘Very good,’ Miss Hatfield said, but she was still wringing her hands with worry as she led me to the door. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine, but just in case – don’t talk unless you absolutely have to.’

I nodded. ‘I think I’m ready.’ I took a deep breath in front of the closed door, scared what it would reveal once opened.

‘I think you’re ready, too,’ Miss Hatfield said, and she opened the door with a flourish. ‘Miss Rebecca Hatfield, might I introduce you to the year 1904.’

I was only vaguely aware that my mouth was gaping open at the sight before me. A huge Victorian-looking house stood tall and grand where my own once stood … or would stand … Well, let’s put it this way – where it stands somewhere else in time.

The intricacies of the whole new concept of time that Miss Hatfield had explained to me were only now beginning to unfold in my mind. I was currently in 1904, but I hadn’t actually travelled back in time. I’d simply travelled to another part of time. I had to keep reminding myself that time was a lake, not a river as I’d once believed. A period of time doesn’t start when another ends. They coexist.

I stared in awe as a horse-drawn coach drove past. It was truly remarkable to see a world changed so drastically, when I’d thought it would probably be quite similar to the one I’d left behind.

‘Now go,’ Miss Hatfield said, pushing me through the front door. ‘It’ll be done before you know it, and you can tell me all about it when you get back.’

So I started to make my way down Second Avenue. Miss Hatfield had explained why she couldn’t come with me to the man’s house – she could be recognized by someone – but I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t walk at least part of the way there with me. Then it dawned on me that this was her time or, at least, there might still be people alive who remembered her. I’d completely forgotten that even Miss Hatfield had a time of her own long ago. But I realized that if she’d not gone to the park that day and instead had continued living her previous life, she would have still been alive today in 1904. That was why she knew so much about the period – it had been close to her own. And though her parents were probably dead, many of her siblings and friends could still be alive. I couldn’t blame her for not coming along. I wasn’t sure I’d be returning to my home either, now that I’d moved on.

Lit street lamps glowed in rows of pure light. People were scurrying from place to place, eager to get home quickly to their families. The steady dark and evening cold followed swiftly on their heels, overtaking me and everyone else in its still blanket.

‘Evening, miss.’ My head whipped right at the sound of a voice, and I caught an elderly man tipping his hat at me.

‘Sir,’ I responded as politely as I could, remembering all I’d learned from Miss Hatfield over the last few hours of intensive cramming about this day and age.

I knew I must have looked at least a bit out of place, as I felt very conscious of myself and my movements; very much like an alien in this strange land. I picked up my pace, hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible.

‘Go down Second Avenue and turn right onto East Sixty-Sixth Street, then cross Third, Lexington, and Park Avenue,’ I muttered to myself as I saw Park Avenue disappear behind me, much too slowly for my liking. ‘It should be the first house on the left.’

It was a large house, much grander than most of the others I’d seen on my walk. It had three rows of windows, fine curtains barely visible behind them. Stately steps led up to the front door with its large brass knocker. It looked quite intimidating.

I tried to circle the block, to attempt to find another entrance, but there were intimidating iron-wrought gates probably set up for the very purpose of discouraging thieves and people like me. Luckily, it wasn’t long before I found the servants’ entrance.

The servants’ door was plain and made of unpainted wood, and made me feel somewhat more at home than the grand front entrance had. I looked behind me instinct- ively, but for what, I couldn’t say. I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong by taking back the painting since it was Miss Hatfield’s to begin with. I supposed I couldn’t rely on anyone else agreeing with me, though.

Not finding anything or anyone behind me, I walked up to the door silently and tried the handle. It swung open, and I was surprised it wasn’t locked or barred in some way. It was dark, but listening to the silence, I could tell that the hall was empty of servants. I closed the door behind me, not wanting to attract any undue attention, and felt for a wall with my hands. Finding one, I proceeded to try to feel for the opposite wall, but my hand crashed into something hard instead.

Gritting my teeth and nursing my hurt hand in the dark, I tried to feel out what my hand had hit. Thankfully, it was the opposite wall, so I was in a narrow passage of some sort. Miss Hatfield had told me that the servants’ entrance in most houses almost always led into a hallway that connected to a maid’s closet and the back stairs, and then to many other places in the house. I just had to get to the back staircase.

With one hand trailing along a wall and the other out in front of me so as to not bump into anything else, I walked cautiously forward. The boots Miss Hatfield had made me wear tapped ominously on the uneven wooden floor, and more than once my long dress caught on splinters or rough edges.

My left hand felt a sudden dip in the wall and I was sure I’d found something, hopefully a door. With my other hand, I searched for a doorknob and, finally finding one, I swung the door open to reveal even more darkness. My outstretched hand found a cold, slightly slippery surface, and recoiled in disgust. I didn’t know how I was going to find the back staircase in this gloom, and I knew I had to find it quickly before the servants returned to the hallway I was in.

Tap. Tap. I sucked in my breath and pressed myself against the wall, hopelessly trying to hide from whoever was walking down the hallway towards me. A steady glow of candlelight drew near as the person approached, but suddenly it stopped in its tracks. I couldn’t see whoever was carrying the candle, but it was obvious that they could see me.

I knew I had to do something, and fast, before whoever was carrying the candle figured out I wasn’t supposed to be there. Remembering that Miss Hatfield had dressed me to play the part of a wealthy man’s daughter, I decided to put on an act.

‘Well, what is it?’ I asked the figure in the shadows. ‘Has someone finally brought me a candle to help me navigate through the dark?’

‘Y–Yes, miss.’ A woman, by her voice.

‘It’s about time. I think I might have ripped the hem of my dress.’

‘I’m sorry, miss,’ the timid voice said, but I still couldn’t make out her face in the gloom.

‘Show me back to the parlour,’ I said, guessing that would be an acceptable destination for a stranger, and also might be where the painting was located. It was worth a shot.

‘Yes, miss. Please follow me.’

The woman took my hand gingerly and led me along the narrow hallway. All I could see in front of me was the now dim glow of the candle. I was strangely comforted hiding behind a persona that wasn’t my own. If someone had asked me to act like myself, I think that would have been harder. It was as if I’d lost myself and forgotten who I used to be. I wasn’t Cynthia any more, and I couldn’t be her even if I wanted to. Perhaps that realization was going to be useful here.

We came into the light together. It was blinding compared to the darkness I’d been in for the past few minutes. As my eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, I began to take in a few of the details that surrounded me once the maid had escorted me to the parlour.

Wall fixtures greeted me with arms holding candles to light up the room. The working fireplace in the middle of one wall and the cream-coloured wallpaper gave the room a less stuffy appearance than I’d expected. Large windows faced out onto the street, but in the dim glow of the lamps outside and the flickering candles inside, all I could see was my face reflected in the dark glass.

I turned from the window and continued my survey of the room. There was a painting hanging above the fireplace and, upon closer inspection, I realized it was in fact the one Miss Hatfield had sent me to find – the portrait of the Spanish lady stolen from her by the man who owned this house. It was right in front of me. All I had to do now was take it and run.

My arm was outstretched, almost touching the portrait’s gilded frame, when I heard someone clear their throat behind me. I quickly turned around.

An older man in a grey waistcoat was standing in front of me. One hand rested on top of an ornate walking stick, and he was staring at me with austere eyes. I knew without a doubt that he was the man Miss Hatfield had told me about – the owner of the house. A few steps behind him was a younger man, dressed all in black, looking similarly grim.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the older one asked me sternly. The tone of his voice chilled me instantly. I tried to think of something to say, but before I could answer, he went on, his voice taking on a surprised tone. ‘Why, Margaret, you didn’t tell me you’d arrived early.’ The man suddenly laughed and drew me close in an embrace. ‘And you didn’t even greet your old uncle. When did you arrive? An hour ago? You must tell me about your journey. Are you warm enough? Have you been offered a drink?’