Page 6 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)
T en minutes before Martha’s appointed meeting time in the parlor, Simon knocked on the door of his brother-in-law’s study. Not wanting to leave Miss Crawford to her own devices, he had waited until Martha had her fully engaged in a discussion about the selection of wool twill at her London haberdasher’s shop before excusing himself. He was sufficiently familiar with Martha’s penchant for fabric to know that she would maintain the conversation—and, therefore, keep Miss Crawford beside her—until they met with Maidstone.
“Enter.” Maidstone’s voice reached him through the closed door.
Simon walked in and closed the door behind himself.
Maidstone looked up from the book he was studying. “Bancroft.” He stood and glanced at the timepiece on the mantel. “Forgive me. I had thought Martha wished me to meet with you at the top of the hour.”
“She did. She does,” Simon said. “And I apologize for interrupting you before then, but I thought it might be prudent to have a private word before we meet with the ladies.”
“By all means.” He gestured toward a nearby chair and reclaimed his own. “What is on your mind?”
“Miss Crawford,” Simon said, dropping onto the seat. “To be brief, she claims that she has come here from the future.”
Maidstone’s brows rose. “The future?”
“Indeed. She aims to tell you and Martha how she arrived when we gather in the parlor, but I thought you might be glad of a few extra minutes to consider how you wish to proceed after she makes her statement.”
Maidstone frowned. “The young lady did not give the impression of being a lunatic last evening. Confused and a little odd, most definitely. But I blamed that on her being caught out in the elements for who knows how long.”
“Agreed.” Simon paused. His intention had been to simply give Maidstone time to ponder upon an unexpected and difficult situation. But perhaps he owed him more than that. “I was with the young lady earlier this morning. After I heard her claim, I thought it best that she not be left unattended.”
“Most wise,” Maidstone said. “I am grateful to you.”
“She is now with Martha, and I assume they will go to the parlor together. As far as I can ascertain, she shows no sign of being a threat to anyone. In fact, I would go so far as to say the opposite is true. She was fully engaged with the boys and appeared genuinely happy with them.”
Maidstone’s frown deepened. “She was with my sons?”
“For no more than half an hour.” Had he done wrong by taking Miss Crawford there? Simon was suddenly stricken with the thought that he may not have made the same choice had Sam and Will been his own children. “With Miss Tomlinson ever present, I did not think it a great risk.”
“Hmm.” Maidstone seemed unconvinced.
“In truth, one of the reasons I took her to the nursery was to gauge the boys’ response to her. It is my belief that children are far more discerning than most adults realize. If Sam and Will want little to do with someone, the chances are good that they have a valid reason, regardless of how well hidden the adult’s character flaw may be.” Simon had witnessed the twins’ interactions with some of the Maidstones’ neighbors. Their disinclination to be around some of them was remarkably telling.
“How did the boys respond to Miss Crawford?” Maidstone asked.
“Very well. In fact, Will asked that she return to play with them another time.”
“Until we know more about her state of mind, she is not to have access to my sons without another trusted adult present,” Maidstone warned.
“I will personally relay that message to Miss Tomlinson,” Simon said, guilt that he’d taken Miss Crawford to the nursery without checking with Maidstone or Martha warring with his earlier estimation that it had been the right thing to do.
Maidstone’s nod was curt. “Sam’s and Will’s opinions aside, what is your estimation of the young lady?”
“She appears fully lucid. Until she starts speaking of her future world.” Simon shook his head, more troubled by his inner conflict than he cared to admit. “Her story is wholly unbelievable. Her manner of delivery, however, is most convincing.”
The clock on the mantel whirred, preparing to chime.
Maidstone rose again. “I appreciate the forewarning, Bancroft. If you conceive of some way of proving Miss Crawford’s assertion, do not hesitate to speak up in the parlor. I believe we would all benefit from some clarity on Miss Crawford’s place of origin. The young lady, in particular.”
Proof? Simon’s thoughts swirled as he came to his feet. What could they possibly ask Miss Crawford that would give them something substantive upon which they could base their decisions?
Unfortunately, Simon was no closer to answering that question twenty minutes later when he stood to the right of the fireplace in the parlor, his eyes on his sister and brother-in-law, who were seated beside each other. Across from them, Miss Crawford had just concluded her account of her arrival here, and an uncomfortable silence now blanketed the room.
Maidstone cleared his throat, obviously unsure how to proceed. Simon understood. He felt similarly—although the cause of his discomfort had changed. The first time he’d heard Miss Crawford’s tale, he’d felt trapped by his desire to maintain gentlemanly behavior in the face of seemingly blatant lies. This time, however, his unease came from the disturbing realization that regardless of how completely preposterous Miss Crawford’s claims may be, his inclination to believe them was greater than it had been.
Maidstone came to his feet and paced to the fireplace before swiveling to face her. “I must say, Miss Crawford, this is all rather a lot to absorb.”
“I understand, my lord.” Miss Crawford’s hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. “If I hadn’t experienced it firsthand, I wouldn’t believe it either.”
“The twenty-first century, you say?” Martha’s voice was little more than a squeak.
“Yes. It was 2025, to be precise.”
Martha eyed Miss Crawford’s clothing and then ran her hands across her own purple gown. “Tell me, have the farthingales widened or narrowed?”
Miss Crawford blinked, likely as stunned by Martha’s question as Simon was. His sister had a young lady sitting in her house, claiming to have arrived from the future, and her first question was on the diameter of women’s hooped underwear? Simon offered Maidstone a stupefied look, but Miss Crawford was already replying.
“There are no farthingales at all,” she said. “Women wear much simpler dresses, and they usually end at the knee.”
Martha gasped. “Ladies show their legs and ankles?”
Despite the tension in the room, the corners of Miss Crawford’s lips turned upward. “They do. And men wear trousers that go to their ankles, rather than breeches that stop at the knee.”
“Good heavens.” Martha’s hand went to her chest as though this revelation were somehow more shocking than the fact that Miss Crawford had entered a world so far removed from her own.
“Ladies often wear trousers too,” Miss Crawford continued. “I went to the costume shop looking for a pale-blue nightgown, but I was wearing trousers when I walked in.”
Martha, it seemed, was momentarily speechless.
It was probably a good thing because her silence offered Simon an opportunity to interrupt. “Forgive me,” he said. “I do not think choice of wardrobe in the seventeenth century, the twenty-first century, or one’s imagination is the most important issue to discuss at present.”
“No, indeed,” Maidstone said. “Although, I confess, I am not sure quite where to begin.”
“Is there anything you might tell us that would more fully persuade us to believe that you are from the future, Miss Crawford?” Simon asked.
“I ... I’ve told you about some of the advancements already.”
“You have, but I have no way of knowing if those are fabricated,” he said.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You want something that you would know, but I would not unless I were from the future.”
Put in that light, his request sounded unreasonable. But despite Maidstone’s request, Simon had yet to come up with another avenue that might offer them clarification. “If possible,” he said.
“It’s been a few years since I studied this time period, and I don’t know what was common knowledge.” Miss Crawford’s brows came together as though she were thinking deeply. She looked at him hesitantly. “When Queen Elizabeth died, her face was caked with Venetian ceruse. She used it to cover the scars on her face caused by smallpox, but doctors think the lead in it may have contributed to her death.”
“Good heavens!” Martha looked from Simon to Maidstone. “Did you know this?”
“The queen’s face was always painted white,” Maidstone said. “It would be a reasonable assumption that she used Venetian ceruse.”
“Did it cause her death?” Martha asked.
“I do not believe any doctor could claim that,” Simon said. “For years before her death, the queen refused to allow anyone to examine her.”
Miss Crawford’s face fell. “Perhaps modern doctors conjectured that diagnosis.”
Or she could have imagined it herself.
For a moment, no one spoke. Maidstone cleared his throat again. “I realize—”
Miss Crawford gasped. “In 1604, King James met with Anglican and Puritan scholars at Hampton Court to discuss the need for a new and definitive version of the Bible.” Her voice rang with a peculiar mixture of desperation and surety. “It will take over seven years to compile, but ultimately the King James version of the Bible will become a standard text around the world.”
Simon glanced at Maidstone. Was he aware of this meeting? Maidstone met his eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He knew of it. Simon did not. Which begged the question, How had Miss Crawford come to hear of it?
“Who told you of that meeting, Miss Crawford?” Maidstone asked.
Her shoulders sagged. “No one. I read about it in a history book.”
“Did it happen, Hugh?” Martha asked.
“It did. Although very few gentlemen outside the king’s privy chamber and the invited religious leaders knew of it.”
Martha’s eyes widened. “Does that prove that Miss Crawford is telling the truth?”
Proof was a very strong word, and if Maidstone’s expression was any indication, he was reluctant to use it.
“Someone in attendance at that small gathering may have shared information that was not meant to be made public,” he said. “I was told of the meeting in confidence by the Lord Chamberlain.”
Miss Crawford lifted her chin slightly. “No one told me anything, my lord.”
“You read it in a book,” Simon said dryly.
“Yes. In The Oxford History of Britain , to be precise.”
Maidstone eyed her guardedly. “If you were in my position, Miss Crawford, which of those two scenarios would you believe?”
Miss Crawford held his gaze for two heartbeats before turning to Martha. “You have been extremely good to me. I understand if you wish me to leave. If you’d be willing to point me in the right direction, I could start walking toward London, and perhaps I might ...” She swallowed.
Simon stood completely still. Might what? Be accosted? Did she truly believe she could safely walk all the way to London unattended? In borrowed shoes and without a cloak, no less?
“I might be able to find work somewhere along the way,” she finished.
Obviously choosing to gloss over Miss Crawford’s ridiculous suggestion, Maidstone ran his hand thoughtfully across his short beard. “What skills do you possess, Miss Crawford?”
She hesitated. “I’m actually a pretty good press secretary, but I don’t think being computer savvy and having experience with Excel, Adobe, and the press corps will do me much good here.”
Simon exchanged another look with Maidstone. He’d understood a minute fraction of the words Miss Crawford had just spoken, and he guessed his brother-in-law was in a similar position. If nothing else, Miss Crawford’s incomprehensible speech gave some credibility to her origin.
“You are not going anywhere until we have determined exactly why you have come,” Martha said with surprising firmness.
“But I have no idea why I’m here,” Miss Crawford said.
“Then, we shall simply have to work together to sort it out.”
“Martha, I appreciate the sentiment.” Maidstone offered Miss Crawford an apologetic look before continuing. “But I must remind you that we have yet to come to a firm decision on Miss Crawford’s tale.”
“Well, I believe she is speaking the truth,” Martha said. “Quite apart from the knowledge she shared about the king, no young lady of unsound mind could speak so clearly about clothing, fabrics, and fashions. I would further submit that if everyone in Little Twinning is willing to believe that Mary Peasly can locate underground water using two sticks, then the three of us should be willing to believe that Miss Crawford can visit from another time. She has offered us more evidence than Mary ever has.”
Maidstone shifted uneasily. “Even if her account is true, if Miss Crawford is in ignorance of the reason for her coming, it is highly unlikely that any of us will uncover it.”
“Nonsense.” Marth was at her take-charge best. “Two heads are better than one—and together, we are four heads.”
Miss Crawford smiled tremulously. “That is exactly the kind of thing my friend Chloe would say.”
“I daresay I would like her very much.”
“Yes.” Miss Crawford’s smile grew, and Simon was struck once again by how that single act brightened her entire countenance. “I think you’d get along famously.”
Martha looked from Miss Crawford to Maidstone and then to Simon. “I know you gentlemen believe me foolish to focus so much on clothing, but your lack of attention to that detail has caused you to miss what I believe is an important clue.”
“I am very willing to stand corrected,” Maidstone said.
“Tell us again exactly what Mrs. McQuivey said as she was going through the clothing racks with you, Miss Crawford,” Martha said.
“She acted as though she were searching for the costume I’d gone in for, but she suggested that I’d probably like something historical better.”
“And afterward?” Martha prompted.
“She looked at a few gowns and passed by them.”
“Did she say anything in particular when she did that?”
Miss Crawford hesitated as though trying to remember. “It seems like she said, ‘No, not that one,’ a couple of times.”
“Exactly,” Martha said, sitting back in her chair with a satisfied expression.
“Exactly what?” Simon asked.
Martha ignored him. “What about when she pulled out the gown you’re wearing now?”
“She asked me if I liked it, and when I told her I did, she insisted that I try it on.”
“Because it was the right one,” Martha said.
“The right one,” Miss Crawford echoed, a flash of something that looked remarkably akin to awareness entering her blue eyes.
His frustration mounting, Simon ran his fingers through his hair. “Martha, either I am more dense than I had previously believed, or you have already adopted Miss Crawford’s unusual manner of expression. I cannot speak for Maidstone, but personally, I am struggling to follow your logic.”
Martha gave a resigned sigh. “I do not know who this Mrs. McQuivey is, but she quite obviously has a greater understanding of the changing room with the green door’s peculiar power than she shared with Miss Crawford. I would be willing to wager that she has implemented its magical abilities before. Given what Miss Crawford has told us about her experience, I would also suggest that Mrs. McQuivey has a special ability to discern when someone is needed elsewhere. The exact location and time period may not come to her directly—as Miss Crawford has just illustrated—but it does eventually come. And when that happens, she sends the person off to do what they are called upon to do, wearing the appropriate clothing.”
When Martha paused, the ensuing silence was an echo of the earlier one, but this time, all eyes in the room were upon his sister.
“You ... you think I was meant to come here?” Miss Crawford asked.
“It stands to reason, does it not?” Martha said.
As far as Simon was concerned, absolutely nothing that involved Miss Crawford and her appearance at Copfield Hall could be classified as reasonable.
“Your insight has some merit, Martha,” Maidstone said. “But if what you believe is true, it would have been helpful if Mrs. McQuivey had given Miss Crawford some information about what was ahead.”
“Yes, it would.” Miss Crawford shook her head helplessly. “Mrs. McQuivey made some comment about courage and fortitude rising when we are most uncomfortable. Maybe that was her way of warning me that I was about to be in over my head.”
With a concerned expression, Martha reached over and set a hand on Miss Crawford’s. “Are you horribly uncomfortable here?”
“Yes. No.” She attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. You’ve all been marvelous. Kinder than I deserve. It’s just that I have no idea how to live in your world.”
“We can help you,” Martha said firmly. “Until you have ascertained what you were sent here to do, you must stay at Copfield Hall. Hugh, Simon, and I can be your tutors.”
Simon stiffened. He had no jurisdiction over whom Martha invited to stay at her home or how she wished to employ her time, but he did take exception to being volunteered for a task he did not agree to. Teaching Miss Crawford the niceties of seventeenth-century polite society fell firmly into that category. “I may not be here long enough to participate in Miss Crawford’s schooling, Martha,” he said.
“Then, we shall simply be glad of the time we do have you,” Martha said.
Miss Crawford’s cheeks had pinked. “There’s no need for you to do anything.” She stood. “Really. I’ve imposed on you all long enough already.”
Martha glared at him and then rose to stand beside Miss Crawford. She tucked her arm beneath Miss Crawford’s. “At the risk of sounding selfish, I am not yet ready to share you with anyone else. There’s too much I wish to learn from you.” She paused. “You see, this arrangement will work splendidly. You may ask me questions, and I shall do the same to you.”
“Is there anything in particular that you are struggling with, Miss Crawford?” Maidstone asked.
Simon set his jaw. Blast it all. Even Maidstone was siding with Martha. Had the man truly accepted Martha’s convoluted reasoning? Did the fellow not see what a quagmire he was stepping into? Even if the unthinkable had happened and Miss Crawford had come from the future for a particular reason, who knew how long it would be before she determined what she must do or where she must go? And in the meantime, how was her unexpected presence and background to be explained to their acquaintances? In a society fraught with distrust, spies, and treachery, the mysterious Miss Crawford could trigger all manner of unwanted attention.
“Yes, is there?” Martha’s smile was warm. “What should we begin with?”
Simon stifled a sigh. It seemed that his sister and her husband were willing to take that risk. Miss Crawford had quickly won over Maidstone and Martha, not to mention Will and Sam, but Simon refused to be so easily swayed. He had opened his heart to a young lady once before only to have her cast him aside when he was no longer needed. The experience had taught him that it was safer to maintain barriers, no matter how intriguing or needy a young lady appeared to be. Especially when, according to her claims, she could quite literally disappear at any moment.
“I feel so stupid,” Miss Crawford said. She appeared close to tears. “You’re so kind. But honestly, I know almost nothing about how to function in your world. I don’t know how to light a fire, write with a quill, address nobility, ride a horse—”
“I beg your pardon.” Simon took a stunned step away from the fireplace. He knew full well that he should not have interrupted the lady, but the words had escaped him before he could call them back. “Did you say that you cannot ride a horse?”
“Well, I rode a pony once. On the beach. But I was only eight years old, and the old man who owned the ponies had them on a rope.” She looked at him hesitantly. “Does that count?”
“No, it most certainly does not.”
“Well,” Martha said as though that settled everything. “I would suggest that you spend a good portion of this day with me and Maggie. Between the two of us, we can teach you a great deal about Jacobean households. Hugh can be available for any questions we cannot answer. Then first thing tomorrow, you could join Simon when he visits Will and Sam outside the stables.” She shot Simon a challenging look. “If he is of a mind to assist you, Simon would be the best person to introduce you to riding.”
Martha had pinned him into a corner. He should have been irritated, but somewhat surprisingly, that was not the emotion that rose to the fore. “Very well.” He offered his sister a capitulating nod and allowed the unexpected surge of anticipation to swell. “I shall ask Ezra to have Belle saddled when he readies the ponies for the boys.”
“Is ... is Belle a big horse?” Miss Crawford asked.
Simon detected a flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Not at all,” Martha reassured her. “Belle was my horse for many years. She’s always been a gentle mount—and is all the more so now that she’s aging. We should have sold her when I acquired my new mare, Violet, but we were too attached. And she will be a good training horse when the boys transition from a pony to a full-sized mount.”
“Which should be any day now,” Maidstone said.
Martha frowned at what was likely yet another reminder that her sons were growing up. “True, but tomorrow, Belle shall be your ride.”
“Thank you.” Miss Crawford glanced at Simon. He caught the uncertainty in her eyes a moment before she turned back to Martha. “Answering a few questions seems very little payment for all your kindness. I wish I could do something more.”
“You may yet do so,” Maidstone said. “I would advise you to keep pondering what your reason for being here may be. I daresay once you discover it, we shall be grateful that you are come.”
Her smile was small, but the air of despair that had hung over her appeared to lift a fraction. “I hope you’re right,” she said.
Guy tugged his hat a little lower and averted his head as he approached St Margaret’s Church. If anyone was about at this time of night, they might notice a gentleman walking past the church gates, but they would be hard-pressed to identify him. His black hat and cloak were as unremarkable as they were concealing.
When he reached the corner of the church grounds, he spared a quick look to his right. A shadow silhouetted against the low wall shifted. He narrowed his eyes. A white glove appeared from beneath a dark cloak. Thomas Wintour’s signal. Guy made no acknowledging sound or sign. There was no need. Wintour knew he’d seen him.
Given the choice, Guy would have preferred to work alone. Placing his trust in others did not come easily. But now that the gunpowder had all been transported to the undercroft at the Palace of Westminster, there was too much at stake to risk being seen entering the ground floor storage room. Wintour knew that as well as any of the conspirators. It was unlikely that anyone would be in the vicinity at midnight, but the king’s henchman, Cecil, was known to do the unexpected, and his spies had been trained to do the same. It was pure foolishness to not employ a lookout when Wintour was perfectly capable of doing the job.
Guy paused to listen. A gust of wind rattled the dry leaves on a nearby tree. The lap of the Thames River hitting the boat moorings reached him from the other side of the building before him. An alley cat screeched, and a distant shout followed. It was the closest the city of London could come to complete calm.
Slipping his hand beneath his cloak, he drew the large key from the purse at his belt and moved swiftly across Old Palace Yard. Within moments, a building’s roofline loomed above him, blocking the moonlight and darkening his path. He slowed his steps. A fall would not serve him well.
Instinct told him he was nearing the stairs. Straining to see through the darkness, he picked out the slight change in hue on the ground ahead. He stopped and stretched out his leg. Instantly, his toe touched the edge of a step. With a triumphant smile, he moved forward. Three stairs down. Four more paces forward. He’d been wise to make a mental note of those details the first time he’d come. He reached out his hand and felt the wooden door. Moments later, he had the key in the keyhole. The bolt slid back with a thud. Guy counted to three. No unexpected sound or movement. Opening the door, he slipped inside and closed it behind him.
The air was dank and musty. He wrinkled his nose with distaste and bent to feel for the lantern and flint he’d left beside the door. His fingers brushed against the lantern standing beside a small pail of sand. He seized it, locating the flint moments later. As soon as the wick within caught light, Guy raised it above his head. A scurry of tiny paws sounded at his right. He swung the lantern in that direction and caught the glow of rats’ eyes coming from the wood stacked along the wall. He clenched his jaw. He had no desire to share this space with the vermin, but if they wished to make this their home for another month, so be it. When the time came for Guy to light the fuse attached to the barrels of gunpowder, they would be the first to go.
He started toward the wood, making note of how well the logs and faggots camouflaged the barrels hiding beneath. Casks of wine and cider—enough to supply a household for over a year—lay stacked in front of the wood. Percy had thought it prudent to store decoy barrels in the room just in case it was visited by someone outside their band. Guy could not fault his logic. Casks of wine and cider were appropriate items for the cellar below the Lords’ Chamber. He smirked. They would also contribute well to the upcoming conflagration.
He moved slowly around the room, assessing the level of moisture on the stone walls. He hated the damp. Spain had spoiled him. Long, hot days were brutal when one’s battalion was relocating across the parched hills on foot, but he preferred it to the bone-chilling wetness associated with being near the Thames. He’d had enough of that damp discomfort when he and the other conspirators had spent months digging a tunnel from Percy’s lodgings to the palace. Guy grimaced at the memory. Water from the Thames had continually seeped into the tunnel, and after over a year of digging through the night, they had hit the seemingly impenetrable barrier of the palace’s foundational walls.
With their original plan stymied, this undercroft—with its dank air and rats—had been an unforeseen gift. Guy had discovered Mrs. Ellen Bright clearing out the room that had been used by her late husband for his coal merchant business. Anxious to be free of the lease, she had been more than happy to have someone else assume it, especially a gentleman so accommodating as Lord Percy’s manservant, John Johnson. Guy picked up the crowbar leaning against one of the casks of wine. There was a satisfying irony in the exchange of commodities that had occurred in this space. Coal that could fuel a household had been replaced by gunpowder that would fuel a revolution.
Setting the lantern several feet from the nearest barrel, Guy removed half a dozen logs and used the crowbar to pry off the barrel’s lid. Removing his glove, he ran his fingers through the dark powder in the barrel. Dry. The tension in his shoulders eased. This barrel was up against the wall. If the gunpowder within had been unaffected by the moisture on the stones, the chances were good, the remaining barrels were safe from contamination as well.
Guy replaced the lid and repositioned the logs. Sliding the crowbar behind the barrel, he picked up the lantern and swung it in a slow arc. The cache was enormous, and his chest swelled with pride at all that the conspirators had gathered under cover of darkness. With key in hand, he moved back to the door. It was time to leave. He would send word to Catsby that all was well with the gunpowder, and then Guy would head north and lie low until the appointed time. Percy had left London already. There was no cause for Guy to remain in the plague-infested city any longer.
Setting the lantern down beside the flint, he took a handful of the sand in the bucket and tossed it onto the floor at the undercroft’s entrance. Then he extinguished the flame and slowly opened the door. No warning signal from Wintour. No footsteps passing by. The conspirators’ plan was secure, and the unwitting Mrs. Bright had no idea what she had facilitated. On November 5, the downfall of the English government and the annihilation of the king were all but certain. Of course, if Mrs. Bright’s personal lodgings were anywhere nearby, the widow would never know what she had done until the next life. Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder were going to level far more than the House of Lords alone.