Page 10 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)
G uy stood in the small square in the center of York, his gaze focused on the tollbooth a few yards distant. Memories assaulted him. Painful, loud, and full of hate. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to keep his feet planted. As unpleasant as it was to relive the day Margaret Clitherow had died, it was a good reminder of why he had returned to England. Of why he was so eager to light the fuse under the House of Lords.
Two women walked by, and he pulled the brim of his hat a little lower. Coming to York had been a risk. He’d been gone for a decade, but the young Guy Fawkes was known in this community, and it would take only one person calling out his name to end his anonymity. Worse, a person who knew his childhood associates might ask about Kit and Jack Wright. They’d been his closest friends at school and were his coconspirators now. The fewer who made that connection, the better.
His thoughts drifted to their headmaster, John Pulleyn. The venerable gentleman had been more than a teacher to Guy. He’d been a mentor—a father figure when Guy’s own father had died at the young age of forty-five. And though Guy had been raised in a Protestant home, John Pulleyn had opened his eyes to the evil that Henry VIII had spawned when he’d broken from the Catholic church. Pulleyn had made it his mission to educate the boys at St. Peter’s School on the harsh reality of living life as a devout Catholic in a country run by those whose pride and avarice had turned them from the right path. And that tutoring had included bringing his students to this very square to witness the cruel death of Margaret Clitherow, a woman who had been killed for openly teaching Catholic doctrine to others in her home.
Guy had been sixteen years of age. Old enough for the horrific experience to permanently sear itself into his mind. Old enough to know that he would never be as the craven adults in the crowd that day who had stood by, doing nothing while a woman’s anguished cries had filled the air.
His stomach roiled, fueled by the hate that festered there. There would be vengeance for Margaret Clitherow and the other Catholics in the country who had suffered a similar fate. And it would come far sooner than England’s tyrannical monarch could possibly imagine.
The bells of York Minster chimed, drawing Guy from his heavy thoughts and reminding him that he must be on his way. Turning his back on the tollbooth and his memories, he started down the narrow lane that led to his childhood home. A few more days and he would return to London, and then there would be little over a week before he and his comrades set things right. Anticipation hummed through his veins, the promise of vengeance dispelling his earlier frustration. His mother would undoubtedly consider a fortnight in York not nearly long enough to make up for his having been gone for so long, especially as he’d expressly forbidden her from gathering friends and neighbors to celebrate his return. But two weeks was all he could offer her. There were more important things at hand than a lengthy mother-and-son reunion, and his role in the coming events was pivotal. Straightening his shoulders, he increased his pace. Once the king and his ineffective government were destroyed, his mother would understand his need to leave—and his reason to stay away afterward.
Isla exited Copfield Hall’s front door and hurried down the stone steps. A little over two weeks ago, she’d slipped out of the house at a similar time, desperate to find answers—or even a way back to McQuivey’s Costume Shop—at the woodshed. Now she barely glanced at the distant structure as she followed the gravel path toward the stables, intent upon reaching it by the time Simon returned from his morning canter.
A robin sang in a nearby holly bush, and Isla smiled. Somehow, despite the craziness of her situation, her life at Copfield Hall had fallen into a comfortable routine with people she now considered friends. A morning ride with Simon, followed by penmanship practice in the parlor and a midday meal at which Martha reviewed seventeenth-century dining etiquette. The afternoon began with an hour spent with Sam and Will and then moved into another lesson with Martha that usually revolved around clothing, dated vocabulary, and approved subjects of conversation. Finally, Lord Maidstone and Simon joined them for an evening meal, where Isla was required to practice what she’d learned. They were each unfailingly patient with her efforts, but Isla chafed at how often she made mistakes and how slowly her calligraphy was improving.
Most nights, when she was alone in her bedchamber, she was beset by doubts that she would ever be able to pass herself off as a Jacobean lady. Those feelings had further intensified three days ago when Lord Maidstone had informed her that he had received an official invitation for them all to attend Lord Monteagle’s dinner. Her role at that event had immediately become more real—and ever more daunting. But somehow, after each night’s sleep, morning brought with it new hope and the opportunity to spend time with Simon.
She rounded the corner of the house. No one was in the yard outside the stable, but the doors to the large building were open. As she approached, Ezra emerged, drawing Belle behind him.
“Good morning, Ezra,” she called.
The stableboy looked up and grinned. “‘Mornin’, Miss Crawford. Looks as though we timed it just right t’day.”
“Yes.” Isla stepped closer and ran a hand down Belle’s long neck. “We’re getting rather good at this, aren’t we?”
He chuckled. “Well, I reckon Belle must ’ear ya comin’ ’cause she starts shufflin’ in ’er stall. If I don’t get ’er out fast enough, she lets me know.”
Isla smiled. She couldn’t deny that after almost a dozen rides together, she and Belle had developed a fondness for each other that Isla would not have believed possible when she’d first tried mounting the horse. “I think she knows that I’m as anxious as she is to be outside.” She glanced over her shoulder at the path Simon usually took. “Did I beat Lord Bancroft back today?”
“Yes, miss,” Ezra said. “Would ya ’ave me get the stool?”
Isla hesitated. Even though she always left her ridiculous farthingale in her bedchamber when she planned to ride, situating herself in the sidesaddle was much trickier without Simon’s help. On the other hand, if she were mounted when he arrived, they could leave straightaway.
“I suppose you’d better bring it out,” she said.
“Right ya are, miss.” Ezra handed her Belle’s leather straps and hurried into the stable.
He’d barely disappeared through the doors when Isla heard the pounding of hooves. She looked to her right and immediately spotted Simon and Blaze galloping across the pasture toward them. Isla’s heart rate quickened. At her side, Belle lifted her head, her ears twitching, alert to the return of her stablemate.
“They’re almost here, girl,” Isla whispered.
Belle nickered softly, and Isla smiled. She wasn’t the only one pleased to see the handsome pair return.
Blaze entered the yard just as Ezra reappeared. Without a word, the stableboy set the small stool he was carrying on the ground and stepped forward to take Belle’s reins from Isla. Moments later, Simon brought Blaze to a halt a few feet from them.
“Forgive me,” he said, dismounting in one swift movement. He stepped toward her, the bright sparkle in his eyes only enhancing his windswept good looks. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Not at all,” Isla said, wishing she still had access to mascara or had at least taken a few minutes longer to do something with her hair. It wasn’t right that Simon could look so good this early in the morning. “How was your ride?”
“Marvelous. The weather is perfect.” He glanced at Belle. “Are you ready to go?”
“Absolutely,” Isla said.
He smiled and extended his arms. “May I?”
At her nod, he placed his hands on her waist. Awareness pulsed through her, but without a word, she set her hands on his shoulders, and with practiced ease, he lifted her onto the saddle. She shifted slightly, anchoring her leg around the pommel.
“Okay?” he asked.
She laughed at his use of the modern expression. “Yes. In my sense of the word and yours.”
With a chuckle, he mounted Blaze again. “Would you open the gate for us, Ezra?”
“Right away, m’ lord.” Ezra handed Isla the reins and was across the yard in a flash.
Isla tapped Belle’s side with her heel, and the obedient horse moved to Blaze’s left. Blaze offered her an acknowledging snort. The stallion probably knew what was coming. At Belle’s decorous pace, the short ride to the lookout each morning offered Simon’s horse little more than a cooldown after his more demanding morning run.
“So,” Simon said after Ezra had closed the gate behind them. “What miraculous twenty-first-century contraption are you going to tell me about today?”
Isla gave him an amused look. On their second ride to the lookout, Simon had asked her what she missed most from her life in the future. The question had been the beginning of a unique portion of their morning ride. Every day, she told him about something new. Describing flushing toilets and indoor plumbing had not been nearly so difficult as explaining a computer or electricity, but Simon’s fascination over future inventions had yet to abate.
“You believe I will run out of things, don’t you?” she asked.
“Will you?”
“I don’t think so. At least, not for a very long time.”
He appeared thoughtful. “You are missing a great deal.”
“Yes. But I’m experiencing some amazing things too. I’d never have the opportunity to ride sidesaddle every morning if I were still at home.”
“That is completely foreign to me,” he said. “I can scarcely imagine a world without a daily ride.”
They had almost reached the fallen tree, and the beautiful dale below was coming into view.
“Truthfully,” Isla said, “my time is louder and faster and lacks the many peaceful moments you enjoy.” Memories of her long hours at work and stressful deadlines filled her mind. “Or maybe they’re there if you search for them, but I didn’t take the time to find them.”
“Well then,” he said, “I am glad the seventeenth century has offered you something of worth.”
“Many things actually.” If she were torn away from this life as quickly as she’d been sent here, there was no doubt in Isla’s mind as to what—or who—she would miss most, but she wasn’t going to admit to that now.
Simon guided Blaze to a halt at their usual stopping spot, dismounted, and walked to Belle’s side. “I would like to hear what you have come to consider to be of value,” he said, raising his arms to her.
“Time spent with Sam and Will,” she said without hesitation. It was a safe answer and one that he could not refute. He knew how much she enjoyed being with the twins.
“Of course. I miss them when I am elsewhere.” He set his hands on her waist, and a familiar spark crackled to life between them. “Anything else?”
He wasn’t playing fair. Steeling herself against the warmth in his eyes, she slid her leg over the pommel and reached for his shoulders. “Bread pudding.”
“Bread pudding!” He shook his head. “I am twice amazed. I was quite certain you were going to say braised eel.”
She pulled a face. A week ago, when Martha’s attention had been diverted by something her husband was saying, Isla had braved asking Simon if he’d like her portion. His initial surprise had quickly turned to collusion, and they’d managed to transfer Isla’s helping onto his plate with no one the wiser. More to the point, they’d managed the same feat twice since then. Simon could have no doubt as to Isla’s feelings about the dish.
“Braised eel may stay firmly in this century,” she said.
He lifted her off Belle and set her on her feet beside him. “I agree,” he said. “I would be quite put out if one of my favorite foods disappeared with you.” He smiled, his teasing tone enabling Isla to find her footing in more ways than one.
“You only like it because you haven’t tasted fish and chips yet.”
“Is that so?” He appeared dubious. “What exactly is fish and chips?”
Isla laughed and pulled away. “I’ll save that one for another day. Today’s marvelous twenty-first-century invention is medicine.”
“Medicine is in existence here.” He shuddered. “It is quite awful.”
“If the little I’ve read about it is true,” Isla said, “ awful is a euphemism.” She walked to the fallen log and sat down, glad when he followed her there and took a seat beside her. Over the last few days, the distance he’d placed between them had shrunk.
“Tell me about your medicine,” he said.
“I’m not qualified to explain much to you,” she admitted. “But I can tell you that modern doctors can do miraculous things. They’ve learned that most illnesses are caused by viruses or bacteria, which are so small they can’t be seen by the human eye. When they enter the body, they cause myriad diseases.”
Simon gave her a skeptical look. “How?”
“I don’t know, but those tiny things are real. And discovering them has done away with the belief in humors and evil spirits and has led to new and improved medicines, safer surgeries, and all sorts of life-saving medical techniques.” She paused. It wasn’t her place to share too much, but if a little information could protect Simon and his family from contracting the Black Death, she had to say it. “The bubonic plague is caused by one of those viruses. It’s being spread by rats and lice.”
He stared at her. “You believe if London were free of rats and lice, it would also be free of the plague?”
“Yes. It may take a while for the disease to fully disappear, but if people were to couple the removal of those two things with improved hygiene, it would happen.”
“I would have great difficulty persuading others of this.”
“I know. But even if you and Martha and her family are the only ones to benefit from that knowledge, it was worth telling you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “This situation—you being here and knowing so much about so many things—is disturbingly complicated.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I shall warn Maidstone and Martha about the rats and lice.” His smile was strained. “Thank you for your concern for us.”
Isla’s chest ached. Concern was not the word she would use to describe her feelings. The friendship she’d developed with Martha, the bond she had with the twins, the connection she felt to Simon. Those relationships engendered far more than a nebulous concern for their welfare. She gazed out at the view before her, struggling to know what to say.
The silence stretched on a few seconds too long. Simon cleared his throat. “I imagine there are many gentlemen desiring to court you in your London,” he said. “I assume that since you mentioned no one in particular when the subject of our counterfeit betrothal was first mentioned, you remain unattached at present.”
Isla had been ready for a change in subject. Unfortunately, this one was no better than the last. “Totally unattached,” she said. “Our courtship rules aren’t nearly as strict as yours, and we call it ‘dating’ or ‘going out’ rather than courting. There was someone I dated while I was at uni, but we parted ways several months before I left York.” She darted a glance at him. “With no negative repercussions to either of our reputations.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said, although the lines on his forehead belied his supposed pleasure. “What was his name?”
“Jeremy Robinson,” she said, a vision of Jeremy sitting at a table in the small coffee shop where they’d often studied together rising in her mind. He’d been the one to call things off, and although it had been gutting to hear him say the words, it hadn’t been completely unexpected. He’d been making excuses for why he couldn’t meet up with her for weeks.
She sighed, grateful that the memory of the breakup no longer brought with it any pain. She had seen Jeremy with a stunning brunette several times after he’d walked out of the coffee shop without looking back that day. The first instance had hurt. Badly. But the passage of time and moving to London had helped immeasurably. “Jeremy was studying law at the same university as me,” she said. “We were together for about a year, but then he met someone else who he felt was a better match.”
“Because of her finances or her family?” Simon asked.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure it was more about how pretty she is and that she enjoys listening to rock music more than I do.”
Simon shook his head. “The fellow must be demented. I have yet to hear rocks make any form of music, and it is all but impossible to believe that he found anyone else so attractive as you.”
Isla probably should have taken the time to instruct Simon about modern music and Jeremy’s favorite bands, but how was she supposed to do that when his seemingly involuntary compliment hung in the air between them?
“You didn’t ...” She swallowed. It might be better to simply accept his kind words graciously and move on. “Thank you.”
He released a tight breath. “Forgive me. I am usually better at controlling my tongue.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “It was very nice of you.”
“Honest rather than nice.” He paused. “I hope this Robinson fellow did not hurt you badly.”
Was the emotion in his dark eyes empathy?
“At first, it was hard,” she admitted, “but now I realize that it was for the best. Jeremy may be wrong about some things, but he was correct about us not being right for each other.” Keeping her eyes on him, she tested her hunch. “What about you? Why is the handsome Lord Bancroft not already married or truly courting someone?”
Half expecting him to tease her about her use of the word handsome or to blow off her question with a superficial response, Isla was taken aback when Simon looked away.
“I’m sorry.” Regret filled her. Her words had obviously hit a nerve. “I didn’t mean to be flippant or to pry.”
He shook his head. “It is only fair that I answer the same question I posed to you.”
“Maybe. But you certainly don’t have to.”
“I believe I do.” His gaze flitted to the right and the distant chimneys of Greenbriar Manor before returning to her. “Despite our differing circumstances, our experiences are similar. Our sham betrothal is not my first. I was betrothed once before, but the young lady ultimately chose another over me.”
Isla’s unsettling pang of jealousy was tinged with indignation. “But I thought that was severely frowned upon.”
“It is. However, in the case of that particular young lady, the allure of being a duchess was enough to offset the stigma of broken vows.”
Simon’s opposition to Martha’s suggestion that he and Isla pose as an engaged couple suddenly made sense. He had been forced to reenter Society with a black mark to his name already. What on earth would two do to him?
“A second broken betrothal, Simon?” Without thinking, she reached for his hand. “If I’d known, I never would have agreed to our charade.”
“Then, it is well that you did not know,” he said. “Martha is fully aware of my situation, and she would not have suggested our role-play if there had been any other way to accomplish what must be done. Those who know me may offer their condolences at my lack of good fortune in acquiring a wife, but I daresay I shall eventually rise above the blight on my manhood.”
Simon had fallen back on his teasing again, but Isla didn’t feel like smiling. Not when she was the one who could shatter Simon’s reputation once and for all. “There has to be another way.”
“Not unless we wish to introduce a significant risk of failure,” Simon said.
“But your good name—”
“Isla, this is not your burden to bear.” He squeezed her fingers lightly before releasing her hand. “My reputation may be sullied for a short time, but eventually, the stigma will fade. Besides, the blame for any besmirchment that comes my way does not lie with you. It can be placed firmly at the feet of Catsby, Fawkes, and their coconspirators—and, perhaps to a lesser degree, Lydia.”
“Lydia?” Isla asked. “Is that the name of the young lady you were courting?”
“It is.”
Isla pulled a face. “I’ve never liked that name much.”
As she had hoped, the anxiety in Simon’s eyes was replaced by amusement. “Is that so?”
“Yes. It’s the name of an obnoxious, self-centered character in a wildly popular book written in the late 1700s.”
“Ah, so you are employing perfectly logical reasoning for your aversion of the Greek name given to one who is beautiful and noble.”
“That’s right.” Isla rose, and Simon immediately followed suit. “Perfect logic coupled with feminine intuition. It can’t be faulted.”
Simon chuckled, and with a smile, Isla led the way back to their waiting horses. Her apprehension over what lay ahead had yet to abate, but this morning’s outing had taught her that she and Simon could navigate a difficult conversation and emerge strengthened. That knowledge lifted her spirits and brought new hope for the challenges that awaited them in London.