Under An English Moon (19 page)

“I know,” Mattie agreed.

“What sorts of novels shall you write, Mattie?” Reggie asked.

“Romance novels, Reggie. Want to be in one of them?” Mattie giggled, and Phoebe joined her.

Reggie pressed his lips together. “Certainly not,” he replied.

“Don’t worry, Reggie. I’ll change your name, but I’ll probably have to use you in one—you and Phoebe. I can’t make William the hero in every book. Someone will figure out who he is.”

William approached.

“Do I hear my name?”

“William! Phoebe works as a copy editor at Sinclair Publishing in New York City. You haven’t opened it yet, but you know you will. That’s why the publishers are coming for dinner tonight,” she said to Mattie and Reggie.

“What a coincidence!” William said, eyeing Phoebe afresh. “A copy editor, you say. Do I pay you adequately? Should you be promoted to assistant publisher?”

Phoebe laughed. “Well, sure. Just write me a note, and I’ll take it back with me.”

At her words, Reggie’s smile dropped, and Phoebe bit her lip.

“Well,
if
I go back,” she amended. Phoebe had the worst feeling that she might not have any choice in the matter. Could she really avoid the moon every month for the rest of her life? Would she need to if she finally got up the gumption to marry Reggie? Mattie and William celebrated the moon and wished on it once a month—to stay together. Hopefully, they never wished on it when they were mad at each other.

She let her hand brush against Reggie’s, and she squeezed his fingers lightly. If Mattie wrote books, and Phoebe edited for her, maybe a lifetime of “visiting and sewing” wouldn’t be in her future. Reggie responded with a squeeze of his own before releasing her to clasp his hands behind his back.

“Then I shall count upon your advice and counsel when we meet with the publishers, Miss Warner, for you already know the outcome,” William said.

“Oh, I don’t know how the publishing house got started, William. I’ve only worked there for about a year.”

“You know much more than we do at the moment, Miss Warner.”

“I just don’t want to do anything that might affect the future,” Phoebe said. “What would happen if I did?”

Mattie nodded. “I have wondered the same thing, Phoebe. If by knowing the outcome of the future—what happens—could I inadvertently affect it in some way?”

“It certainly poses an interesting question, does it not?” Reggie mused. “Phoebe felt it best we not research my family on the ‘Inter-net’ on the chance that knowing the date of my death might distress me. And yet, had I known my future, would I now take steps to avoid or even promote the outcome of that future?”

Although her intentions had been good, Phoebe now wondered if she should have at least looked to see whom he married, if that information was available. And knowing whom, would she try to change or promote the same outcome herself? She had a feeling that if it weren’t her, she’d be very, very unhappy.

“I know what you mean,” she said.

“There is no way of knowing, is there?” Mattie said.

“Enough speculation,” William said. “It will drive us all mad. Tell me as much as you know of the publishing house, Miss Warner. In this case, I may use your knowledge to negotiate with the publishers who come to visit. For the foreseeable future, I must use their expertise to delve into the business, but knowing that the company will be long-lived, even beyond my time, will help me make some decisions.”

For the next hour, Phoebe, Mattie, and William discussed the publishing house...or as much of it as Phoebe understood. Mattie asserted that she didn’t want to hear about her books, how many she would write, or anything about them in case the knowledge inhibited her writing in any way. Phoebe agreed that was a good plan.

“I’ve heard one editor say that nothing can block a writer as much as their own expectations of themselves. So, I agree, you shouldn’t know anything about the books you’ll write.”

“But
you
do,” Mattie grinned.

“Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “I know almost all of them. I’m a diehard fan!”

Mattie blushed. “Aw, a fan already! I’m touched!” She chuckled, and Phoebe laughed.

“Well, listen, I’m going into the village this afternoon to do some shopping, and I think you’d better come with me to see the local seamstress, Phoebe. That is, if you’re staying. Otherwise, you can borrow my stuff,” Mattie said.

“I don’t have any money to pay for clothes.” Phoebe bit her lower lip. “Is it all right if I borrow yours for a little while longer?”

“I will purchase clothing for you, as you have done for me, Phoebe,” Reggie said. “I insist.”

“No, no,” Phoebe protested. “It doesn’t make sense to have a seamstress make a bunch of dresses if...” She left the words hanging. Oh, why had Mattie brought the subject up?

“If you will not stay?” Reggie said in a quiet voice.

Mattie and William looked from one to the other.

“Well, we’ll leave you two to discuss it. You decide,” Mattie said. “I’m leaving in about fifteen minutes. I could use the company if nothing else, Phoebe.”

“I’ll come with you,” Phoebe said. Mattie and William left the drawing room, and Phoebe looked to Reggie.

“I’m sorry, Reggie. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just don’t want to waste anyone’s money...or the seamstress’s time.”

“She will be glad of the work,” Reggie said. “It is not every day a seamstress in the village is commissioned to sew dresses for a lady of quality. The local ladies normally acquire their clothing in London. As for my ‘feelings,’ as you call them, they do continue to sustain bruising, but that is not unexpected. You have been placed in a very difficult situation, and I must remain sympathetic to your plight. You have been forthright with me in desiring more time with which to make a decision regarding marriage to me and, consequently, whether you will stay.”

“I love you, Reggie, no matter what,” Phoebe said with a tremulous smile.

“Then why must you ponder a decision?” Reggie asked in a harsh voice.

Phoebe opened her mouth to speak, but Reggie threw up a hand.

“No, no, forgive me,” he said, rubbing his hand over his brow. “My world is much simpler than yours. If a gentleman is enamored of a suitable lady, he asks her to marry him. If she responds in kind and is also suitable, she accepts. And the deed is done.”

“Am I suitable?” Phoebe asked with a tender lift of her lips.

“To me, you are,” Reggie said. He stood and took her hands in his, pulling her into his arms. “Imminently suitable.”

Phoebe smelled the clean scent of soap on his coat as she laid her face against his chest. His heart beat steadily against her ear. She couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone more than she did him.

“I accept,” she whispered, pressing her face harder against his coat.

His heartbeat started thudding, and he set her from him to search her face.

“You accept?”

Phoebe swallowed hard, ignoring her fears—the fact that she barely knew him or whether she would ever return to her own time. She nodded.

“Yes, I accept.”

“Oh, my love,” Reggie whispered as he pulled her back into his arms and kissed her with a fervent warmth that made her head spin. “You have made me the happiest man in the world.”

Phoebe clung to him and kissed him back. “I love you, Reggie,” she muttered. “That’s the only reason I’m marrying you.”

He lifted his head to look at her with a raised brow. “But that is the best reason of all, my dear girl. Do you not agree?”

Phoebe nodded. She regretted the silly words and wasn’t quite sure why she’d said what she did. She suspected she meant that despite the myriad of complications inherent in loving a man from 1827, she believed love would conquer all. She truly hoped it would.

“Just promise me you don’t have a wife hidden in an attic,” Phoebe muttered.

Reggie laughed. “The wife in the attic again?” He shook his head. “Oh, my poor love, what novels
have
you been reading? There is no wife in an attic. And since I shall purchase a new home for us, you may be the first to inspect the attic. Will that ease your fears?”

Phoebe chuckled and shook her head. “It’s a metaphor, Reggie, for the things I don’t know about you. But you can bet I’ll be checking the attic.”

A knock on the door startled them, and they pulled apart.

Mattie stuck her head in, a charming bonnet trimmed in silk roses on framing her face.

“Anyone going to the village with me? We should at least get you some slippers.”

“Yes, I’m going,” Phoebe said. “How about you, Reggie? Since you’re footing the bill.” Phoebe surprised herself with the ease to which she transitioned from diffident stranger to money-sharing fiancée.

“Footing the bill?” Reggie laughed. “Yes, I will indeed accompany you.”

“Did I miss something?” Mattie said, eyeing the two with a widening smile.

Reggie bowed his head formally. “I have the happy pleasure to announce that Miss Phoebe Warner has consented to become my wife.”

“Phoebe!” Mattie exclaimed moving forward into the room to hug her. “Congratulations!” She turned to hug Reggie, who looked taken aback at the intimate gesture. “Oh, this is great! Now, you’ll stay!” She turned back to Phoebe with a furrowed brow. “You are staying, right? Or are you planning on taking Reggie back with you...if you can.”

Phoebe shook her head. “No, we’re staying. Although I don’t know if I could have made that decision before I met you and saw that you are surviving.”

“I am, my dear, I am,” Mattie said. “The best of both worlds would be a machine that can transport us back in time like a plane, but in the meantime, I’m content to stay here. I really didn’t leave anything behind.”

Phoebe thought of Annie worrying about her disappearance, of her beloved job at the publishing house, her favorite books she must leave behind. She looked at Mattie. The author stood in front of her. And one of the heroes of her books, Reggie, stood right beside her. What more could a girl want? Chocolate? That had been served at breakfast.

After passing the news of the engagement to William, Mattie, Phoebe and Reggie set out in the carriage to visit the village. Phoebe had ridden on a stagecoach once in a touristy Midwestern town, but she’d never been in a carriage. The feel of the ride wasn’t very different from the stagecoach—lots of rocking and jostling. Reggie had taken the seat opposite them facing the rear as Mattie professed to get “carriage-sick” if she rode backward. Phoebe suspected she would feel the same.

Reggie kept his eyes on her—his expressions ranging from loving affection to tenderness to happiness. Phoebe blushed at his steady gaze and dropped her eyes. Could she live up to the love in his eyes? Would she disappoint him in some way? Did he love an idealized version of some sort of woman from the future? She put the thoughts away and prepared to enjoy her first ride in a carriage and her first sight of an English village—in any century.

Hardly what Phoebe would call a village, the small town of Wellston sported a wide main street, albeit of hard-packed dirt, fronted by rows of three-story brick buildings. A large church with its iconic spire dominated one end of the street. The carriage pulled up to a large red-brick building fronted by a charming white-trimmed bay window. Several small carriages, and one vehicle that looked a lot like her stagecoach, lined up in front of the building as if loading or unloading passengers.

“This is the Village Inn,” Mattie said. “We’ll just park here and make our way around town on foot. This is the largest staging inn in town. Lots of coaches come through here to and from London. I’m trying to remember how I saw things when I first arrived. I was pretty dazzled. Wild, isn’t it?”

Phoebe nodded as Reggie stepped out of the carriage and helped them down.

“We’ll have tea here before we return to the house. You may not need it, but Reggie is used to having tea. We won’t have dinner until much later.”

Mattie spoke to the driver, and the carriage moved away and turned right as if to go behind the building.

Reggie offered them his arms, and they moved away down the street, stopping at the wooden door of a first-floor shop over which hung a sign “Ladies Dressmaker.”

Mattie lowered her voice before they went in. “Now, this lady is the daughter of a local preacher who died some years ago, so she’s had to open up a shop. As is usual, he didn’t leave anything for her, and there’s no welfare system to help anyone.”

“I was unaware of that, Mattie,” Reggie said.

“Well, no, I don’t know why you would be.”

The door suddenly opened, and Samuel stepped out. He jumped back when he saw them, then bit his lips and nodded.

“Reggie,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Sinclair, Miss Warner. I did not know you were coming to the village, Reggie.”

“I must say I think it highly unusual to find you frequenting a ladies dressmaker, Samuel,” Reggie grinned. “We are come shopping for Miss Warner who seeks some clothing of English design. And what do you do here?”

Samuel looked over his shoulder at the closed door. “An errand for Lady Hamilton. Nothing more.”

The door opened, and a lovely dark-haired woman in her mid twenties, Phoebe guessed, greeted them.

“Mrs. Sinclair! How do you do?” She curtsied. “Please come in.”

The blush on the woman’s cheeks and matching redness in Samuel’s face needed no explanation—at least not to Phoebe. She suspected Mattie summed up the situation at the same time by the way her eyes darted from the seamstress to Samuel. Reggie bowed, seeming to notice nothing.

“Miss Tollerton...Sarah, this is a cousin of mine from America, Phoebe Warner, and you may know Samuel’s brother, Reggie Hamilton?”

“Lord Hamilton, Miss Warner, welcome. Please come inside.” She held the door wide, avoiding looking at Samuel. Although Mattie had not introduced Reggie by his title, it seemed that the dressmaker knew of his family. From Samuel, no doubt.

“With your permission, Mrs. Sinclair, Miss Warner, I shall visit with my brother while you ladies do whatever it is you do in dress shops. Miss Tollerton, please direct the bill to me at Mrs. Sinclair’s address.”