Page 14 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)
C andles illuminated the windows of Monteagle’s manor. Up ahead, another carriage pulled forward, stopping opposite the front doors. Simon watched as a couple descended. It was too dark to identify them, but based on the gentleman’s bearing, Simon judged him to be older than those riding in the Maidstones’ carriage.
The journey to Hoxton had been excruciatingly long. Simon could have traversed the thirty furlongs to the Monteagles’ elegant house on the outskirts of the city in less than half the time had he been riding Blaze. But he’d had no desire to exchange his place beside Isla in the carriage for his saddle. The two of them sat opposite Maidstone and Martha, and although Martha had done an admirable job of maintaining small talk for most of the journey, they had now lapsed into a silence born of anxious anticipation.
Isla’s voluminous skirts covered a great deal of the seat. If her stiff posture was any indication, she did not find her attire overly comfortable. Simon, however, could find no fault with it. Her appearance in the parlor this evening had quite literally taken his breath away. If Maidstone had not unwittingly given Simon a moment to collect himself by greeting her first, Simon would have been proved a complete simpleton. Even now, he marveled that he had managed to string more than two words together so soon after his lungs had suspended their normal operation. He shook his head slightly. Perhaps the greater wonder was that Isla seemed completely oblivious to her exquisite appearance.
He glanced at her. Moonlight coming in through the window painted her face paler than usual, but she wore a look of quiet determination.
“Martha is correct, you know.” He kept his voice low, knowing that the rumble of the carriage wheels was enough to mask a private conversation.
She turned to him. “Correct about what?”
“You are truly remarkable.”
Her smile was strained. “I have offered up more than one prayer that I do not prove myself a remarkable failure this evening.”
The carriage rolled to a stop, swaying unexpectedly. Isla set her hand on the seat between them to steady herself.
“I am confident that you can accomplish whatever you set your mind to,” he said.
“I wish that were true.”
“Believe it.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “All that you’ve learned in preparation for this evening notwithstanding, the way you have so masterfully altered your speech is proof enough.”
Isla gave him a knowing look. “You may tempt me all you wish, my lord. I shall not break down and say okay.”
Simon grinned. He had missed their bantering. “As we are without mounts at present, that might be for the best.”
She shook her head at the weak jest, but he noted that the tension in her fingers had lessened.
A servant opened the carriage door. Maidstone exited first, the extra cloak he’d brought with him tucked beneath his arm. He reached back to assist Martha. Simon followed, glad that he had the opportunity to reclaim Isla’s hand to help her out immediately afterward.
She barely had her feet under her when Maidstone stepped closer. “The cloak is beneath the shrub to the left of the front steps,” he said. “I took advantage of the servants’ preoccupation with unloading the carriage to place it out of sight.”
Isla strained to see the small bush in the darkness. “Thank you, my lord. I shall find it.”
He nodded and then offered Martha his arm. “I believe the time has come, my dear.”
They started toward the door.
Simon turned to Isla. “Are you ready?”
“Not remotely,” she said, and then she set her hand upon his arm. “But seeing as I likely never will be, we’d best go in anyway.”
Attempting to smother his own apprehensions, Simon summoned an encouraging smile. “As you wish.”
The Monteagles’ house was much like the other manors that had been built in Hoxton over the last few decades. Tarred wooden frames and limewash-painted wattle and daub gave the house a clean, black-and-white appearance. Inside, the wood-paneled entrance hall led directly into the great hall, where, if the sound of chatter and laughter was any indication, many people were already gathered.
“It sounds like a big group,” Isla said.
“We may be surprised. Voices tend to echo through the rafters in larger rooms.” He led her through the open doors. A fire burned brightly in the enormous fireplace. Two long wooden tables had been set end to end and were lined with cushioned stools. Goblets, knives, and trenchers marked the place settings. Simon made a rapid, silent count of the seats. “The table is set for sixteen.”
“And I know only three people,” Isla said. “That might make it easier if I’m called upon to slip out.”
A titter of forced female laughter sounded at Simon’s left. Without turning his head, he knew its source. The sound had inspired dread and frustration in the past, but this evening, those emotions did not come. With an unexpected feeling of release, he offered Isla an apologetic look. “You may be acquainted with more than three. I believe Lady Whitely is here, and if she is here, it stands to reason that her husband and perhaps even her daughter and son-in-law are also in attendance.”
Isla’s eyes met his, and by the light of the many candles in the room, he saw the concern shining there. “I am very sorry.”
“There is no need. My meeting with Lydia at Copfield Hall taught me that whatever feelings I had for her were superficial at best, and I can now face her—and her family—with polite indifference. Indeed, if I am being completely honest, I must own to some relief.” He lowered his voice. “Lady Whitely would have been an extremely trying mother-in-law.”
Isla’s soft laughter warmed his heart. It had been too long since he’d heard it.
“It seems that mother-in-law problems transcend the centuries,” she said.
“Would your mother be similarly challenging?”
She pondered the question for a moment. “Given that my brother-in-law and sister-in-law seem to enjoy visiting my parents, perhaps not.”
“Is she very like you?”
“In some ways, I suppose. She’s a far better nurse than I could ever be. On the other hand, she’s never ridden a horse.”
It was Simon’s turn to laugh, and he was hit by a completely irrational desire to meet Mrs. Crawford. “Given the opportunity, I would be happy to teach her.”
Isla’s smile held a hint of sadness. “I think you would get along very well.”
“Lord Bancroft!” Lady Whitely’s grating voice interrupted their conversation, and moments later, the older woman stood before him. “And Miss Crawford! What an unexpected surprise.”
Simon bowed, and Isla executed a polite curtsy.
“Lady Whitely,” he said. “Always a pleasure.”
“Miss Crawford,” the older lady said. “May I introduce my husband, Lord Whitely.”
The gentleman approached with a slight limp. He acknowledged Simon with a nod. “Miss Crawford, is it?”
“Yes, my lord,” Isla said.
He eyed her curiously. “Betrothed to Bancroft, I hear.”
“Yes, my lord,” she repeated.
“Hmm. I daresay you shall be comfortable enough.”
Mentally expanding his gratitude over escaping any relationship with Lady Whitely to include her disdainful husband, Simon was spared from defending himself by Isla’s swift response.
“More than comfortable, my lord. Lord Bancroft has ample means and has already proved himself to be extraordinarily solicitous. To be quite frank, I cannot imagine marrying anyone finer or more well suited to me.” Lord Whitely’s skeptical snort would have been sufficient to silence most young ladies. Unfortunately for the gentleman, Isla was built of sterner stuff. Her chin rose a fraction. “What would you consider to be your strongest attributes, my lord?”
“Why, I have never given it any thought,” he blustered.
“Perhaps you have an especially open mind, thoughtful disposition, and uncommon civility,” she said. “Those would be praiseworthy indeed and would mean that you share some of Lord Bancroft’s honorable traits.”
It was the closest Simon had ever come to seeing Whitely sputter. The gentleman’s face turned an unpleasant shade of purple. Lady Whitely, on the other hand, was uncommonly pale, her lips pressed together in a disapproving, thin line.
“Good evening, Lord Bancroft. Miss Crawford.” Blissfully oblivious to her parents’ state of displeasure, Lydia approached them, her husband at her side.
Simon bowed, grateful for the diversion, regardless of its source. “Your Graces.” He waited for Isla to rise from her curtsy. “Isla, may I introduce the Duke of Tunstow. Tunstow, Miss Isla Crawford.”
“A pleasure, Miss Crawford,” Tunstow said, inclining his head.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Isla smiled politely, but Simon sensed a shift in her mood. For some reason, she was more on guard with Tunstow than she had been with Lydia’s parents. He found that curious, but he had no desire to extend this meeting any longer than courtesy demanded, and if Isla felt similarly, he was happy to make their excuses.
“It was good of you to join us,” Simon said, “but out of deference to our hosts, I had best introduce Miss Crawford to Lord and Lady Monteagle before we are called to the table.”
“Of course,” Tunstow said, stepping aside to allow them passage.
A flicker of regret touched Lydia’s eyes, but her smile was understanding. Lady Whitely offered them a curt nod. Lord Whitely ignored them. Simon took Isla’s elbow and guided her away from the small group and toward their hosts.
“Tell me your father is more agreeable than Whitely,” he said.
“Infinitely,” Isla said. “I can think of two politicians and one university professor who might match Lord Whitely’s discourtesy, but my father would be more likely to offer you a drink and then invite you to watch a football game with him.”
“A football game?” Simon asked.
“I shall tell you about it the next time we go for a ride.”
With the promise of another outing together, the evening seemed suddenly brighter. “Come,” he said. “Monteagle and his wife are looking this way.”
He led Isla toward the portly man wearing an elaborately embroidered blue doublet and jerkin with a wide ruff around his short neck. The fair-haired lady beside him was wearing pale green, and the ruff at her neck was even wider than her husband’s.
“Lord and Lady Monteagle,” Simon said, executing a low bow. “May I introduce my betrothed, Miss Isla Crawford.”
Isla curtsied. “It is an honor to meet you,” she said. Her eyes lingered on Lord Monteagle, and Simon was struck with the unsettling thought that for the first time since she’d arrived in this time period, Isla was meeting someone she had read about in her history books.
“The pleasure is ours, Miss Crawford,” Monteagle said.
“Yes, indeed,” his wife concurred. “I was thrilled to learn that Lord Bancroft is to be married. May I offer you both my congratulations.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Simon said. “I am a most fortunate gentleman.”
Even as he spoke the words, the truthfulness of the statement struck him. It was possible that his good fortune would last only another week or so, but he was grateful for the time he had been given with Isla.
Lady Monteagle smiled. “I daresay Miss Crawford feels the same, my lord. We are glad that you could both join us for dinner.”
“And with that said, I believe we should take our places at the table.” Monteagle’s jovial voice carried across the room, and the hum of multiple conversations dimmed. All eyes turned toward their hosts. Monteagle gestured at the long table. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please be seated.”
Lord Monteagle sat at the head of the table in the only chair. His wife and guests were seated on stools. Lady Monteagle was at his right, with the Duke of Tunstow and Lydia beside her. Across from them, Lord Maidstone and Martha were seated beside Lord and Lady Whitely. Upon taking her place next to Simon farther down the table, Isla had been offered a brief introduction to the other guests seated near them: Lord and Lady Byrdsall, Mr., Mrs., and Miss Ellerson, and Mr. Tanner. They all seemed pleasant enough, and she couldn’t help but be glad that the Byrdsalls and Ellersons separated her from the Whitelys. Not only had she developed a strong dislike for the couple, but it would be far easier to slip out of the room if Lady Whitely’s attention were directed elsewhere.
Surprisingly, Isla’s impression of Lydia was more positive. She hated the way the young lady had treated Simon, but under different circumstances, she thought it likely that she and Lydia might have been friends. In an odd sort of way, Isla was glad. It meant that Simon’s judgment was not skewed. Lydia would probably have made him a very good wife—if the Duke of Tunstow had not interfered.
She glanced at the tall, thin gentleman now. His fair hair fell to his shoulders and was thinning on the top of his head. His goatee was scraggly and his teeth crooked, but despite her reluctance to be introduced or to think well of him, Isla had to admit that he had a ready smile and appeared genuinely interested in those around him. She hoped he would be good to Lydia, because there was no doubt in her mind that without his title and money or Lydia’s parents’ avarice, he would not have won the young lady’s hand. Simon was a better man—in all respects.
“You must eat something, Isla.”
At Simon’s gentle urging, Isla shifted her attention to the trencher in front of them. They had eaten meals at the Maidstones’ house on pewter plates. Isla hadn’t realized at the time that Martha’s passion for the latest fashions extended beyond clothing. Apparently, her table was one of the few that had embraced the individual plates and two-tined forks now used in France.
Isla stabbed a piece of meat with the small dagger in her hand and slid it into her mouth. She hoped it was chicken but couldn’t be sure.
“I don’t think I can manage much more,” she said. Nerves and unfamiliar foods were poor companions.
“Try some bread,” he said, tearing a piece off the loaf in the basket at the center of the table and handing it to her.
Isla accepted it but didn’t take a bite. “The next course will be the fourth.”
“It will.”
She glanced at the people sitting closest to her. Mr. Tanner was making a valiant attempt at maintaining small talk with Miss Ellerson, but most were intent on eating. Isla had made an effort to discourage conversation by averting her gaze whenever she caught someone’s eye. It was a shame because she would have loved to learn more about these people and their lives, but this evening, it was more important that she be forgettable.
“I will slip out with the servants after they bring in the platters,” she said.
He nodded, his expression serious. “I wish you were not the one tasked with this errand.”
“I know. But it must be me.”
Simon set the bread in his hand on the edge of the trencher and slid his arm under the table. Moments later, his fingers found hers. He’d held her hand a few times now, and each time, she’d drawn comfort and strength from it. But that was not all. The simple act engendered something else. Something she’d only ever experienced with Simon. It was harder to identify but incredibly powerful. A sense of connection as rare as it was wondrous.
“Given that an unexpected missive has yet to appear, I fear Martha may have the right of it: you were always meant to deliver the letter.” His jaw tightened. “But that does not mean I have to like the notion.”
Isla didn’t like it either, but now was not the time to admit to it. She glanced down the table. Lord Monteagle was speaking with the Duke of Tunstow, a large piece of meat dripping from his knife. If the history books were right, he would allow a servant to interrupt his meal and his conversation. Her stomach churned. Could she really count on the accounts in those centuries-old records? Movement at the left of Lord Monteagle caught her eye. She shifted her attention only to meet Lady Whitely’s critical gaze.
“I confess, Miss Crawford, though I have asked around amongst many of my friends and acquaintances, I have yet to find anyone familiar with your family.” The lady’s strident voice carried across the table, effectively silencing everyone else. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell us more about them.”
Simon’s fingers tightened around hers, but Isla met Lady Whitely’s look without flinching. “My father was raised in a small community in north Yorkshire, my lady. It is not an area familiar to many.”
“And your mother?” Lady Whitely pressed.
“Another village, not more than ten miles from my father’s home. They met when they were quite young.”
“Why did they not stay there? You did tell me you hailed from the city of York.”
“I was raised in York, yes. My father is a second son,” Isla said. It was true, even if it meant nothing in the modern world. “It was not his place to inherit my grandfather’s property.”
Lady Whitely sniffed. “So he became a merchant of some sort, I imagine.”
“He is a much-sought-after teacher.” That was also true. Lady Whitely didn’t need to know that his popularity was manifest in his classes at secondary school consistently filling up first rather than in a steady stream of nobles wanting him to tutor their sons.
“Good heavens!” Lady Whitely’s exclamation was followed by a murmur of surprise that circled the entire table.
From her position near Lord Monteagle, Martha shot her a worried look, and as the small army of servants arrived to exchange the empty platters on the table for the ones containing the meal’s next course, Isla realized that in a few short minutes, she had gone from being almost invisible to being the center of attention.
“Blast the woman!” Simon’s frustrated whisper told her that he’d come to the same conclusion. “If she keeps up her infernal prying, I shall come up with another way of facilitating your escape.”
“Does your father consider himself an expert in any particular subjects?” the Duke of Tunstow asked.
“The sciences, Your Grace.”
“By Jove, in my youth, I would have benefited greatly from a tutor with that expertise.”
Under the circumstances, it was a generous thing to say, but Isla would have much preferred to end the discussion. In fact, she had to end the discussion. If she was going to leave with the servants, it would have to happen in the next minute or two.
“Forgive me,” Simon whispered. “I can think of no other way.”
Isla darted him a puzzled glance, but a servant standing between their stools blocked her view of his face. The maid was raising the pitcher in her hand, but before she could pour more mead into Simon’s empty goblet, he shifted, bumping her arm. Giving a startled cry, the maid staggered back, her grip on the pitcher slipping. Reddish-brown mead spurted upward, landing on Isla’s shoulder and running down her sleeve. The women at the table gave a cumulative gasp.
Lord Monteagle rose to his feet. “What is the meaning of this careless behavior?”
“Forgive me, miss, m’ lord.” The maid turned her stricken face from one to the other. “I didn’t mean t’ do it. The jug. It just slipped out o’ me ’ands.”
“I must take the blame, my lord,” Simon said, speaking out quickly to absolve the maid of responsibility. “Your servant deserves no censure. She could not have anticipated my sudden movement.”
“It is quite all right.” Isla stood. Simon had orchestrated the spill as a means of getting her out of here, and she meant to seize it. “There was no harm done.”
“But your beautiful bodice is ruined,” Lady Monteagle moaned.
“Not at all.” Isla moved away from the table. “If—” She paused to face the quivering maid. “What is your name?”
“A-Agnes, miss.”
“If Agnes would be so good as to take me somewhere where I might make use of some water,” Isla continued, “I shall simply mop off the worst of it and then return.”
“Yes, of course,” Lord Monteagle said, the relief in his voice suggesting that he was more than happy to accommodate her proposal.
Interpreting her master’s agreement as her cue to leave, the perceptive maid bobbed a hurried curtsy, and with the empty pitcher in her hand, she turned toward the door. “This way, if you please, miss.”
Needing no second bidding, Isla hurried after her.