Page 3 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

H ave you ever heard the name before, Maidstone?” Simon stared out of the drawing room window in the general direction of the woodshed. The darkness and rain made it impossible to see the distant structure, but he knew where it stood.

“Miss Isla Crawford? Can’t say that I have.” Simon’s brother-in-law sat in one of the armchairs closest to the fire, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Didn’t someone in Northumberland’s family marry a Crawford?”

“If she’s from the north, it might explain her unusual speech.” He shook his head, trying to capture something that yet eluded him. “It’s not so much her cadence as her choice of words. She sounds English, and yet she does not.”

“Scottish?” Maidstone guessed. “Or it could be that she hails from some out-of-the-way place in Wales.”

“If that were the case, I don’t suppose Martha and I would have understood her at all.”

Maidstone chuckled. “I cannot argue with that.” He set the glass in his hand on the small table beside the chair and rose to his feet. “Stop worrying, old fellow. It should not be hard to discover how the young lady came to be here all alone. I daresay Martha will know her entire life story by the time they come downstairs.”

Simon appreciated Maidstone’s optimism, but the gentleman had not seen the deep-seated fear and desperation in Miss Crawford’s eyes. Such raw emotion was the product of a significant ordeal. Something far greater than being caught in the rain.

Footsteps and voices sounded in the passageway. Maidstone tossed Simon a meaningful look. “It appears you shall not have to wait much longer to have your questions answered.”

Moments later, Martha led Miss Crawford into the room. Martha acknowledged Simon with a smile before moving to stand beside her husband. “Miss Crawford,” she said, “I should like to have you meet my husband, Lord Maidstone. Hugh, this is Miss Crawford. She is most recently from London but was raised in York.”

Maidstone bowed. Miss Crawford offered a hesitant smile. Simon simply stared.

Martha had touted her lady’s maid’s skill in Simon’s presence before, but Maggie had truly outdone herself this evening. Gone was the sopping wet, disoriented stranger who had washed up on the Maidstones’ doorstep. In her place was an elegant young woman whose damp hair was pinned to her head in a flattering mass of gentle curls and whose rose-colored gown complemented her complexion perfectly. Her blue eyes—even brighter now than they’d appeared in the shadowy entrance hall—were framed with thick, dark lashes. And although she retained an air of hesitancy, the only word Simon could summon to describe her now was breathtaking .

“Welcome to Copfield Hall, Miss Crawford,” Maidstone said.

“Thank you, Lord Maidstone.” Almost as if it were an afterthought, Miss Crawford inclined her head slightly. “I’m very grateful for Lady Maidstone’s kindness.” She brushed her hand down her skirt. “It’s wonderful to be dry again.”

“Ah, yes. I heard you were caught in the storm.” Maidstone turned to Simon, drawing him into the conversation. “Were you en route from London, as Lord Bancroft here was?”

“I was in London,” she said. “Pickering Place, to be exact.” She clasped her hands, her gaze darting from Maidstone to Simon. “To be honest, I don’t know exactly how I got from there to here.”

“Miss Crawford is alone,” Martha said. They’d clearly had this conversation upstairs. “She has no escort, no carriage, no mount, and no luggage.”

Disbelief rippled through Simon, and he saw a similar emotion touch Maidstone’s eyes. Martha had obviously had more time to assimilate this rather shocking state of affairs, because she tucked her arm through her husband’s and continued calmly. “I have told her that she is welcome to stay at Copfield Hall until she has acquired a way to safely return home.”

“There is no safety to be had in returning to London at present,” Simon said.

Miss Crawford swiveled to face him. “Why? Has something happened there?”

“If you have truly just come from the city, I would have thought it impossible to be ignorant of current conditions.”

“Has there been a riot? A bombing?” Panic tinged her voice. “Please, tell me.”

“The plague,” he said. Was he truly the only one in the room who was mystified by half of what Miss Crawford said? “Surely you know that the alarming number of deaths from the disease has caused the theatres to close their doors and the king to delay the opening of Parliament.”

“The plague?” She swallowed. “You mean COVID?”

“Pardon my ignorance,” Maidstone said, “but what exactly is COVID?”

Miss Crawford reached for the back of the chair closest to her and gripped it tightly. “A disease,” she said tightly. “But maybe not the one you’re talking about?”

“I don’t believe so.” Simon eyed her warily. “The one I am referring to is also known as the Bubonic Plague or Black Death.”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought that might be it.”

“It is the reason almost all members of the House of Lords have vacated their London homes.”

“Including you,” she guessed.

“Yes. My country residence is a considerable distance from London, in Derbyshire. The Maidstones are good enough to allow me to stay here when I am required to return to the city within a relatively short period of time.”

“Although we regret the terrible suffering occurring in London, Simon’s extended visits to our home have delighted our sons,” Martha said, seemingly attempting to redirect the conversation to something lighter.

Her approach proved successful, for Miss Crawford’s eyes widened. “You have children?”

“We do.” Martha smiled. “And if I had taken you down the east wing of the house, you would doubtless have heard them in the nursery. They will be so jubilant when they learn of Simon’s arrival, I fear their voices will not be contained to that part of the house.”

Simon grinned. Much as he appreciated Martha and her husband’s company, in his opinion, Copfield Hall’s biggest draw was his rambunctious nephews. The boys had a way of making the most difficult of circumstances seem less trying and the most challenging problems more manageable. “Are you telling me that I must wait until tomorrow to see them?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” Martha eyed him sternly. “As Hobbes has already informed me that supper is ready, I believe we should relocate to the dining room and enjoy the meal uninterrupted.”

Simon accepted her directive with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. But your cook had better have outdone herself if there is to be any hope of assuaging my disappointment.”

“I believe she has,” Maidstone said. “I have it on good authority that there will be braised eel for supper tonight.”

“Ah.” Simon guessed Martha had specifically requested the dish because she knew he liked it so well. “I daresay braised eel may be worth the sacrifice.”

Maidstone chuckled and led Martha to the door. Left with only one polite option, Simon offered Miss Crawford his arm. She gave him a mystified look, but when he raised an eyebrow, she tentatively set her hand on his sleeve.

“I shall not eat you,” he said. “You have my word.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, lifting her chin slightly. “It may ruin your appetite for the braised eel.”

Surprised but unaccountably pleased by her response, Simon fought back a smile. Miss Crawford may say exceptionally odd things, but it appeared that she was not without a sense of humor.

Isla stared at the long, brown object on the pewter plate before her and suppressed a shudder. Braised eel. She might have tried it if she hadn’t known what it was. But thanks to Lord Maidstone, she did know. And she was genuinely worried that if she put a piece in her mouth, she might gag.

Across the table from her, Lord Bancroft was already halfway through the portion on his plate. Isla shuddered again. Live eels gave her the creeps; cooked eels weren’t much better. The first course had been roast beef, lamb, and turnips. She hadn’t expected or needed a meal of eel and leeks after that. Would she be considered horribly rude if she left it untouched? Lady Maidstone had been incredibly kind, and the last thing Isla wanted to do was insult her, but eating eel ... She honestly didn’t think she could do it.

After stabbing a small piece of leek with the short, sharp knife she had found beside her plate, Isla slid the vegetable into her mouth and chewed slowly. If she knew Lord Bancroft better, she’d offer him her eel, but since she’d only just met the man, it would probably be weird to suggest it. Not that every conversation they’d had so far hadn’t been weird. Her chest tightened. Pretty much everything about her situation and surroundings right now was surreal.

She was sitting at a large, rectangular, wooden table in a wood-paneled room in a Tudor manor. A fire in the large fireplace augmented the light from the candles lining the center of the table. The dishes were filled with simple foods, yet they tasted unfamiliar. Ale filled the goblets, and the others in the room—all dressed in elegant Jacobean clothing—appeared completely at ease. It truly seemed as though she were the only one who felt out of place.

“Bring me up-to-date on news from London, Bancroft,” Lord Maidstone said. “Do whispers of death threats directed toward the king continue?”

Lord Bancroft grimaced. “In almost every social gathering. And I see no reason for them to stop. Not until the monarch is willing to offer the Catholics some concessions.”

Death threats? Catholics? What on earth were they talking about? Isla set down her knife. It clattered against the rim of the plate. Instantly, silence fell over the table, and everyone’s gaze landed on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Lady Maidstone cleared her throat. “At the risk of causing offense, Miss Crawford, would you be willing to tell us your religious leanings?”

“My . . . my religious leanings?”

“Yes.” Lady Maidstone didn’t look away. “Do you align yourself with the Protestant faith or Catholic?”

During an evening filled with odd questions, this one might win the prize.

“When I go to church, I attend Church of England services,” Isla said.

The tension left Lady Maidstone’s shoulders. “That makes life easier, does it not?”

“I ... I suppose so. Why did you ask?”

“There always seem to be negative repercussions when one is seen fraternizing with Catholics.” Her expression dropped. “It is awful. And I hate that we have to even consider it, but for the sake of the boys ...”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Martha.” Lord Maidstone set a comforting hand over his wife’s. “Today’s political upheaval is not of your making. Neither is the rift it has caused between those of differing religions.”

Isla’s thoughts spun. This discussion and the distress it had engendered felt incredibly real. And heavy. Heavier than pretense should ever be. She allowed her gaze to traverse the room again. There were no electric plugs or cords, no items made of plastic or rubber. Nothing remotely modern. Was it possible that this historically perfect building was no set, these people weren’t acting, and she’d actually traveled back in time? No. It couldn’t be.

More than ever before, she wanted to escape the room and this bizarre conversation. But her newfound doubts lingered. What if this wasn’t fake? Ever since she’d stepped out of the changing room, she’d been in such a state of shock and disbelief that she’d not allowed herself time to think. To really think. What if the inconceivable had actually occurred? What if she really had been dropped into the past? She needed to shake off her shock and focus. And she’d better start drawing on whatever she could remember from all her college history classes too.

In a final act of defiance against the preposterous situation, she raised her eyes to meet Lord Bancroft’s. “What’s today’s date?” she asked.

“It is the twenty-ninth of September,” he said.

“And the year?”

He gave her an odd look. “Sixteen oh five.”

Sixteen oh five! Isla attempted to keep her breathing even and racked her brains for anything she could attach to the time period. Queen Elizabeth had just died. King James was on the throne. But there were factions who didn’t believe he belonged there. And if she remembered right, those factions were almost exclusively Catholics who longed for a monarch who would restore the rights they’d enjoyed under the reign of Queen Mary.

“Would you say that King James is more concerned with uniting England and Scotland under one monarch than in uniting people of differing faiths in those same countries?” she asked, offering a silent prayer that she’d remembered right.

“Undoubtedly.” Lord Bancroft was still staring at her. “Although few outside those serving in Parliament recognize it.”

For a monarch who would be instrumental in producing the King James version of the Bible, his lack of sensitivity to varying religious beliefs made no sense. But Isla’s schooling had taught her that history was riddled with such contradictions.

“It must have been a disappointment to the Catholics that Mary Queen of Scots’ own son would treat them so badly,” she said.

Something flickered in Lord Bancroft’s eyes, but before Isla could identify the emotion, he turned to Lord Maidstone. Isla followed his gaze. The sandy-haired man was looking unusually grave.

“If your bent is truly toward the Church of England, Miss Crawford,” he said, “I would suggest that you curb your public criticism of the king’s treatment of Catholics. There are assuredly others who share your feelings, but there are equally assuredly spies circulating at every social function, keeping track of anyone who speaks ill of the king. Once those names reach Cecil, those people are considered potential traitors to the crown.”

Cecil. Isla was obviously supposed to know the name. It sounded vaguely familiar. It also sounded as though he wielded a great deal of power. “How do you know who the spies are?”

“Guesswork,” Lord Bancroft said. “Those who appear a little too interested in conversations not meant for them. Those who encourage Catholics who practice their religion in secret to speak openly of their religious observance. Those who appear at inns where the proprietors are known to turn a blind eye to clandestine gatherings.”

“Unfortunately, they are rarely obvious.” Lord Maidstone’s expression remained grim. “I have lost some good friends to Cecil’s witch hunts.”

“What happened to them?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Isla regretted them. Lady Maidstone bowed her head as though inexplicably burdened. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“If you truly do not know, it is best that I enlighten you,” Lord Maidstone said. “They were taken to the Tower. Most are already dead.”

“Because they were practicing Catholics?” It was almost too terrible to comprehend.

“Yes. And they were seen as a threat.” Lord Maidstone straightened his shoulders. “Now, perhaps you better comprehend why Martha asked about your leanings. No one in this room harbors ill feelings toward those of the Catholic faith—quite the opposite, in fact—but I believe I speak for Lord Bancroft when I say that neither of us will ever be sufficiently swayed by religious fervor to condone an assassination attempt on the king.”

“I understand.” And she did. It had taken her a few minutes, but the penny had finally dropped. Unfortunately, the new awareness brought more fear than comfort. “Thank you for your warning; I’ll be more careful from now on.”

Slipping her trembling hands beneath the table, she fought for composure. She should have registered the importance of the date the moment Lord Bancroft had enlightened her. Sixteen oh five was no ordinary year in British history. It was the year Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators had attempted to blow up Parliament and the king.