Regency Society Revisited Read online

  A fierce debate raged within the anthropologist. His grip alternately loosened then tightened against the padded top of the crutches. Finally, he spoke. “I also tore the anterior cruciate ligament in my knee. Surgery's scheduled for tomorrow and recovery may take up to six months.” DeVries scratched at his morning stubble. “The fool orthopedist is wrong. I can manage—"

  Dropping the rock, Axel felt his stomach plummet. “Let's see your medical report."

  DeVries fished inside his elegantly tailored jacket and pulled out some papers. It was a shame to see the stylish suit take such abuse. He made a move to rise, but Axel forestalled him. The man probably felt clumsy enough as it was.

  After getting the report, Axel scanned it. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The news was as he feared; the only treatment available for a partially torn ligament hadn't changed since the 1980s: arthroscopic surgery to staple or suture the ligament. Full recovery could even take longer than six months.

  He set the papers on his desk, as far away as possible. “You realize your trip is scheduled two weeks from now. There's no way you can recuperate in time. No way at all. And we can't request a different location for someone else's fieldwork. Regency England it is. Either that or lose the time slot."

  Losing the slot was unthinkable. The board would never go for that. A substitute for DeVries would have to be found. Deep in thought, Axel drummed his fingers.

  DeVries’ voice took on a wheedling tone. “Look, Rhinehart, by two weeks I'm sure I'll be able to walk without these damn things.” He gestured to his crutches. “Maybe I'll just need a cane."

  "You know the rules, DeVries. The traveler must be in excellent physical condition. No, we have to convince one of your colleagues to take your place."

  But who? Who fit all the criteria?

  "Damn!” DeVries yanked on his expensive tie, now hopelessly rumpled from the night's misadventures. “I can't believe my rotten luck. The chance of a lifetime, and someone gets to steal this opportunity right from under my nose. I—"

  "Of course! She's the logical replacement."

  "Who is? Who are you babbling about, Rhinehart?"

  Axel opened his file drawer and removed the folder on Serenity Steele.

  Using one crutch, DeVries raised himself up to view the file's name. “What? You're considering Steele as my replacement? Impossible. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes? I won't stand for it!"

  He probably realized the humor in his remark, for he eased himself back down, then cleared his throat. “What I mean to say, Rhinehart, a man has his pride. Stanhope B. DeVries to be replaced by Steele? God, man! Anyone but her. There's got to be another anthropologist willing to do the job. Steele's specialty is primitive societies, anyway."

  Rhinehart frowned. He had little sympathy for the man. After all, DeVries was responsible for Axel's current headache. And the man allowed his personal dislike of Serry to cloud his professional judgment—a cardinal sin for any anthropologist.

  Besides, he recited his name as if he were descended from kings. Stanhope B. DeVries, indeed.

  Axel sat back and locked his hands in back of his neck. “Actually, I consider Dr. Steele perfect for this assignment. And, as you should be aware, it's premodern societies, not primitive."

  He watched DeVries's green eyes widen and his hands clench into fists. Before the man could speak—or roar—Axel continued, “Yes, she's perfect. Remember, her doctorate detailed family and kinship in one of London's suburbs. I was her professor, you know. Brilliant fieldwork. Her research is still included in college curriculum."

  The tightness around his heart subsided. Serry already had experience with British customs. Barring DeVries, she'd be the best anthropologist to cover the socially complex world of Regency England. Perhaps even better than him.

  "You can't be serious, Rhinehart. She'll never do it. Look, when she was in London, something happened to Steele, something made her switch her area of expertise to premodern cultures. She'll never agree to time-travel to England."

  So that was why Serry abruptly changed her focus; Axel had always wondered about that. “Well, you better hope she does accept the assignment, DeVries. If the Institute loses this slot, you will be persona non grata around promotion time."

  That threat shut the man's mouth. DeVries glared at him, gathered the crutches, and hopped out the door. “You'll regret this, Rhinehart."

  If looks could kill!

  "Good luck in surgery tomorrow, DeVries."

  Axel ran his hand over his thinning hairs. By the ghost of Margaret Mead, if Serry had a grudge against England, how was he going to convince her to change her mind? And, more important, did he have the right to bulldoze her into taking the assignment?

  * * * *

  Serenity didn't usually arrive at the Institute before nine, but this morning she entered her office at ten past eight.

  "Attagirl, Steele,” she complimented herself. “Start the day right. Today's going to be especially productive."

  About to settle in behind her desk, she noticed the impatient red light blinking on her answering machine. She played her messages, then sat back and pulled on her ear lobe. Axel Rhinehart was the first and only recording. He also never arrived early, but here he was, asking to speak with her first thing. He'd sounded strange, too. Something unusual must be up.

  Grabbing a cup of coffee, she responded to his summons and once at his office, got comfortable on the couch.

  To her surprise, he sat next to her. “Serry, how would you like to take a trip?"

  "But I am taking a trip soon. First to Ghana in west Africa, then a follow-up in New Guinea."

  Axel sighed. It was a mournful sound. Whatever was troubling him?

  "I mean a trip to the past. Back in time."

  Serenity's heart stopped. “Back in time? My project was approved after all?” Hampered by the coffee mug, she tempered her excitement by curving one arm around him to give him a kiss. “Axel! This is ... this is wonderful!"

  About to launch into a discussion about her plans, she came to a screeching halt. Axel's normally cherub-pink face had greyed.

  "Serry, the three time slots haven't changed. This trip would be back to Regency England."

  "I don't understand."

  He stood, then half sat against his desk. The wooden surface groaned. “Stanhope DeVries had an accident."

  Axel cut short her expression of concern. “Just a broken leg plus a torn ligament. He's going to be fine except that traveling is out of the question. We need a replacement for him."

  Now she understood. Axel wanted her to volunteer to go back to the land of rigid class distinction. She shuddered. No way. No bloody way.

  "Sorry, Axel. I have to decline. The fieldwork doesn't interest me.” She sipped on the coffee. Its minty aroma failed to soothe her.

  "Serry, you've got to reconsider. Just think of the adventure. You'll be a pioneer. This is a one in a billion opportunity."

  She remained silent. Billion or otherwise, she wanted no part of it.

  He tried again, using a persuasive tone. “We have to thank our stars we're getting this chance. No amount of money on God's good Earth can buy a trip back in time, Serry. But you, you'll meet the giants who made history. You'll meet the British crown rulers. You'll be right there with them."

  Axel wiped his sweating forehead with a yellowed handkerchief. Did he realize his hard-sell pitch sounded false?

  Well, she had a ready reply. “The British crown rulers? George III went insane; George IV was a self-indulgent hedonist; William IV, a good-natured fool; and Victoria wasn't born yet. Why would I want to meet them? The project would be a waste of my time."

  "Ah, there you go again, Serry, demonstrating the two nouns of your name."

  "Sir?"

  He grinned. “You answered me serenely but with steel in your voice."

  "Now who's sweet talking?” Feeling less tense, she returned his grin. “You know, if my proposal had been approved ... of course I would've been more tha
n happy to step into the Time Displacement Wave."

  She avoided looking at the virtual reality window. No telling what bizarre scene would appear before her eyes. “Why don't you ask someone else?"

  His answer was quick. “Because you're perfect for the job. And excellent health is a requirement. Listen, Serry, I know you prefer working with less complex cultures. But the English upper class of the Regency era was a sub-culture in itself. The rules, fixed. The goals, simple. It'll be a glamorous vacation for you, my dear. Quite a change from your usual fieldwork."

  "It'll be a year out of my life, Axel. I have no intention to change my plans to suit the Institute.” She folded her arms against her chest.

  Rising, he stood in front of her. “The Institute needs you, Serry. You're young, attractive, very hale and hearty, and in between assignments.” He took a deep breath. “Also remember, you'd be stealing DeVries’ thunder. I seem to recall you two having a few words of disagreement in the past."

  "Who hasn't?” She wasn't being flip. After all, she wasn't the only one who clashed with Mr. High-and-Mighty DeVries.

  "Seriously, Axel, I'm not enamored of the Regency period and—"

  "I can't emphasize how important this is for all of us, Serry. We can't lose this slot."

  Heaven help her, she felt herself weakening. Her old college professor rarely asked her for anything.

  "Serry, I know Stanhope DeVries—"

  She cocked her head in warning.

  "Pardon, Stanhope B. DeVries!” Axel corrected, a smile lighting his lips. “Anyway, I know there's an undercurrent of antagonism between you both."

  "That's putting it mildly."

  "But actually, you and he are a lot alike."

  "Axel! Bite your tongue."

  He rubbed his balding head. “When I suggested you as his replacement, he was livid."

  A grin, slow in coming, spread across her face. “I just bet he was. Total outrage, right? If I agree to this trip, there'd be some healthy competition, wouldn't there?” She laughed. “I'll admit to wanting to rub his aristocratic face in prehistoric dirt!"

  Axel joined her in laughter but his expression was wary. Maybe that decided her. She couldn't bear for him to be so worried about losing the Displacement Wave slot.

  Holding out her hand for a formal handshake, she sighed. “All right, I can see some advantages. For the record, and against my better judgment, I agree to travel back in time for the express purpose of conducting research and writing a monograph on Regency England."

  He vigorously pumped her hand. “Serry, you won't regret this."

  She shook her head. “You're wrong. I regret it already. If anyone else had asked me, I would have turned them down cold."

  "I know, Serry. Thanks."

  He leafed through some papers, then handed her a heavy package. “Here is some required reading about your trip. Also, I've scheduled you for an orientation briefing at one o'clock today."

  "At one? You were that certain I'd say yes, hmmn?” Taking the package felt like receiving the death sentence. What on earth had she done? Panic spread quickly through her veins.

  Although she didn't mean to, her gaze drifted to the window. What she saw further iced her soul. Instead of a scene or picture, the glass reflected back at her a vast grey nothingness. As if her future was uncertain.

  Heavens! She gave Axel a quick salute to steady herself. “You do know that I'll stand out like the proverbial sore thumb there, don't you?"

  "You'll do fine, my dear."

  "I'm not convinced. Ah, well.... “Saying a brief farewell, she closed his door to return to her own isolated office space. She needed to repent her decision in private.

  * * * *

  When Serry left, Axel bowed his head. His heart was heavy with the knowledge that he coerced his favorite colleague. She agreed to the time-travel assignment as a personal favor to him, not for any other reason. Journeying back to the past was no insignificant, little favor. Just what had he done?

  Removing his glasses, he massaged the bridge of his nose. He did the right thing, didn't he? He couldn't let the Institute down.

  The sting of tears welled up within his eyes, then rolled and trickled down his cheeks. He wiped at the moisture with the cuff of his shirt. Fiddlesticks! He would miss Serry in the months ahead.

  But, after all, she was coming back.

  Chapter Two

  "Oh, how I wish I was going with you, Serry!” bubbled Tracy Steele. “Attending grand balls. Having handsome men beg for a chance to dance with me ... or maybe even duel over me."

  Comfortably settled on their parents’ garishly colored sofa, Serenity fondly glanced at her young sister. Tracy swooped and twirled an imaginary dance step around the living room, acting out her fantasies. Heavens, where did the girl get her energy?

  "The romance! The glamour! Oh, life must've been wonderful in those days."

  Enthusiasm was Tracy's middle name. Just looking at her tired Serenity out. And at age twenty-nine, she really had no excuse to plead exhaustion. Excluding the vitality level though, her sister was almost a fax copy of herself. Amazing how genetics worked. Even Tracy's eyes echoed the same green, fringed with the same dark lashes. Her face, though, was fuller, and she showed the eagerness of her sixteen years. Serenity somehow let that spark die along the way....

  Throwing a damper on her sister's ebullience, Serenity replied, “Romantic? I'll have you know women led very narrow, restricted lives. Men's thoughts were of nothing more earthshaking than how to tie their cravats. And dueling? During the Regency, dueling was outlawed."

  Visibly deflated, Tracy plopped down next to her. Wrinkling her small nose, she said, “The dregs! But I think you're making it sound dull on purpose just because you didn't get to go to Africa."

  "Smart cookie.” Serenity swatted her sister with a couch cushion, which led to a pillow fight. Naturally, her stamina gave out first. “Truce."

  "I win! Now tell me more about your trip.” Tracy sat in a cross-legged position on the sofa and gazed up at Serenity.

  She shrugged. “There's so much to prepare, and less than two weeks to get ready. Tomorrow, I'll be wasting the entire day at ‘charm’ school, having costumes made, speaking the Regency lingo, learning proper behavior, et cetera, et cetera."

  But why waste time wallowing in self-pity? Too much to do. She leaned over to give Tracy a kiss, then jumped up, hands on hips.

  "Well, no more moaning and groaning for me, little one. Time to get busy."

  Serenity glanced around the living room filled with 1970s relics. No modern amenities like virtual reality windows disturbed its “Disco” atmosphere. Spotting the strobe light lamp and velvet paintings her retro parents were so proud of, she grimaced. “Now where did Dad put that antique book I just lent him? I should take it with me. You never know, Debrett's Peerages of England might come in handy."

  Tracy raced over to the newspaper rack and retrieved the thick hardback book. “What else are you taking?"

  "Only forty pounds can go with me, so I've got to choose carefully. Medicines, research supplies, and the most important thing—gold bullion, to exchange for currency."

  Tracy ticked off more items on her slim fingers. “You're forgetting makeup, pretzels, music—"

  "I don't think so. I do have to travel light."

  "You have to take music, Serry. You'll go crazy if you don't. Just sneak in your digital recorder."

  Music. If she put in a new three-year fuel cell, her digital recorder would be functional for the whole time she'd be gone. And her entire music library would be available to her, something Tracy would be glad about. Tracy's world revolved around music. She was one of the few who were “blessed” with synesthesia: the blending of the senses so that sight and sound, touch and taste intertwined. The girl could listen to a melody, then pick out parts that didn't sound right by comparing the vivid shapes appearing before her mind's eye.

  Strangely enough, she insisted Serenity also had the gift. But
Serenity never experienced this union of sensations. Harmonious notes only appealed to her auditory senses. No colors or shapes danced before her, as they did with her sister.

  Tracy wouldn't give up. “Don't get me wrong, Serry. Beethoven, Bach, and all are so ... so massive, but after a year back there, you're bound to suffer from withdrawal."

  Serenity slumped back onto the sofa. Crossing one jeaned leg over the other, she wiggled her bare toes. Who knew when she could dress this casual again? “You're right, Trace. But I'll just have to wait and see how much everything weighs."

  Beginning to realize the enormity of this journey, Serenity sighed. Only she appreciated the difficulties that awaited her. As befitting her youth, Tracy was caught up in the excitement of the adventure.

  Serenity tousled her sister's short hair. Heavens, how she'd miss the child. In the time she'd be gone, Tracy would grow from a girl to a young woman.

  "Bring me back a souvenir, okay? Some doodad, like a decorative snuff box.” Tracy pretended to open an imaginary snuff box, and pinched a bit of tobacco next to her nose.

  "Gifts? Is that all you're interested in?"

  As her answer, Tracy turned away, pouting.

  "I'm just ribbing you, Sweet Pea. Or should I say, ‘roasting,’ to use the proper Regency term? I need to practice my Regency-ese."

  Then, in an afterthought, Serenity frowned. “I'm afraid there can't be any souvenirs, Trace. No material from the past can be brought back through time. Nothing created back then can pass through the Time Displacement Wave. That's why I have to bring my own paper and pens—so my work can return with me. It's funny—stuff from the present can remain in the past, but not vice versa."

  "The dregs! But what about this secret identity you told me about?” Impatiently, Tracy edged closer.

  Her sister's fantastical notions were rearing up again. Before she had a chance to reply, their mother poked her head into the living room. “Time to wash up for supper, girls. While we're eating, we can all have a little chat."

  Tracy opened her mouth, probably to register dissent, but their mother was too fast. With a rustle of silk from her favorite muumuu, she vanished.