Under An English Moon (11 page)

Sinclair! It seemed only yesterday that Reggie resented that name. William Sinclair, his step-brother, who had married the lady of his dreams, Matilda Crockwell. Looking down upon Phoebe’s lovely brown locks, he thought he could not remember the color of Miss Crockwell’s hair at the moment.

However, that was England almost two hundred years in the past. The name Sinclair was common enough as was his own. He imagined the name was merely a coincidence.

Phoebe flipped a switch on the wall and soft lighting flooded the entrance. She led the way down a tan-carpeted hallway and stopped in front of a door. A metal holder held a small sign which read “Phoebe Warner, Copy Editor.”

“You have an office of your own? I did not realize you held such an important position,” Reggie exclaimed.

Phoebe chuckled. “Not me. But I am lucky to have an office. Here, take a seat.” She pulled a wheeled chair toward a large glass-topped desk and took the other seat behind the desk. Reggie sat in the proffered chair and almost fell out of it, the back unexpectedly giving way as the sea spun around in a circle.

“Watch out!” Phoebe laughed before clamping a hand over her mouth.

“What in the—” Reggie jumped up and regarded the offending seat. “Is this a rocking chair?”

“No, no,” Phoebe chuckled. “Well, kind of, I guess. It’s just a desk chair. You know, the back relaxes, the wheels move, the chair rotates.”

Reggie stared hard at the chair, almost willing it to behave. He’d had enough of appearing foolish in Phoebe’s eyes. Better prepared, he gingerly retook his seat and settled into it, keeping a firm hold of the arm lest it move in some other unexpected fashion. When nothing happened for a moment, he crossed his legs and relaxed.

Phoebe had been pushing various buttons on a small machine, and he watched with interest.

“And what is that? The
Inter
-net?”

“No, this is the computer. We will get to the Internet through it. The Internet is a source of information, but you can’t touch it, you can’t feel it, you can’t turn a page. It’s like a huge book, but not.”

Reggie shook his head, feeling particularly obtuse.

“Here,” she said. “I’ll type in Lord Reginald Hamilton.”

Reggie tried to see the glass frame on the machine but could not.

“May I approach?”

“Oh, sure,” Phoebe said.

He took a position behind her and leaned over her shoulder. He straightened quickly. Her scent caught him by surprise—a sweet, fresh smell of spring flowers. Reggie was not at all certain that he could behave with decorum under the heady influence of her nearness.

“Are you all right?” She asked as she looked up at him.

“Yes, indeed,” he murmured. He took a deep breath and attempted to concentrate on the glass frame of the machine. The soft-appearing skin of Phoebe’s exposed arms tantalized him. Her hair shone like silk under the overhead lights. Reggie straightened again and reseated himself in the chair. The struggle to prevent himself from touching her proved too much, and he needed distance.

“What’s the matter?” Phoebe asked. Her cheeks held a decidedly pink tinge.

Reggie cleared his throat. “It is nothing. I think it best that I not encroach upon your person.”

Phoebe smiled shyly, as if she knew what he was thinking.

“I see,” she said. Did she? Could he be so besotted with a woman after so little time in her company? What of his sorrow over Miss Crockwell, now Mrs. Sinclair? Was his calf-love so easily forgotten? Did American women hold a particular appeal to him? And if so, why?

No, he thought not. He had fancied himself in love once or twice with English girls as a youth. It was not their country of origin. Not accent, nor the customs nor even the bold familiarity though he found himself charmed by it at times. It was almost as if the former Miss Crockwell and Phoebe shared similar mannerisms though they had been born almost two hundred years apart, and which could not be solely accounted for by the mere virtue of a common shared heritage.

“Oh, look!” Phoebe cried out. “Here’s your name on a listing of British peers! This could be you!” She turned to him with an intent look in her eyes. “Reggie, if I click into this site, it could possibly show the date of your death...or maybe your disappearance, if you don’t return. I don’t want to know when you die, and I can’t believe you do either.”

Reggie struggled to comprehend how the glass screen could hold such information, especially that which had not yet occurred. He reminded himself that he had traveled in time to the future. The world held unknown potential.

“You are saying it is possible to ascertain whether I shall return to my own time?”

Phoebe nodded. She pulled her hands from the buttons on the machine and slid them under her lower limbs sit upon, as a child might. An endearing gesture.

She seemed loath to return her attention to the screen but kept her eyes averted.

Reggie was not certain he was prepared to know his fate either—certainly not the date of his death. Nor did he wish to know at this immediate moment whether he returned to the past for if he did, he most surely would never see Phoebe again. That was a future he did not wish to contemplate.

“I admit to some reticence to delve further into this investigation, Phoebe. I am not certain that I am ready to return home just yet.” His cheeks heated, and he hoped she would not notice. “That is to say, there is so much to learn from your time. Is it possible to inquire into my accounts without obtaining any other information?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t see how, Reggie. I really don’t. The Internet is pretty notorious for listing birth and death dates of almost anyone really, famous or not. And there is no way to filter that information out. If we start to dig into your family, there is the potential that you’ll discover when your family passed away, whether you had descendents...or even whether you married. You’d know the entire course of your life...if you do manage to return.” She shook her head. “I don’t think we should do this. Or at least, I don’t think
you
should do this.
I
can look it up and just not tell you what you probably shouldn’t know in advance.”

“You would edit my life?” He meant the comment only in jest but was taken aback when Phoebe swung her head toward him with large, luminous eyes. Several tears slipped down her face, and she shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands in a helpless gesture.

“That’s what I do. I’m an editor.”

Reggie covered one of her hands with his.

“Do not fret, Phoebe. I meant it only in jest and did not remember that your profession.”

Phoebe’s small fingers turned within his palm and clung to his hand with a tight grasp. He looked down at their clasped hands and raised them to his lips.

“Come! We shall trouble ourselves no further on this matter today. Show me your New York City.” He rose and pulled her to her feet.

“Wait! I have to shut the computer down,” she said. Reggie moved to wait by the open doorway. He spied a line of portraits on the wall across the hall, and he approached to peruse them. Lifelike, it was as if the men and women in them stood before him, their faces encased in frames with glass coverings.

“Almost there. Some program is running,” Phoebe said. Reggie looked over his shoulder toward her. She stared at her computer impatiently.

He returned his attention to the portraits. Names were etched upon metal fittings on the frames. One name caught his eye. Thomas Ringwood, Editor-in-Chief. An elderly man gazed at him, white hair echoed in the color of his sideburns and mustache.

Reggie narrowed his eyes and stared at the portrait. It was not possible. Thomas Ringwood had indeed left for America only the year prior with his bride, Sylvie Sinclair. But the man in the portrait was much older than the Thomas he had known, and Thomas had not sported facial hair. He shook his head. No, not possible. Time travel was playing havoc with his senses. He thought every name he encountered was that of someone he knew in England. He imagined himself smitten by a young woman he had only just met. And he carried bags about like a groom. A groom he might soon be, if he could not find the bulk of his family’s fortune without fixing his date of death.

“Are you ready?” Phoebe said. “Ah! The publishers’ wall. Quite impressive, isn’t it?”

Reggie nodded. “Yes, I thought I recognized a familiar name, but that is not possible. Still, tell me about this process of painting which renders the visage so lifelike.”

Chapter Seven

Phoebe spent a glorious day with Reggie, showing him the sights of Manhattan—a day which she hoped to repeat many times. She delighted in his astonishment at the sights and sounds of Times Square, not the least of which was an underwear-wearing, guitar-playing cowboy. He marveled at the view from the top of the Empire State Building and insisted on riding the elevator twice. He pronounced pretzels with mustard from a street vendor to be his new favorite delicacy. He clung to the rails of the subway, his eyes widened at the speed of the train. A street market caught his eye, and he browsed for an hour, resisting when Phoebe tried to move him along with comments about how much more there was to see.

As dusk approached, they returned to the apartment. Phoebe had steeled herself to spend the next few hours trying to fool Annie, but she found a note on the console table just inside the entrance stating Annie had gone out to meet several old friends and would not be back until late. She noted that her flight left early in the morning.

Phoebe checked her cell phone, which had apparently been off since she went to bed last night. Annie had indeed texted the same information by phone.

“Annie won’t be back until late tonight, so maybe I won’t have to make up any more stories for a while. That’s a relief.”

“I noted that your skill with weaving tales appears to grow by leaps and bounds.” Reggie grinned. He stood just inside the living room, as if uncertain of what to do.

“Funny!” Phoebe said with a smirk. “Have a seat. I think I’ll order a pizza. I still didn’t make it to the grocery store. Any chance you’ve had pizza before?”

“Peet-sah,” Reggie repeated to Phoebe’s amusement. “This is a bread dish from Italy, is that not true? I have heard of this food, from the streets of Naples. I have not eaten peet-sah though.”

Phoebe could have kissed him. He was so darn adorable.

He settled himself on the sofa, his blue-jeaned legs seeming to jut out too far from the edge of the cushion. He tapped his hands on his knees and studied Annie’s wall art.

Phoebe picked up her cell phone and called the local pizza joint down the street. Not the best pizza she’d ever had, but it was food.

“Would you like some iced tea? I don’t have anything else to drink. Not like hard liquor or anything.”

“Tea would be lovely. Did you say ‘iced tea?’”

“Yes, I have some in the fridge. But if you want hot tea, I’m sure I can find some tea bags. I just didn’t think hot tea and pizza would go together.”

“No, I should very much like to try this ‘iced tea.’ I wonder if it is similar to our tea punch, although tea punch does include liquor as an ingredient.”

“Nope, this tea is just straight. No punch to it.”

“It will suffice.”

Phoebe poured out two tall glasses and brought them to the living room. She sat down on one of the easy chairs opposite Reggie and watched him sip his tea. A smile lit up his face.

“Delightful,” he said. He seemed to include her in his appreciation.

Phoebe smiled, inordinately pleased. She found herself suddenly tongue-tied, wishing the pizza would arrive and provide a distraction from Reggie’s continued regard. He watched her steadily as if he was trying to memorize her face.

“Well, the pizza should be here soon,” she said.

“How will it arrive?”

“They deliver it. Usually, they send a boy up with it. It’s only a five minute walk.”

“Would that we had such a hot food delivery service.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said. Having exhausted the pizza conversation, she struggled to come up with conversation. “Tell me about life in your time, Reggie.”

“What would you like to know? It seems you know more of how my life has been conducted than I know about yours—from a historical perspective, that is.”

“Well, how about courtship?” Phoebe rushed in. “You’re what? Twenty-five?”

“I am not yet five and twenty.” Reggie nodded, his eyes wary.

“When are you expected to marry? We don’t really have those expectations anymore. I mean, people marry all the time, but it isn’t a given, a requirement—at least, not here in the United States. It is in some other countries though.”

Reggie shifted in his seat. “There is no requirement that I marry, of course, but it is, as you say, expected of me, especially since I am the heir to my father’s estate. My father has recently begun to make rumblings about such things, especially in light of his own recent nuptials, and a rash of marriages at neighboring estates.”

“But you don’t have anyone in mind yet?” Phoebe couldn’t help pushing the subject, though she suspected Reggie was uncomfortable. She had to know. “Wasn’t there a lady? An American? What happened to her?”

“She married another,” Reggie said, swallowing more tea. “And rightly so. I was but a boy, and she was no doubt very much in love with her future husband before I ever set eyes upon her, though I did not know it.” He looked down at his glass. “You have certain colloquialisms in your speech which remind me of her.”

“Really? Well, maybe that’s because we’re both American, although that’s back in 1827 or so, right? I don’t think our speech is at all the same as it was back then though. What do I say that reminds you of her?”

He shook his head and smiled. “I can think of no specific phrases. Perhaps it is the manner of your speech, the cadence, the accent. I do not know.”

“Is it a good thing?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes, Miss Warner. It is a good thing.” His grin broadened.

Phoebe blushed. “I wish I could visit your time with you,” she said. “It must be so interesting.”

“I wish you could as well,” Reggie said. “Phoebe... I—” He was interrupted by the doorbell.