The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (2 page)

Jake stood ready in a brown waist coat and high-collared white shirt, slim, high-waisted trousers covering black boots, a double-breasted frock coat for warmth, and a tall, black hat on his head. In one hand he held a small satchel of extra clothing, in the other a bag filled with gold coins. It contained the equivalent of five thousand British pounds, which in 1820 could supply an entire family with a sumptuous living for years. The team had decided that Jake would use the name Jackson Taylor, rather than Jacob Hershowitz, to avoid the anti-Semitism common in Europe at that time, but physically, he would fit in just fine. He was stocky and short with pale skin, light brown, wavy hair, brown eyes, and an open, friendly face; he had been coached in the speech and mannerisms of the day and had participated in several of the VR simulations.

It was nine-thirty at night on Tuesday, January second. The team had calculated that Jake would actually emerge in 1820 on the fourth instead of the second, but at the same time in the evening. It would be cold and dark, and the streets would probably be mostly empty. Time-matter sensors in the lab could sense the warmth of living beings, and the size and approximate weight of life forms in the immediate vicinity of the portal exit at the back of the alley in 1820, the same location where the pod now resided. In order for Jake to return to 2120, he would have to return to the location of the portal exit in the alley. The scientist on duty would note the size and weight of the life form and make sure it exactly matched Jake’s pre-recorded physical measurements
before bringing him back. It all would happen in a matter of seconds.

As she looked at the heat sensor monitor, Cassandra noticed small flickers of light dart back and forth through the alley—cats and rats, by the size of them—but no humans. Another half hour ticked by. Jake was ready to go. If they waited much longer, the inn might be closed for the night. Jake stepped into the pod with his bags, and everyone stood ready at their stations. James was manning the travel mode. Cassandra double-checked that the functions were correctly set. All systems were ready to go. Jake waved enthusiastically, the pod door slid closed, the computer sounded a tone, the pod hummed, and within a second, he was gone.

It took Cassandra a moment to adjust to the enveloping darkness but Jake had warned her. Electricity made a huge difference to the lightness of a city. A faint flicker of firelight glowed in a few small windows of thick glass that shone onto the alleyway. She perceived a gas lamp softly glowing out on the street. She looked up. She could see a million stars—a peculiarly vivid night sky for London. She cleared her head; she had to hurry. It would be very dangerous for her to be caught alone in such an obscure place. She was carrying a knife in her cloak pocket, which she clutched. A second later, the cold hit her. She was not dressed for it. She let the knife fall back into her pocket, grabbed her two bags, and ran to the street. She knew to turn left; the inn was just one short block away. She passed only two or three people hurrying through the freezing night air. She arrived at the White Hart in a matter of minutes and breathed a sigh of relief. A doorman showed her in with a look of surprise, and immediately relieved her of her bags which were then passed off to the bellman.

“May I show ya the front desk, miss?” he asked, in a thick cockney accent. He looked her over thoroughly with protruding eyes.

“Yes, please,” she replied, allowing herself to be led.

“Good evening, miss,” said the innkeeper, who struggled to his feet from where he had been dozing in his chair, “May I help you?” He quickly smoothed his thinning hair.

“I am Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.” she said to him. “My representative, Mr. Jackson Taylor was here several days ago arranging for my arrival. He said you would have a room available for me.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Franklin. He paid well to reserve you the best room in the inn. He predicted the date of your arrival quite accurately, and here you are!” He tapped on his registration book. “Good, very good. I am sure you are tired coming all that way from Portsmouth, not to mention the journey from America. How pleased we are to have you here! Can I set up a room for your maid as well?” he asked, craning to look around her.

“No,” Cassandra said with a choke in her voice. “My maid, she…she did not survive the journey from America. I am quite alone.”

“Oh dear heavens! We had no idea—so sorry, so very sorry,” he exclaimed.

“If you please,” replied Cassandra, dropping her eyelids, “I would like to simply retire for the evening; I am overcome.”

“Yes, of course, at your service, ma’am. Charlie!” he called to the young bellman. “Get Betsy. Have her show Mrs. Franklin to her room immediately. Get the fire lit, bring her a warm basin of water; make sure she has the freshest linens, and a glass of wine. Hurry now, hurry! Are you hungry, Mrs. Franklin?”

“No, thank you,” murmured Cassandra while dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You are too kind.”

Charlie had not yet gone to fetch Betsy, but stood staring at the visitor. “Is it only the two bags, ma’am?” he uttered.

“Yes, I…I brought very little in the interest of—starting over, you know.”

“No need to say another word, I’ll fetch ‘em upstairs in two shakes.” He hurried off, leaving the bags in their place.

Cassandra and the innkeeper stood awkwardly alone for a moment. Cassandra sniffed the air. Something smelled like moldy cheese. Was it the innkeeper?

Betsy appeared and guided the visitor to her room. With the shock of being thrust into a world she could only before dream and read about, and the relief at having successfully arrived at her destination, Cassandra allowed herself to be fussed over by the maid. Charlie arrived with the bags and then retreated. Finally, locking herself in, she considered her first night in the world of 1820 England.

She gazed around the room, cheerfully lit by lamps and candles. The fire blazed in the hearth, but she now realized how she had always taken for granted the wonder of
integrated heating.
The gas that lit the lamps on the streets and the coal and wood that were used for heat were, by 2120, quaint remnants of a world that had once fought constantly over oil and almost driven itself to catastrophe by global warming with the use of fossil fuels. Now, at this moment, Cassandra was stunned by the inefficiency of fire. Her first order of business tomorrow would be to purchase heavier woolen undergarments and order sturdier gowns. Though Jake had warned her about the cold, he was a man who had the privilege of wearing pants and jackets and couldn’t guess how much colder she would be.

The room was probably quite luxurious for an inn of the time, she decided. She took in each item. The curtains were heavy red velvet, faded with time and dusty at the top. The four poster bed, the principal piece of furniture in the room, had a thick headboard of dark wood, nicked in places, and was canopied with the same velvet curtains as the windows. At the foot was a large chest on which Charlie had placed her suitcase. There was a spindly writing desk and chair in a corner, an armoire against one wall with a crack running down one of the doors, a painted dresser against another with an oval mirror above it, and near the dresser, a pitcher of water, a glass and a basin on a small round table, covered with a yellowed lace doily. She looked down at a red print area rug at her feet that was worn, but clean. Something scuttled along the edge of the wall and caught her eye. A cockroach. She shuddered, and ran to her suitcase, extracting a tiny folded packet from a small cloth pouch containing many similar packets. She unfolded it and blew on the fine powder contained inside. It dispersed into the air, becoming invisible almost at once. The microfine insecticide went to work and in seconds the cockroach stopped dead. Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief knowing that all crawling creatures abiding in the room would now die as well (though the formula was totally harmless to humans), and none others would intrude for several days.

She lifted her cosmetics case onto the dresser and stopped for a moment to look in the mirror. How did she appear to these people, she wondered? Now that the trip was a reality, this question loomed larger than she ever thought it would. She’d been nervous about seeming out of place, but standing in front of the ancient mirror, that possibility took on a whole other level of importance.

Her image was soft in the lamplight. For one thing, she knew that no one would ever guess that she was anywhere close to her age. She could easily pass for thirty. In comparison, Betsy, who Cassandra imagined to actually be around thirty years old, was already missing teeth, her cheeks were hollow and her skin was lined. Cassandra smiled at herself. Her teeth were perfect, more perfect than those of ninety-nine percent of the people of any class that she would encounter during her stay—and white, too white. Well, she hadn’t been willing to stain them; she’d have to make up some story about the miracle tooth powder in America if anyone commented. And her hair, even in the low light, shined. It had no gray, thanks to the years of taking herbal supplements, which allowed one’s hair to continually grow any color one wanted, depending on the formula. Her blue/gray eyes had been treated by laser surgery to install UV blockers and shade adjusters, which, like the sunglasses of decades ago, grew darker to shade the retina when exposed to the sun.

She turned her head from one side to the other and examined her face. Her skin was almost without wrinkles, sags or jowls, just a few laugh lines around the eyes (for good measure). She had collagen rebirth treatments to thank for that, as well as creams and pills that blocked sun damage and rebuilt cells. When she got really old, she figured, she could always rely on cosmetic adjustments to reverse the signs of aging. Of course, good health on the inside was a factor too.

She opened the cosmetics case. Inside were powdered concentrates of the various herbs and vitamins she relied on to maintain her health and youthfulness. They were all packaged to look like products of the day (things you could only buy in America, she would say). There were creams and lotions—more than enough for her year’s stay.

Cassandra went back to her suitcase and removed her nightgown. She had insisted to Betsy that she unpack her own things; this was easier than worrying about what might arouse curiosity. She took off her gown and stiff undergarments, leaving on her bloomers, stockings, and chemise. (Shannon had insisted that she wear a lighter, shorter version of a corset, which she said the fashionable ladies wore at the time under their dressy clothes). She threw her nightgown over her thermal underthings, shivering. She quickly cleansed her face with her specially prepared creams and brushed her teeth with the sort of toothpowder and toothbrush that looked authentic to the time period but were, in fact, undetectably enhanced to perform up to modern standards. She was relieved not to have to take the time to remove make-up. Even though she’d had her eyelashes and eyebrows permanently dyed, and subtle, but permanent color applied to her lips, she was still used to wearing a little bit. Well, it’s all natural for me from now on, she thought. Okay, not quite
all
natural.

Finally, she removed a vintage perfume bottle from her case. She removed the stopper, which extracted a little glass wand. Once she applied the lavender-scented liquid to her wrists it would work subcutaneously and she would be asleep within a minute. Time travel was upsetting to the body’s natural rhythms, and though it was dark outside, her body had not adjusted to the time of day. This night was the zenith of nearly a lifetime’s work. Anything could happen, anything could go wrong. She needed her wits about her and she needed sleep. She touched the cold wand of the sleep aid to her wrists, extinguished the candles, and climbed under the thick covers of the bed, confident that the bug powder had done its job. She snuggled in to get warm and noticed that the bed smelled of unidentifiable soap, of sheets still damp from the London air. Her heart was pounding with all that lay before her. But the sleep aid started doing its work, her heartbeat slowed, her breathing deepened, and she closed her eyes on the first few hours of her new life in Regency England.

In the morning she woke to a soft rap on the door.

“Come in!” she called from the warm bed.

A key turned in the lock as Cassandra peered out from under the covers. The cold in the room stung her face.

“Good morning, ma’am,” declared Betsy as she entered. “I’ve come to light your fire and bring you some warm water for bathing. I could even arrange a tub for you if you please, after your long journey.”

A bath sounded good but complicated. “I think I shall make do with the basin for now; thank-you, but perhaps later.”

“Very well, ma’am.” Cassandra watched Betsy stoke up the fire from the snug warmth of her bed. “Would you like me to open the curtains?”

“I shall do it, Betsy, thank you so much.” She envied the thick fabric of the maid’s dress.

Betsy hesitated. “Very well. And how about yer breakfast, ma’am. Shall I bring it up or would y’ care to have it downstairs in the parlor?”

“I think I will take it up here,” replied Cassandra; she wasn’t quite ready to make small talk with the other guests. She considered it better to seem a little shy for now, and build up to the socializing in due time. She suddenly felt insecure about everything from her clothes to her mannerisms. She knew she was well studied and trained, but in spite of the help from all her coaches and the simulations, she knew she would eventually make mistakes.

“Very good, ma’am… if there is nothing else—”

“No Betsy, that will be all.”

“Very well then, I will leave you to yerself, and I will have yer breakfast in about twenty minutes.”

“Sounds wonderful, thank you.”

Betsy’s smile faded as she glanced around the room again. Cassandra just stared at her, at a loss for what else to say, until the woman finally gave a nod and backed out of the room.

“Sounds wonderful?” Cassandra repeated to herself. Is that something they would say? Think, Cassandra! Think before you speak, for God’s sake!

She began to clean up as well as she could, as close to the fire as possible, and to dress in the warmest clothes she had brought. She had practiced getting in and out of the garments many times, and could manage it pretty well by now. Shannon designed both the inner and outer wear so that she could put it on without assistance, which was no small feat considering the complexity of the clothing that was worn by the upper class—and of course, it all must still appear completely authentic to anyone, such as a maid, who might come in contact with it. The gowns had flattering high waists and little need to be held in by girdles and corsets because the comfortable undergarments that Shannon had designed provided structure with stays and improved one’s posture and bust line.

Cassandra finished dressing and turned to her hair. She had also practiced over and over winding it into a high pile of curls at the back of her head, using only the implements that would be available to her in 1820, and could do it quickly now. Just as she was finishing, Betsy appeared with the breakfast.

“Oh! Right elegant you are, ma’am, such a beauty, my goodness!” she exclaimed.

Cassandra blushed. “You are too kind, I am sure,” she replied, feeling it was the correct response. She followed Betsy to the writing desk.

“Oh, not at all, ma’am, not at all,” Betsy replied, setting the tray down. Her breath wafted over Cassandra, who quickly turned her head from the odor. But then the maid moved away and the delicious smell of the breakfast prevailed. Cassandra looked it over: eggs and ham, rolls and butter, tea with thick cream and honey, oatmeal porridge with dried fruit, a large slice of pale yellow cheese. She would never be able to eat it all.