Anne Barbour (8 page)

Inside Pickett’s establishment, after a judicious perusal of the wares, Amanda selected a necklet of beaten gold inlaid with pearls. They continued their stroll, and it was not until she found herself in additional possession of a charming porcelain shepherdess, an airy zephyr scarf, and a box of comfits that they made their way to the curricle, which had trailed behind them in the capable hands of Ash’s tiger.

As Ash put out a hand to assist Amanda into the vehicle, a small personage bustled up to them.

“Vi’lets, guv’nor? Vi’lets for yer lydey?”

Ash gestured impatiently, but the flower woman was not to be put off.

“Come now, guv. Ye mustn’t take yer lydey home wivout a token o’your affection.” She thrust her bouquet under Ash’s nose. Amanda, watching the proceedings with some amusement, started suddenly. She was sure she had seen the old lady somewhere before. She looked at her intently, noting the drifts of gray hair that escaped her shabby head covering, the cracked spectacles, the cheeks, round and red and hard as little apples. My God, she was the spitting image of the old man in the chapel!

Chapter Six

“Please—” Amanda choked, clutching the old woman’s sleeve.

Ash glanced at her, his brows lifted in surprise. “Would you like some violets? Truly?” He fished in his waistcoat pocket for a coin, and, plucking the flowers from the woman’s veined hand, proffered them to Amanda with a flourish. She grasped them absently without looking at them. Her whole being was focused on the flower woman, who cocked her head with an impudent smile. Her eyes, clear and youthful and black as coal chips, twinkled mischievously.

“How yer gettin’ on, then, dearie?” she asked in a voice like a creaky hinge. “Don’t yer look loverly, though, in yer new togs.”

My God,
thought Amanda, excitement surging through her. She knows! She knows who I am, and that I’m .. .

“Please,” she said again. “Tell me—”

But the flower woman shook her head, and with another insouciant smile turned to hobble away.

“No!” cried Amanda. “Don’t go.”

“Hang in there, dearie,” the old lady called over her shoulder. “It’ll get better.” With a wave of her hand, she disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians thronging Oxford Street.

Amanda felt as though her legs would no longer hold her up and she swayed against the earl’s tall form.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked, catching her in his arms. “Are you unwell?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I feel sick. Could you please take me home now?”

Without another word, he lifted her into the curricle and in a few moments they sped along Oxford Street in a westerly direction. Amanda’s thoughts whirled in chaos. Who was that old woman? And what was the significance of her appearance? Was she the physical manifestation of some deep-seated unpleasantness in her brain? She had to be connected somehow with the hallucination, Yet—she had not yet entered her hallucination when she met the old man in Grosvenor Chapel, and, surely, his resemblance to the woman she had just seen could not be coincidental.

She looked up to find Ash watching her with some concern, and she essayed a not entirely successful laugh. “You must think me a complete ninny.”

“Of course not.” He smiled crookedly, and her heart gave an unexpected lurch. “Although, I have never before observed such a startling aversion to violets.”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “It was the flower woman. She—” Amanda clamped her lips shut. Lord, how she wished she could confide in him. She very badly needed some input into her predicament beyond her own demented reflections, but he would think her completely bonkers. “She reminded me of someone,” she finished lamely.

“I see.” His expression gave away nothing of his feelings, and to her relief he changed the subject. “We spoke yesterday of the Marchford ball. Do you still wish to go? I had the idea that your mother was forcing your hand. If you still have no memory by that time, perhaps you will experience some difficulty with such a social occasion.”

Amanda’s heart sank. When the ball had been discussed yesterday, she was sure she would be herself by now and returned to her own time. Lord, she couldn’t possibly go to a party. Not only would she make a complete fool of herself with young Amanda’s acquaintances, but she didn’t know how to dance the minuet, or whatever was in vogue right now. Was the waltz in yet? She could probably manage that, but anything that involved changing partners and dosey-doe-ing, or whatever, would be far beyond her.

On the other hand, she had already decided to receive visitors this afternoon, so by the time the day of the ball arrived, she would either have been accepted as the young Amanda, or she would be considered a candidate for the looney bin. She’d better get herself back to the Bridge ménage for some serious coaching. She thought for a moment before straightening her shoulders.

“Of course. I plan to go to the rout. Mama would be seriously disappointed if I did not. I’ll just have to manage, somehow.”

* * * *

Sometime later, Amanda stood in her room facing Hutchings, whom she had just summoned to her presence.

“Hutchings.” she began, “it is time to rally round your poor demented mistress. I am scheduled to make a personal appearance this afternoon in the drawing room. Where, so Mama informs me, I shall be receiving visitors. I need your help.” She continued hastily in response to Hutchings’ unpromising stare. “My memory is still among the missing, and if I am not to make a complete fool of myself, to say nothing of Mama and Lord Ashindon, I need some serious coaching.”

“I see,” said Hutchings slowly. “You want me to tell you the names of your friends?”

“Yes. I am going to limp along with my tale of a bump on the head and my subsequent loss of memory, which, I devoutly hope, will help explain most of my lapses, and I figured that if you could provide me with descriptions, personal habits, and that sort of thing, I might be able to muddle through.”

“I’ll try, miss,” said Hutchings dubiously. “First, there is Charlotte Twining.”

Amanda frowned. “That name sounds familiar. Oh—is she the one I’m feuding with?”

“Yes. Two weeks ago, the Viscount Glendenning danced twice with you at Lady Beveridge’s ball and only once with her. She is your age, a little taller than you. She is a blonde, too, but her hair is lighter—and frizzier, and she is not nearly so pretty as you.

“Your next best friend is Cordelia Fordham. She is plump and has a long pink-tipped nose that makes her look a little bit like a nice white rat. She thinks you are quite wonderful, and in her eyes you can do no wrong. You and she shared a drawing master last year and Miss Cordelia fancied herself in love with him. Her mama and papa, of course ...”

The lesson went on at length, until Hutchings, glancing at Amanda’s bedside clock, declared it was time for her mistress to dress for luncheon.

Amanda had decided by now that if she truly had the designing of her own fantasy, she would have eliminated the necessity of being dressed by another person. She found the whole process distasteful in the extreme, even given the fact that the gowns she wore were apparently fashioned so that one could not possibly climb into them alone. Each had a number of fastenings, mostly in the back and mostly inaccessible.

Hutchings helped to choose a gown of pomona green French cambric. It had short puffed sleeves, as did most of her garments, and was lavishly embroidered in a floral motif. When she was dressed, Hutchings, perhaps feeling that her mistress needed additional fortifying, devised yet another hairstyle, this time parting Amanda’s hair smoothly in the middle and allowing a cascade of curls to fall on either side of her ears.

“There, miss, if you don’t look a treat,” breathed Hutchings worshipfully. Amanda thought the hairstyle made her look like a simpering Victorian, but forbore to mention this, particularly since the phrase would mean nothing to Hutchings. Aside from that, she was forced to admit once more that this new Amanda was an absolute knockout. The color of the gown brought out the satiny cream color of her skin, and her curves were artfully delineated by its slim design.

“Tell me,” Amanda said thoughtfully, “if my daddy’s rich, and I’m so good-lookin’, why am I not married at the ripe old age of twenty-two?”

“Well, you could have been married any number of times, miss. There was Henry Tuttle, when you were eighteen. He wrote poems about you.”

“And, did I return Henry’s affection?”

“Oh, yes. You would have married him in a minute, for he was ever so handsome, but your papa wouldn’t have it.”

“Ah, Henry lacked a title, I take it.”

“Yes, miss, and he was poor as a churchmouse, besides. A few months later, you met Andrew Mortimer, and you was real taken with him. I thought maybe your papa would relent this time, for Mr. Mortimer had plenty of brass. His father was a mill owner. But, no, your—”

“But Papa held out for a title,” finished Amanda. “Even so, surely Lord Ashindon can’t be the first peer to fall for Amanda’s—that is, my big blue eyes.”

“Oh, no, miss, but—” Hutchings halted uncertainly.

“Yes, I see,” said Amanda. “The daughter of the Brass Bridge must, of course, be completely beyond the pale.” She experienced an unexpected and quite unwarranted twinge of anger.

“Yes, miss,” replied Hutchings simply. “There was Sir George—last year, but he was only a baronet, and your papa said that nothing less than a viscount would do for his little girl.”

“Like he really gives a twig about his little girl,” Amanda muttered. A thought struck her. “If the Bridges rank so low on the totem pole, how is it that we are invited to the Marchfords’ ball? It sounds like a fairly posh function.”

“Posh? You mean
tonnish?
Yes, it is. The Marchfords aren’t in the uppity upper of the
haut ton,
but they’re considered one of the nobs, even though Sir Ralph ain’t—isn’t a peer. It’s ‘cause of your mama that you’re invited. Mrs. Bridge’s granddad was an earl, you see.” Hutchings continued chattily. “I hear it caused quite a stir at the time, even though Mrs. B.’s pa was only a third son. Her family didn’t exactly cast her off when she married Mr. B., but things was pretty stiff for a while, I apprehend. When your mama and papa moved here to Upper Brook Street, your mama began to take up with some of her old school friends, and since she’s so rich now, they decided to be nice to her.”

“I see,” said Amanda, her eyes narrowed in comprehension. “Mr. and Mrs. Bridge hover on the fringe of society, hoping by their daughter’s marriage to gain access into the inner circle.”

“That’s about it, miss. You’ve got some nice friends—some of them even the daughters of the nobility—’cause of where
you
went to school, but you’ve never been inside Almack’s. Your mama says, though, that now you’re betrothed to Lord Ashindon, you’ll receive vouchers.”

“Almack’s,” repeated Amanda thoughtfully.

Hutchings nodded. “It’s a place where they hold assemblies, miss.” She breathed the words as though she were describing the Ark of the Covenant to a rabbinical student. “Six of the highest ladies of the
ton
have a sort of club, and they hold dances there every Wednesday and Saturday. You can only come if you’re invited, and they don’t hardly invite anybody unless their umpty-great grandpas came over with William the Conqueror.”

“Oh, yes, I remember reading about it. Good grief, how ridiculous.”

Hutchings shot her a curious glance, but said nothing more. With a lift of her eyebrows requesting dismissal, she bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room.

Amanda sank down on the chair before her dressing table and stared once more into the mirror. This was the first moment she’d had alone since returning from her encounter with the flower woman, and resolutely she drew the image of the old lady before her. That her appearance in Oxford Street held some significance was indisputable, but what?

All right, let’s be logical about this. First, she met an old man in an old church, and shortly thereafter fell unconscious. When she awoke, she found herself in a dreamworld, where she inhabited Regency London, where, in turn, she met an old woman who closely resembled the old man. She could only assume that her meeting with the elderly gentleman had impressed her more profoundly than she realized at the time, thus he showed up, transformed in gender and station in life, in her hallucination. Yes, that must be it. This would also account for the old woman’s seeming knowledge of Amanda’s situation. Although, on reflection, the flower woman’s words could have been uttered innocently, merely a part of her sales patter.

Or ... A small voice whispered in the back of Amanda’s mind. Or, her own presence in Regency England was not a figment of her imagination, but was real, and the old man and the flower woman represented an outside force of some sort—a force that had purposely uprooted her from her comfortable life as a professor at a prestigious university to cast her adrift in another time.

No! Such a thing was impossible, and she was mad to so much as consider it.

On the other hand, continued the insidious voice, the concept of such a transference would explain a great deal. The verisimilitude of her surroundings, the complexity of the lives of her “family,” and their intricate relationships.

No. This was absolute nonsense. And even if her maniacal suppositions were true, why her? Why should plain, unremarkable Amanda McGovern be chosen to make a journey through the centuries to be placed in the body of a young woman who had lived a hundred and eighty years ago? Why would Amanda Bridge’s life be cut short in order to provide a receptacle for that of someone else?

No. The whole idea was too ludicrous to contemplate. She leaned her head on her hands, still gazing at the girl in the mirror, and was aware of a dull throbbing behind her eyes. Not the stabbing pain of the headache she had experienced in Grosvenor Chapel, just a common, garden-variety, this-is-all-too-much-and-I-can’t-think-about-it-anymore headache.

Rising swiftly, she hurried from the room.

* * * *

The ladies of the family dined alone again, and once more Amanda was treated to a catechism of the persons who might be expected to appear in the Bridge drawing room that afternoon. Serena made no reference to her daughter’s earlier insubordination beyond a lachrymose declaration that she might well be driven into an early grave if this sort of behavior were to be repeated.