Regency Society Revisited Read online

  Serenity stood to leave, but Tracy held onto her arm. “Do you believe Mom? Here you are, a famous person now, about to embark on a massive adventure. And what's Mom worried about? Dreggy things like clean hands and supper!” She stopped and sniffed the air. “Although something does smell yummy. Do you see soft, vanilla clouds?"

  Serenity smiled at the description of angel food cake. “No, no clouds for me.” Climbing the stairs to the bathroom, she said, “I'm going to miss you, kiddo."

  Tracy's pixy face screwed up, as if readying for a good cry. She shadowed Serenity to the sink, keeping her green-eyed gaze on Serenity the whole time.

  Serenity dried her hands and sighed. She wasn't the only one feeling sad. Her imminent departure to the past obviously bothered Tracy more than the child cared to admit.

  * * * *

  At the table, her father passed the mashed potatoes to Serenity. “So, give us all the details. Don't leave anything out. Imagine, you could actually meet up with your great-great-great-great grandfather."

  He paid little attention to the vegetarian food on his plate. Instead, he concentrated on Serenity's face, his emerald eyes widening, almost as large as an owl's.

  "Too bad we never studied our genealogy so I'd know who to look up then.” Serenity dropped a scoop of potatoes onto her dish, avoiding the tofu casserole. When she saw her father's lowered gaze and disappointed look, she felt guilty. He was such a little boy at times, with such excess enthusiasm.

  She found herself sighing again. “You should be going in my place, Dad."

  As he slowly ran his fingers over his chin, his gaze unfocused, as if contemplating her words. He lifted his glass halfway to his mouth and then held it suspended in mid-air.

  Did he forget he wanted to take a drink?

  "Ah, if I could only do just that,” he murmured.

  "Your father is quite the romantic soul, Serenity,” her mother said indulgently, gently guiding her husband's glass back to the table. Makeup free and with her still-dark hair pulled into a ponytail, Mom looked much younger than her sixty years. “Tell us what you're going to be doing in Victorian England."

  Tracy fidgeted in her straight-backed chair. “Regency England, Mom,” she corrected.

  Her mom waved her hand to indicate it was all the same to her.

  Serenity bit back a smile. “From what I understand,” she said slowly to attract her family's attention, “I'm to be a recent widow of a soldier killed in one of the Napoleonic battles. I'll come from some obscure little hamlet, and will stay in London to ‘revive my spirits.’ My first task is to attach myself to someone who knows the ropes in High Society, or the Haut Ton, as they called it. Then I can begin to assimilate."

  Her family digested her words instead of the food.

  "But what about the time paradox?” her father interjected significantly. “You could somehow say or do something that could change the course of history."

  Tracy, gesturing agreement with her hands, almost overturned her glass of water. “That's right! You could reveal the future, or save somebody's life, or—"

  Serenity stopped her sister's flow of speculations. “The way it was explained to me at the orientation briefing, time is inflexible. In other words, whatever is meant to happen, will happen. For example, if I decided to assassinate the Prince Regent—"

  At her mother's gasp, Serenity smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry, Mom. I could not do it. The forces of time will not allow change. The Regent would go on with his life until he was meant to die in 1830."

  Laying down her fork, Serenity no longer felt hungry. “I don't fully understand it. But it's a relief to know I won't inadvertently alter history."

  "Now dear, as if you could do such a thing,” her mother oozed soothingly. “Is there any way you can contact us from, ah, over there? Can you slip a note through?"

  Tracy shook her head, her disgust evident. “Mom, there are no inter-time post offices."

  "'Fraid not, Mom,” Serenity said quickly to draw her mother's attention from Tracy's smart remark. “I'll be quite alone, quite isolated from you all. One year to the day from when I leave is the only time I can return home."

  "Astounding,” murmured her father.

  Her mother clutched at her thin chest. “How frightening!"

  Tracy kept silent, biting her lower lip. Serenity could see the buildup of tears in her sister's eyes.

  How could she cheer her family? “Come now, I'm not gone yet. And it'll only be twelve months. My first trip to West Africa was nearly that long."

  "But we could set up times and days to call you there,” Tracy muttered under her breath.

  Perhaps the only way to reassure everyone was to distract them. Serenity nodded toward the kitchen. “What's this about angel food cake for dessert? You know it's my very favorite."

  Serenity's ploy sent her mother scurrying for the homemade treat. Which was just as well she did. The kitchen televiewer trilled its irritating tone.

  "Must be another reporter or well-wisher,” her father commented. “Since the media blitz on your selection, the viewer's been ringing nonstop."

  Mom leaned into the dining room. “Serenity, normally I wouldn't bother you, but this is a long-distance call—from London. Someone named Sir Clyde said he knew you."

  Clyde. The one person in all the world she did not want to talk to. How hard she had fallen for that foolish man. Besides, her post-graduate research in London seemed like eons ago. Back then she'd suffered a bitter defeat in love which was the reason she switched her field to less complex cultures.

  But that was in the past.

  "Is the viewer on at this end, Mom?” Standing, Serenity went into the kitchen.

  "No, dear. I never like callers to see me ... unprepared.” Her mother touched her powderless face. “Do you want me to turn it on?"

  "That's okay. I don't care for the viewer, either.” Serenity glanced over her shoulder to watch her mother sit back down at the table. Now that she was alone, she pressed the connect button on the screen portion of the telephone. “This is Serenity Steele."

  The image of an attractive man with a receding chin came into focus. “Serry!” Clyde's dry voice rang out. “Serry, darling, I can't see you."

  "Viewer's on the blink.” So what if she lied. “It's been a long time, Clyde."

  He adjusted the school tie he always wore. “Yes, well, I heard your big news and wanted to wish you all the best."

  She could look at him dispassionately now. Whatever had she seen in this pompous young man? “Thank you. How's your wife?"

  It was an awkward question. Four years ago, Clyde hadn't mentioned that he was engaged to a “lady". Instead, he pursued and charmed Serenity. He even shared her rented apartment, or flat, as it was called.

  She unconsciously rubbed her upper arm. Because of him, she had a birth control device implanted. That wasn't the only scar from their affair that she came away with.

  The clearing of his throat signaled his nervousness. “Er, Lady Mae is well. She is quite delicate, you know."

  Serenity smiled grimly. Clyde had married Lady Mae to further his career. And Lady Mae had him right where she wanted him: under her substantial thumb. Perhaps they both got what they deserved. Their union was a classic case of endogamy—the social rule that required a person to marry within his or her social group in order to retain status.

  As Serenity's study had pointed out, pairings between men and women of unequal social standing were perceived as threats to the rigid class structure of British society. And Serenity had been a threat or a hindrance to Clyde's ambition. He belonged to the “lady” from his own world. Mae was welcome to him.

  Time to end this conversation. “I have to go now, Clyde. Thanks for the call."

  "But, Serry, I thought that perhaps we could—"

  Whatever he had in mind was best left unsaid. “Bye.” She terminated the connection.

  Seeing him again wasn't as painful as she had envisioned. In fact, it wasn't pain
ful at all. But now, here she was, preparing to reopen old wounds and return to London. Since she found class distinctions abhorrent now, how would she tolerate them in Regency England? Where birth was everything?

  Hot fires had a penchant for cooling. She could handle herself well enough to socialize with arrogant society bucks. After all, she would be on a job—an observer, not a participant. She could retain her detached, professional demeanor.

  "Serry! If you don't hurry up, I'm gonna eat all the angel food cake,” Tracy called out.

  Serenity shook away her apprehensions and returned to the dining room. The chapter of her life with Clyde was closed once and for all.

  Although the “soft vanilla cloud” cake was delicious, it sat like poisoned lead in Serenity's stomach. With no reprieve in sight, she'd soon travel to the land of Clyde's ancestors, and rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of the haughty British ton. Lucky, lucky her.

  * * * *

  Serenity glanced around the small, sterile room more suited to a prison cell than a bedroom. Cold, austere, and unfriendly. Her last night in this century, and she had to spend it in the impenetrable complex that housed the Time Displacement Wave.

  She couldn't say much for the facilities. Isolated from the outside world, she didn't even have a window—virtual or otherwise—to look out at the starry sky.

  Pacing didn't seem to help ease her anxieties so she lay back down on the precision-made bed. Here she was, completely alone, with only the butterflies in her stomach to keep her company.

  A musical chime on the room intercom was a welcomed interruption. “Dr. Steele, Dr. Rhinehart is here to see you."

  "Wonderful!” She jumped up from the bed and said through the speaker, “Please send him in."

  The door clicked open and a hospital-masked Axel Rhinehart slipped inside.

  "Dressed for surgery, Axel?” She couldn't resist teasing him.

  Tearing off the mask, he threw it on the bed. “Fiddlesticks! You'll never know what I had to go through to see you. First, I had to strip down to my skivvies, then I got some type of antiseptic sprayed all over me, and last, these green hospital scrubs.” He sniffed. “I tell you, I even smell like bleach!"

  "You're an angel to brave the Germ Police.” She led him to the room's only chair. “The staff is overly concerned about bacteria and microbes, but that's their job.” She pulled up the sleeves on her shirt and extended her arms. “See? They've been treating me like a pincushion. Vaccinations, inoculations—I've had it with needles."

  Serenity sat back down and studied her fingernails. “But really, Axel, thank you for coming."

  "No need to thank me,” he replied gruffly. “I brought you a bottle of your favorite wine but these party-poopers told me you're not allowed to drink."

  She placed the bottle of sparkling wine on the table with her other personal possessions. “We'll break it open when I return.” Somehow, she didn't feel so certain about the future.

  "The Displacement Wave is safe, you know,” she said to reassure herself.

  "Completely safe,” Axel repeated.

  For a moment, she suspected his heart didn't agree with his words.

  But, the Time Displacement Wave was safe. It had been tested and retested over five years. All previous time-travel trips were successful. So what if there were only nine journeys prior to hers—including Velando and Jamison's.

  Both anthropologists departed for their destinations last week. And tomorrow was her turn.

  She gulped down a bit of bile. What if something went wrong?

  Axel must've picked up her premonition of disaster, for when she met his gaze, she felt they both shared the same fears.

  "Well,” he cleared his throat and said brightly, “did you hear the latest about Stanhope DeVries? Still on crutches, I'm afraid. And still saying ungentlemanly things about you, my dear."

  "Some things never change."

  "Yep, do you know even as of yesterday he insisted he could take the trip disguised as an aristocrat with the gout?"

  The image of DeVries conducting his fieldwork on crutches tickled Serenity to her core. This was her first good laugh in two weeks. “My cover is about as far from his as it could be."

  She stood, then curtseyed. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Gerald Steele, a widow from Blanchland, Northumberland. I've been in mourning for eight months, and after a stop in Bath to acclimate myself to Society, I'm on my way to London."

  "Steele?” Axel inquired.

  "Amazing, isn't it, finding a military man with the same last name? He was an infantry lieutenant who lost his life in a Spanish campaign. In Badajoz. Research indicates Lieutenant Steele did have a wife but no other immediate family. Mrs. Steele left Blanchland soon after the lieutenant's death, and that's the last bit of information chronicled about her."

  Serenity pulled on her ear lobe. “I must admit, I am nervous."

  At his silence, she turned to find him studying her. He quickly lowered his head and stared at his too large hospital slippers. His weathered eyes blinked back the suspicion of a tear.

  "Axel?” Was he feeling guilty? Did he feel he had coerced her into this trip?

  She had to set his mind at rest. “Don't worry, I always get the jitters before a new assignment. It's like stage fright. I'd feel better if I were more prepared for my part. Too bad I almost failed drama in college. Here I am, pretending to be a widow when I've never married."

  "Not for lack of admirers, Serry."

  She smiled. “None of my admirers measured up to you, Axel."

  A musical chime sounded. This time it was an unwanted interruption. “Dr. Rhinehart, visiting hours are over."

  "Nonsense,” he protested, “I only just arrived.” Nevertheless, he stood to go.

  The silence was awkward. Grabbing the hospital mask, she handed it to him, then gave him a swift kiss. “You'll need this."

  "Serry, I—"

  She placed her finger on his lips. “See you next year.” Serenity spoke the words lightly.

  After her college professor, supervisor, and most of all, friend had left, she sat hunched over, knees drawn into her chest. Panic, ugly and incapacitating, spread through her veins. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on quieting this sensation of fear.

  Just what was she getting herself into?

  Chapter Three

  Destination: Regency England, February 4, year of our Lord 1812. Resort town of Bath, county of Avon.

  Wearing a fashionable gown of jaconet muslin and a heavy, wool pelisse or coat, Serenity checked the paperwork one last time. Nothing amiss. Everything was as it should be.

  "Are you ready, Dr. Steele?” a technician asked from behind the glass-enclosed tomb.

  "Yes, ready.” Serenity's voice was lost in the vastness of the Time Displacement Wave chamber. In the center of the apparatus, her portmanteau waited.

  "Everything's a go, Dr. Steele. It's time."

  Serenity nodded and squeezed her eyes shut. She stepped into the Time Displacement Wave machine.

  * * * *

  A second—or an eternity later, Serenity struggled to open her eyes. Did she actually travel back in time? Had she “landed?"

  A feeling of heaviness hampered her movements. Every action was completed in slow motion. Time seemed to have ground to a halt.

  She shook her head to clear away the fog. Unexpected pain rippled through her, pulsing to a crescendo, then subsiding. Ouch. No wonder excellent health was a requirement for time-travel. She hadn't expected being so ... battered.

  Rubbing her forehead, she came away with a spot of vivid red blood. Her balance still uncertain, she staggered back, bumping into a tree. Devoid of greenery, the tree was barren—empty of life, as were the rest of the trees in the forest.

  Heavens, could this be Bath?

  Her head injury refused to be ignored. Just how badly had she been hurt? A small trickle of blood dripped down her face, blurring her vision. She lifted her left arm to wipe away the wetness, only to
feel more pain slice through her. Both her coat and dress sleeves were torn, and blood poured from the wound underneath. She glanced at her arm and gulped. Mincemeat. Oh well, it was nothing a little alcohol antiseptic couldn't cure.

  As Axel had said, time-travel was no picnic.

  Forcing herself to look away from the gory sight, she noticed a clearing in the woods and a straw-thatched building sitting by the side of a dirt road. Some sort of inn.

  A weathered sign nailed to a tree gave her the news she wanted. Evidently this posting house was the only lodging between Bath and the village of Wellow.

  Bath and Wellow! Yes! Elation overran the sensation of discomfort. The sign confirmed that she had arrived in the right location.

  Now if she could learn the year.

  Leaving her portmanteau where it stood, she headed for the inn's welcoming portal. The oak door was heavy, and after opening it, she staggered inside, where smells of stale alcohol and homemade bread assaulted her nose.

  A man moved toward her, concern stamped upon his broad face. Covering his thickset body was a soiled apron. Perhaps he was the inn's proprietor. His strong hands prevented her from sinking to the floor.

  "Lud, those footpads ‘ave been at it agin. That makes three coaches attacked in two weeks. Jessy! Bess! Come ‘elp milady into the parlor. Don't worry none, milady. Mills and me missus will take good care of you."

  "Thank you, good sir, for your kindness.” Serenity also thanked her lucky stars. The innkeeper, Mills, supplied the perfect explanation for her disheveled state—highwaymen.

  Two women rushed in, probably the innkeeper's wife and daughter, and Serenity meekly allowed them to help her to a comfortable chair.

  The older woman stared at Serenity's expensive clothes. And the simple gold ring on her left hand. Obviously, a very important piece of jewelry. “'Tis a wonder you are alive, milady. Jessy, off you go to get some cloths and a washbowl."

  Bess eased off the ripped pelisse. Unfortunately, the sight of the arm wound caused her to turn a little green. As the woman cleaned and soaked the injuries, Serenity gritted her teeth against the pain. Braving another look, she released her breath. The savage cut was deep, but looked uninfected. Hopefully it would heal soon.