Timeless (A Time Travel Romance) Page 9

  “Her ladyship be raving again,” said a dour female voice. “Why does ‘er keep asking to be shot?”

  “I daresay she is suffering a great deal of pain. Anyway, I am not entirely sure what she is trying to say. Her words are so slurred it is almost impossible to be certain of her meaning.”

  “Mayhap her ladyship is speaking French, or some other foreign gibble-gabble.”

  “No, I am fairly sure that she is speaking English. Or trying to, at least. Just now, when she asked for water, the sound was perfectly plain.”

  Robyn started to say that of course she was speaking English, that these yokels were the people with the thick accents, not her, but when William ran his hand calmingly over her forehead, pushing away a hank of hair that had fallen over her eyes, she forgot all about answering him. She realized that her hair was matted with sweat and that her body smelled stale and dirty.

  “I would really like to take a shower,” she said, getting the request into words before it slipped away from her. “Please let me take a shower. It might help to bring down my temperature.”

  “A shower? Yes, you are quite right, my dear. There was a shower of rain when we found you after your accident. We feared you might contract a pleurisy of the lungs, but fortunately you have escaped with no more than a bout of birthing fever.”

  “Not that sort of shower. A bath. Wash my hair.”

  “Certainly we shall summon the hairdresser as soon as you are better. Take heart, Arabella, I do believe the fever has almost broken. This is the longest period you have been able to talk to us since your accident.”

  Robyn felt the inside of her head expanding. She stared dazedly at the blond, blue-eyed man seated beside her bed.

  “What accident?” she demanded. “Who are you? And where am I?”‘

  She closed her eyes again, not really interested in the man’s answers. Her body floated upward, carried away on a hot current of air. She heard a voice speaking, calling her urgently, but it was too much trouble to respond.

  “She’s off again. Lookee, my lord, you’ve bin watching over her ladyship for more than two days. ‘Tis time for you to rest and eat a good supper and us’ll take care of her for a while.”

  “Very well. But remember that I want to be called the minute the fever finally breaks.”

  “Yes, m’ lord. Us’ll call your lordship as soon as her ladyship comes back to her senses.”

  * * *

  The curtains around her bed had been partially drawn back and Robyn could see the sun and the bare branches of a giant oak tree through the pair of casement windows opposite the foot of her bed. She drew in a deep breath and moved cautiously. She felt weak as a rag doll, and ached in more places than she cared to enumerate, but she could remember occasions when she’d felt worse. Or at least almost as bad.

  She was thirsty. Not with the raging thirst that had marked her nightmarish bouts of fever, but with the kind of thirst that could be pleasantly cured by a chilled glass of orange juice and a freshly brewed cup of steaming coffee. Robyn realized that she was hungry—starving hungry. That seemed another reassuringly healthy sign.

  Levering herself upright in the bed, she looked around for a bell to summon a nurse. The simple movement brought her up short, heart pounding and pulses racing. Good grief, where the heck was she? Surely to goodness this was no hospital bed. She swallowed hard, fighting back a surge of panic as she absorbed the strangeness of her surroundings. She had never in her entire life seen a hospital like this—or even a private bedroom. The furnishings looked like expensive exhibits in a major museum.

  Between the two windows, a Hepplewhite armoire flanked a chair, silk-upholstered and with the carved legs and clawed feet typical of mid-eighteenth-century furniture. A gilt-framed mirror, probably from the same period, stood next to a dressing stand cluttered with silver-backed brushes and pottery in the style of early Wedgwood. The windows were draped with the sort of stiff, fringed damask that had once been popular in English manor houses, and the pegged wooden floor was covered by carpets that appeared to be embroidered like tapestries rather than woven or dye-stamped like modem rugs.

  And the bed she was lying on fitted perfectly into the overall impression of an eighteenth-century bedchamber, Robyn realized, right down to the fact that she was sunken deep into a feather mattress, reclining against a pile of lace-edged, linen-covered pillows.

  Robyn tugged at the curtains obscuring her view of the full room. In the bright light of morning, with eyes not clouded by fever, she couldn’t imagine how she had confused these richly embroidered silk hangings with the sort of green polyester curtains that typified hospital privacy screens. She must have been far gone in delirium not to have realized the antique oddity of her surroundings.

  She wasn’t sure yet if she could trust her legs to support her, but she managed to pull the curtains back without getting out of bed. The brass curtain rings clacked against the wooden rods, to reveal a young woman seated by a screened, wood-burning fire. The woman glanced up from her sewing.

  “My lady, you are awake! How are you feeling?” She sprang to her feet and crossed to Robyn’s side, dropping into a bobbing curtsy before hurrying back to a small table by the fire. Picking up a silver jug, she poured an almost colorless liquid into a matching beaker, then rushed back to the bedside.

  “Here you be, my lady. Fresh lemonade. The master ordered it special.” She wiped her hand on a snow-white apron that covered her from shoulder to ankles. She was also wearing a frilly mobcap, set low on her forehead, which looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  The woman appeared both foolish and ill at ease. No wonder, Robyn thought. Anyone would look ill at ease walking around dressed up like an escapee from the Boston Tea Party.

  “Who are you?” Robyn asked. “And why are you wearing a fancy dress costume?”

  “ ‘Tis Monday morning, my lady. The housekeeper and I both has a clean pinafore every Monday.” When Robyn didn’t say anything, the woman continued. “I be Mary, my lady. Your ladyship’s maid.”

  Enlightenment finally dawned on Robyn. She’d ended up in one of those olde worlde hotels that were so popular with tourists, and the maid’s costume was supposed to be one of the authentic touches.

  “Is this Starke Manor Hotel?” she asked. “In Dorset?” The maid looked at her oddly.

  “Yes, my lady. This be Starke Manor.”

  That was one mystery solved, Robyn decided, although it raised a whole series of other questions. Why in the world had she been kept in a hotel, for Pete’s sake? It was incredible to think that neither the doctor nor anyone in hotel management had insisted on transferring her to a proper hospital. England might not be as lawsuit happy as the United States, but surely even English hotels tried to avoid having guests die of medical neglect on their premises.

  “Doesn’t anyone around here worry about getting sued?” she asked the maid.

  The maid curtsied and held out the silver goblet once again. “I be Mary, my lady, not Sue. Sue married Tom Footman a year last Michaelmas and you said I could be your maid. Here, my lady, drink this. ‘Tis the nice fresh lemonade that you like so much, sweetened with plenty of honey.”

  Robyn was too thirsty to argue. She took the drink eagerly, then stopped with the silver goblet poised right at her lips. Mary was nervous, Robyn realized, and babbling utter nonsense. Why? What was there in the simple action of offering lemonade to make the woman’s eyes twitch and her hands tremble? It occurred to Robyn that the drink could be drugged or even poisoned. The idea ought to have seemed insane, but she couldn’t dismiss it. From the moment she got out of her car in the Starke Manor parking lot, people and events in her life had become so bizarre that she couldn’t afford to take chances. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more drugs seemed to be the most likely explanation for what had been happening to her. If someone had been force-feeding her hallucinogens, it would explain why she had this confused sensation that dreams, fever, delirium, and reality were all melde
d into a single nightmarish whole.

  Robyn thrust the beaker back into the maid’s hands. “You know what, Mary? Why don’t you take a sip first. Then I’ll drink some.”

  The maid seemed to find nothing strange in Robyn’s request. “I already tasted it, my lady. ‘Tis plenty sweet enough, I swear. You will like it, my lady.”

  “Humor me. Taste it anyway.”

  Mary obligingly held the beaker to her mouth and swallowed. “‘Tis very good, my lady. Just to your taste, I vow.” She wiped the rim of the cup with the edge of her apron and handed the drink back to Robyn.

  “Here, my lady, drink it down and I will send word to the master that you are awake.”

  “The master?”

  Mary blanched and her hands visibly trembled. Robyn had the oddest impression that the women expected to get the beaker thrown at her head at any moment. “His lordship made me promise, my lady, to send for him the instant you regained your wits, but I will have you looking your best in a trice, never fear. We shall have time to put on your new lace peignoir before his lordship arrives.”

  “I’d prefer some help in getting to the shower. Right now, I’d rather be clean than elegant. I’m dying to shampoo my hair.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the maid said, looking worried. She cleared her throat. “I don’ know about your hair, my lady. Truth to tell, you will not be able to wear your wig—”

  “My wig!” Robyn spluttered into the lemonade, which was indeed delicious. She flopped back against the pillows, feeling totally exhausted. She drew in a couple of deep breaths and decided she had recovered just enough energy to let off some well-deserved steam.

  “Look, I’m sorry to sound off at you, but this ridiculous performance has gone on long enough. I’m not in the mood for any more scenes from Country Life in Ye Olde Englande. I want to speak to the doctor in charge of my case. And maybe I’d better speak to the manager of this hotel, too. Quite frankly, I think he has some explaining to do. I should never have been kept here when I obviously had a raging fever. Clearly I should have been take to the hospital. In fact, the way I feel right now, it might be smart to transfer over to the hospital and get a quick checkup.”

  The maid shifted her gaze uneasily frown to side. She sank into another curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lady, but I must send for his lordship. Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but he left strict orders. As soon as you was awake, he must come. He says he can understand what your ladyship says, my lady.”

  “William!” The name came back to Robyn, surfacing from the bewildering maelstrom of her dreams. “Are you talking about a tall blond man who calls himself William? Is he the manager here?”

  The maid wrung her hands nervously. “Yes, my lady. His lordship. The master. Your ladyship’s husband.”

  “I—do—not—have—a—husband.” Robyn pronounced the words slowly and carefully. “Good Lord, what is it with you people? I am not married!”

  “Yes, my lady. I mean no, my lady. I must summon the master, my lady. With your permission, my lady.” Bobbing up and down like a yo-yo, the maid finally plucked up courage to lean across the bed and tug at the bellpull, a crimson silk ribbon embroidered with flowers that Robyn hadn’t noticed before among the folds of the bed hangings. As the maid lifted her arm, an odor of stale sweat and unwashed flesh wafted over Robyn, strong enough to make her gag. She turned quickly aside. Good Lord, didn’t this woman watch TV? Hadn’t she ever seen an advertisement for deodorants? Or even for plain, old-fashioned soap and water?

  The bell was answered almost immediately by a girl who didn’t look a day over twelve. She came into the room almost at a run, and curtsied both to the maid and then—far more deeply—in the direction of Robyn’s bed. She was wearing virtually the same fancy-dress uniform as the older maid, with a pinafore covering a frock fashioned from rough-woven brown woolen cloth, and shoes that were exact replicas of eighteenth-century servants’ footwear. Robyn was surprised that the hotel had gone to so much trouble to maintain the illusion of authenticity, particularly since the slippery, square-toed leather shoes must have been real deterrents to employee safety. From what she had seen of the place so far, Robyn was amazed the hotel could get enough insurance coverage to operate.

  “You are to fetch the master,” Mary said to the young maid. “Tell his lordship that his lady wife is wide awake and... talking like before.”

  The young girl sneaked a sideways glance at Robyn. “You mean ‘er wits do be gone beggin’—”

  “Shh!” Mary’s hiss was furious, and she cuffed the child soundly around the ear.

  “Mary! Stop that!” Robyn exclaimed, utterly appalled.

  “Sorry for the disturbance, my lady.” Mary turned back to the little maid. “Get out,” she ordered. “Hurry up and fetch his lordship.”

  “Yuss’m.” The child ducked into a curtsy and darted from the bedroom.

  “We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to make you pretty for the master,” Mary said, smiling at Robyn and apparently feeling no need whatever to comment on her extraordinary treatment of a fellow employee. She opened a door that led into an oversize closet and returned carrying a lace-trimmed robe of a pale blue silk over her arm.

  “There we are. Blue. Your ladyship’s favorite color. Now, my lady, we must be quick. The master will be here any minute.” With an air of complete familiarity, the maid walked over to the bed and started to unbutton the white cotton gown Robyn was wearing. Startled by the unexpected intimacy, Robyn jerked away.

  “Sorry, my lady. I forgot. Your breasts will be sore with the milk coming in, and all. I’ll be more careful, my lady.” The maid unfastened some more buttons and began to ease the nightgown from Robyn’s shoulders.

  Robyn went cold with fear. Oddly enough, she realized suddenly that her breasts did feel hard and hot, although of course that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her dream of giving birth to a baby son. If her breasts felt sore, it was a perfectly logical aftermath to the infection that had ravaged her system. She pushed the maid away, closing the buttons again, and wrapping her arms around her waist in an instinctive gesture of self-protection.

  “Get away from me,” she ordered, her voice low and cold. “This is no longer a joke. Get out of this room and find me some clothes to put on. I’m checking out of here.”

  “Oh, my lady, don’t be angry, but I cannot understand what you are asking me!”

  “I want to leave. Is that clear enough for you? I’m going to find the bathroom and take a shower. And I want some clothes waiting for me when I get back. Otherwise I’m calling a cab and walking out of here in the gown I’m wearing. This place is giving me a first-class attack of the creeps.”

  Robyn pushed aside the bedclothes and had managed to swing her legs over the side of the high bed, when a man entered the room. She recognized him instantly as the man who had called himself William. The man whose orders everyone seemed to obey without question.

  He took one look at Robyn and strode immediately to the bedside. He lifted her legs back onto the mattress and smoothed the covers over her before retreating to the center of the room.

  “Well, this is a welcome sight! I had not expected to find you sitting up and talking to your maid.” William smiled with cool courtesy. He swept a low bow, his hand resting gracefully on his heart, flowing lace cuffs tumbling in rich folds about his wrists. “My lady, it is indeed a pleasure to find you thus well recovered. My felicitations.”

  He should have appeared ridiculous, but he didn’t. For some reason, he appeared consummately elegant and commanding. He had tied his long fair hair at the nape of his neck with a black velvet ribbon, a style that showed the strong line of his jaw to advantage. He wore silk stockings and gray brocade knee breeches, topped by a full-skirted coat of plum velvet. His shoes were high-heeled black leather, decorated with gleaming silver buckles, and the lace ruffles of his shirt were adorned with two large diamond stickpins. Looking at him, registering his perfect imitation of an eighteenth-century noble
man, Robyn found herself teetering somewhere between panic and anger. Panic because his choice of clothing seemed so senseless. Anger because she was sure she was deliberately being made to feel a fool.

  Anger won out. “What are you trying to do?” she demanded. “Why are you wearing those farcical clothes? For heaven’s sake, there’s a time and a place for everything, and this isn’t the time for fancy dress.”

  William made a slight, almost imperceptible gesture with his hand and Mary scurried from the room. Then he walked unhurriedly toward the bed, his pleasant smile still firmly in place. How odd, Robyn thought, that she should gain the distinct impression that her sharp words had hurt his feelings. He paused when he was still two feet or so from her side.

  “I chose these clothes because I know how much you dislike me to come into your bedroom straight from the stables. I am sorry if you find them too formal for this early hour of the morning.”

  This man did not sound in the least like a hotel manager. This man sounded totally crazy. Robyn pressed her hand to her eyes, trying to ease the pounding of her headache. She could no longer delude herself that things were even halfway normal. She was weak as a kitten and surrounded by lunatics. Not an ideal situation, even for somebody like her, blessed with a notoriously optimistic nature.

  “Your head is aching,” William said softly. “Allow me to help you, my lady.” He put on a darn good show of looking worried, Robyn had to grant him that. He guided her gently into a more restful position against the bed pillows before drawing up a chair and sitting beside her.

  “You need to eat, my dear, to regain your strength. A junket or some bread and milk would both be easy to digest. Which do you prefer?”

  What the devil was junket? Robyn didn’t remember hearing the word during her previous stay in England.

  “I’d like some bread and milk. And some coffee.” She didn’t say please. She didn’t attempt to sound pleasant. The best she could say of these lunatics was that—so far—they didn’t seem to have any plans to starve her to death. Maybe that wasn’t such good news. Maybe they had some other, more horrible fate in store?