Page 2 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)
Copfield Hall, Surrey
September 1605
C ursing his bad luck, Simon Hartworth lowered his head against the driving rain and urged his mount across the courtyard behind Copfield Hall. The wide brim of his cavalier hat offered his face a modicum of protection, but no manner of headwear or cloak could compete with this storm. He slid from his saddle and tugged on the wet reins. If he’d left London ten minutes earlier, he would have arrived ahead of the storm. As it was, he would be giving some poor stableboy a devil of a job and trailing a small river of water into his sister’s entrance hall.
Pulling open the stable door, he led his horse inside. Physical relief from the pelting rain was instant, but the rattle of water hitting the clay tile roof overhead continued. One of the nearby horses snorted nervously. Simon’s mount tossed his head and pulled away.
“Steady, boy.” Simon ran a wet hand over the horse’s equally wet neck. “Your lot will improve soon enough.”
“Evenin’, Lord Bancroft.” A thin lad of about twelve years of age approached and inclined his head respectfully.
“And to you, Ezra. Although, I daresay it would be better for us both if the rain had held off.” He handed the stableboy his reins. “I fear Blaze will need some extra attention. It has been a long journey, and the last few furlongs were particularly unpleasant.”
“Don’ you worry none, m’ lord.” Ezra eyed the black thoroughbred appreciatively. “A good rubdown’ll do wonders t’ settle ’im.”
“I am sure it will. And perhaps a little extra feed would not go amiss either.”
Ezra grinned. Simon visited Copfield Hall often enough that this was a familiar conversation. “Yes, m’ lord.”
“Very good. I shall leave him in your capable hands.”
The pummeling of rain on tile had yet to abate. Simon gazed upward and frowned.
Ezra must have caught his look. “Would ya be wantin’ to wait out th’ storm in th’ stables, m’ lord? I can fetch ya a blanket.”
Simon had a fairly good idea of what a stable blanket would smell like, and it was quite possible his sister, Martha, would not let him set foot in the house if he added that level of malodor to his already sopping state. “It’s good of you to offer,” he said, “but I believe I shall take my chances on making a run for it.”
Ezra’s grin returned. “Best o’ luck t’ ya, m’ lord.”
“I may need it.” Simon lifted the lever on the door. Cinching the front of his cloak closed with one hand, he exited the stables and started down the gravel path at a steady jog. The light was dimming, and the cloud cover made it difficult to assess the exact time. Given that Martha was expecting him, she’d probably planned to have him join them for an evening meal. After his unpleasant ride, he’d be glad of some warm food. He only hoped he’d not kept the household waiting long.
The path took him around the large manor to the front of the house. Impeccably tended flowerbeds lined the edge of the lawn. Farther away, trees, shrubs, and narrow paths cut through the vast green expanse, showcasing a small portion of Simon’s brother-in-law’s extensive property. Normally, Simon would have paused to take in the view from this vantage point. This evening, however, he wanted nothing more than to be indoors, sitting beside a fire, wearing dry clothing.
Angling his head away from the driving rain, he took the stone stairs up to the front door two at a time, landing on the top step less than an arm’s length from someone else. The person issued a startled cry. He staggered sideways, barely catching himself on the lip of the top step. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you.”
“Oh! But you can s-see m-me?”
At the sound of a female voice, Simon’s head shot up. He’d been so consumed with escaping the rain, he’d all but barreled into a young lady. Attempting to shake off his chagrin, he focused on her rather odd question. After his uncivilized approach, she deserved a reply. “Of course, I see you now. I foolishly kept my head down because I did not expect anyone else to be here.”
“Wh-where exactly is ‘here’?”
“Why, on the doorstep.” He studied her more carefully. If her sopping silk attire and stuttering speech were any indication, she was a young lady of some means who was in extremis. He met her blue eyes. Was it fear that shone in them?
“Wh-whose doorstep?” She was shivering with cold, and there was no hiding her desperation. “Please. Can you t-tell me wh-where I am?”
“Copfield Hall,” he said. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him that he’d not missed seeing a carriage in the drive. He’d just come from the stables, and there’d been no sign of any recently arrived horses beyond his own. Had she truly arrived here on foot? And with no hat or cloak? Where were those who should have been attending her? Even if her carriage had broken down on the road, she should not be here alone.
“Wh-where exactly is C-Copfield Hall?”
“Surrey,” he said. “It is the home of Lord and Lady Maidstone.”
Her hands were clasped tightly before her, but whether that was due to anxiety or extreme cold, he could not tell.
“Are you ... Are you Lord Maidstone?”
“I am not.” Heaven help him. Had all remnants of common courtesy been washed away by this rain? First, he’d almost leveled the young lady on Maidstone’s completely unforgiving stone stairs, and then he’d been so confounded by her unexpected appearance, he’d neglected to introduce himself. “I am Lord Bancroft. My sister is married to Lord Maidstone.”
“Oh.” Her chin trembled.
“Do you know my sister?”
She shook her head. “I d-don’t ...” A shudder coursed through her entire body.
Simon did not wait for more. He pounded on the door. She could add “interrupting a young lady midsentence” to his list of current faux pas if she wished. As far as he was concerned, the time for conversation was past. He was cold, but with no cloak, she must be frigid.
The Maidstones’ servant had obviously been standing nearby because he opened the door straightway.
“Send for my sister, would you, Hobbes,” Simon said, thankful that he knew the man well enough to bypass pleasantries. Too late, he realized that although he’d offered the mysterious young woman on the doorstep his name, he had yet to learn hers. He reached for her elbow to guide her inside. “This young lady needs immediate assistance.”
If Hobbes was surprised by his request or by the young lady’s appearance, he was sufficiently well-trained not to show it. He bowed politely. “Yes, my lord.” And then, with barely a glance at the bedraggled stranger, he started toward the parlor.
“Come,” Simon said, guiding the young lady farther into the entrance hall. “Martha will know how to best help you.”
Isla gazed around the vast room. The wood floor was polished to a shine, as were the wood panels on the walls. Small, leaded windows allowed in the last remaining light of early evening, but most of the room’s illumination came from two large candelabras standing on tables on either side of a staircase. Three oil paintings hung on one wall depicting ships at sea. On the opposite wall, a family crest hung over the archway that led into a darkened passageway. It was the direction the man who’d played the part of a butler had gone.
Was he an actor? None of this made any sense. If she wasn’t hallucinating—and the pain she was feeling in her feet suggested she wasn’t—then she had no idea how she’d arrived at this place. Or who these people were.
“Wh-why are you all d-dressed up like this?” It didn’t seem to matter how tightly she wrapped her arms around herself; she couldn’t control her chattering teeth.
The man beside her—Lord Bancroft, supposedly—glanced down at his ensemble. The soggy ostrich feather in his flamboyant hat drooped, but even that didn’t fully detract from his heroic musketeer appearance. “Given the storm we encountered,” he said, “I’m grateful for my cloak. Did you not think to don one before venturing out in such inclement weather?”
She had to give him points for staying in character, but suggesting that he was more sensibly dressed than she was wasn’t going to win her over. “N-no. There wasn’t a c-cloak with the costume.” She raised the hem of her wet skirts a fraction. “Or shoes, for that m-matter.”
The shock on his face appeared genuine. “How far did you travel without shoes?”
“From the ch-changing room.”
“The changing room?” His shock turned to confusion.
“Yes.” She shivered. She was out of the rain and wind, but this room was not nearly warm enough. Someone needed to crank up the heat. “Th-the one that l-looks like a woodshed or s-something.”
“Simon!” A woman who appeared similar in age to Isla hurried toward them from the passageway. Her dark, curly hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate updo. The farthingale beneath her red gown must have been even wider than Isla’s because her dress swayed back and forth like a pendulum as she crossed the floor. “I am so glad you are arrived safely.”
Attempting to muffle her chattering teeth with her lip, Isla studied the two people curiously. Their dark hair was similar, as were their brown eyes. Despite their significant difference in height and Lord Bancroft’s neatly trimmed beard, they certainly looked enough alike to be siblings.
“As am I.” Lord Bancroft removed his hat and greeted her with a brief kiss on the cheek. “But as you can see,” he continued, “I am not the only one seeking shelter from the storm tonight.”
The woman turned her attention to Isla. “Good evening,” she said politely. “I am Lady Maidstone.”
“Isla C-Crawford,” Isla said.
“You are most welcome, Miss Crawford.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, and when Isla didn’t correct the title, she smiled. “I am anxious to hear more about you and learn what brings you to Copfield Hall. But first, we must get you out of those wet clothes.”
“Th-that would b-be marvelous,” Isla said. “My b-blouse and trousers are in the ch-changing room.”
Lady Maidstone offered Lord Bancroft a puzzled look.
“Miss Crawford came from the direction of the woodshed,” he said.
“Yes. B-but it wasn’t a w-woodshed when I went in. It was a ch-changing room.” Even as Isla spoke the words, she could hear how ridiculous they sounded. But seeing as all these people were dressed in period costume, they had to be in on the charade. “I’m feeling p-pretty miserable r-right now, so m-maybe we could end this prank?”
“I am very sorry, Miss Crawford,” Lady Maidstone said. “I can appreciate your discomfort completely. The prank, however, I am struggling to comprehend.”
“This!” Isla waved one arm to encompass the room and everyone in it. “It’s l-like we all l-landed in the Elizabethan era.”
Lord Bancroft cleared his throat. “Given the political volatility in our nation at present, it might be well to remember that Queen Elizabeth died over two years ago.”
Isla stared at him. “Elizabethan doesn’t refer to Queen Elizabeth II, you know.”
“There is no Queen Elizabeth II,” he said.
“Right. Because she d-died in 2022.” Isla’s irritation was mounting. She was going to give Chloe an earful when she saw her next. It was one thing to talk Isla into going to a costume shop she’d never heard of before; it was a whole other thing to take advantage of her visit to play a practical—and completely unfunny—joke on her. It was about time they ended this farce so Isla could go home. “Queen Elizabeth II was on the throne f-for ages,” she said, “and maybe one day, people will r-remember her reign like they d-do with the f-first Queen Elizabeth.” She raised her soaking skirts a few inches off the floor. “But I guarantee, th-they won’t be dressed like this.”
Lady Maidstone exchanged a look with her brother. It seemed like it was one part warning, one part concern. Good. Maybe he’d stop playacting now.
“I think we’d best resume our conversation after you’ve both changed out of your wet clothes,” she said. “Simon, your trunk arrived yesterday and is in the green room, as usual. I imagine you’ll find Anson there also. Miss Crawford, you and I are of a similar height. I believe I can find you a gown to wear from my wardrobe. You are of a more slender build, but my maid, Maggie, is masterful at pinning. I have no doubt she will be able to fit something to you without any difficulty.”
“But my own c-clothes are in—”
“The changing room,” Lady Maidstone finished for her. “So you said. But seeing as the storm has yet to subside, I think it would be wise if you borrowed something of mine for the time being.”
“What of shoes, Martha?” Lord Bancroft asked.
Isla raised her hem just enough to expose her purple feet. “A pair of socks would be g-great, especially if you don’t have any sh-shoes in a six.”
“In a six?” Lady Maidstone frowned. “What is that?”
“My shoe size,” Isla said. “I usually w-wear a six, but I might be okay in a f-five and a half.”
“How remarkable.” The lines on Lady Maidstone’s forehead weren’t completely gone, but she seemed intrigued. “My cobbler traces my foot to make a pattern when I need a new pair of shoes. I do not believe he has ever told me how my foot size compares to that of other ladies. He has certainly never given me a number.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Come this way. We shall see if my shoes are also a six.”
Isla wasn’t too excited about following Lady Maidstone to yet another unknown location, but the promise of dry clothes was too good to pass up.
“Thank you for your h-help, Lord Bancroft,” she said.
With a startled look, he inclined his head. “My pleasure, Miss Crawford.”
She managed a weak smile and then turned to follow Lady Maidstone across the hall. When they reached the bottom step, she glanced back at him. He was watching her, his expression troubled. Lady Maidstone must have noticed, too, because she paused, her hand already on the banister rail.
“Locate your manservant and trunk, Simon,” she said. “I have Miss Crawford’s situation well in hand, and you need to change your clothing almost as badly as she does. You are dripping water on my floor.” She started up the stairs. “Miss Crawford and I shall meet you and Hugh in the parlor within the half hour.”