Living London (3 page)

"Mrs. Trimbleton. Maybelle Trimbleton." She spoke indignantly, as if I had shown great disrespect in forgetting her. "Your housekeeper, and more importantly, the one who has kept you out of trouble for the past twenty-three years."

"I apologize, Mrs. Trimbleton. I don't seem to remember much. Could you please tell me about my family?" As it turned out, the whole falling-off-my-horse story had given me a perfectly valid excuse for knowing nothing. At least now I could ask the most basic questions and find out answers without them committing me for insanity.

Mrs. Trimbleton's eyes crinkled on the edges as she leaned forward and stroked my face in a motherly fashion. "Dearie, your parents are with the Lord, and have been for near eighteen years now. When you reached your majority, you moved back to London and are currently the youngest Westin. While you're not a titled Miss, your family's extensive fortune is renowned, as well as your parents' good name. You have a few American cousins that visit from time to time, but I'm afraid that's it." Her eyes were sad, as if unwilling to give me such a large burden to bear.

Alone here as well.
I closed my eyes as tears left warm trails down my cheeks. I'd traded one lonely place for another.
Fantastic
.

Mrs. Trimbleton pressed a hankie into my palm, and I used it to wipe away my tears. The hankie was much nicer than a tissue and had a subtle smell of lemon. The scent cheered me for some reason. Collecting myself, I tried to sift through the questions swirling in my head and gather the most important information. As my brain worked, I glanced down. Soon Mrs. Trimbleton bent down enough to see my face, an anxious expression on her own. When I glanced up she straightened once again. The light flickered, and I noticed it came from a few candles and a fireplace.

"Is this my house?" I asked, curious as to my living situation, especially if I was heiress to a large fortune. Plus I needed information, any type of information.

"Yes! It's a beautiful home situated just on the edge of Hyde Park on Mayfair. This home has been in your family for generations and is only part of your holdings. You also have a country home near Bath."

"Wow," I whispered, feeling overwhelmed and also thankful I wasn't lost
and
destitute. "Who is the marquess you referred to earlier?" I remembered her mentioning his title and was curious. Why would she imply that I orchestrated a fall to gain his attention?
This is so confusing!

"Ah, the Marquess of Ashby." Her eyes twinkled, and she smiled secretively, piquing my curiosity further. "Mr. Morgan Ansley, the marquess of Ashby has caught your fancy for some time now, Jocelyn. I about swooned myself when I saw him carry you in. Handsome, that one, and acts so heroic. Why if he were about twenty five years younger...." She gazed at the fire and sighed heavily with a wistful smile. I cleared my throat delicately, and she seemed to remember herself. "But when you didn't stir I became concerned and all but ignored him and the Dannberry’s in seeing to you, Jocelyn. I do hope Wains took care of them. Wouldn't want to offend any of them, especially the Ansleys’…regardless of their financial situation." She shook her head soberly.

"Financial situation?" I asked, wondering why that would have any effect on how they were treated.

"Indeed! The Ansleys are an old, titled family, good people. But a bit…" She paused as if trying to be delicate in her wording. "…light in the purse, you might say."

"They're poor?" I asked, curious.

"Oh, no, not poor." She frowned. "Just not as well off as someone such as yourself," she added, giving me a meaningful look.

I lowered my chin and raised my eyebrows in question. "Meaning?"

With a shake of her head she sat down on the bed next to me and explained, "Meaning that as much as the marquess may find you enticing, dear, he's never approached you before today because although he's titled, he's not one to marry for money."

"And that's what people would think?"
How depressing.

"Of course. Happens all the time." She spoke as if the idea of
not
marrying for money was unheard of.

"Then why would he be against it? If it happens all the time, why would he have avoided me since I'm supposed to be an heiress of some sort?" As the wheels turned, I had an idea. "I'm not titled," I interjected before Mrs. Trimbleton could answer. "That's the reason. Right?"
Wait a minute; I don't even know this man. Why am I asking these questions!

"No, Miss, you're not titled, but that wouldn't stop most anyone from seeking your hand, or fortune for that matter. But the Marquess of Ashby wouldn't pursue your attentions because he's one of the few good ones. His parents… ah." Her expression softened, and I prepared for a good story. "His parents, that was a love match if I ever saw one. Married a month after meeting, and
not
because they had to, either." She gave me a stern look. "Neither family had much of a fortune to speak of. Took a bit of criticism from their respective families, but stayed strong. Married at Gretna Green, was quite the scandal."

Her eyebrows lifted, and she smiled. "But I'm getting off track. To answer your question…" She tilted her head and smoothed the blankets around me. "The Marquess won't pursue just anyone now. He's had his eye on you, or so the gossip says, but from what you and I have discussed, the idea of him pursuing you is difficult because, well…"
Would she ever get to the point?
"Because he'd be afraid you'd think he was after your money, like so many others, and he'd rather not have you at all than you think him a fortune hunter."

"Oh." I hadn't expected that, but the thought warmed me from the inside out. No wonder I had a crush on this guy. "And you said he carried me home?" I asked again, just to make sure.

"Yes." She nodded emphatically.

My head began to pound with a fierce intensity from the overload of information. I hadn't had enough time to process it. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and rested for a while. The room was silent except for the crackling of the wood burning in the hearth and Mrs. Trimbleton's even breathing. I opened my eyes to find her looking me over intently.

"You're never this quiet or this still." Disbelief colored Mrs. Trimbleton's words. I looked up at her, confused. Hadn't I just asked her a million questions?

"Libby? Tell Wains to send for the physician. This is worse than I thought." Mrs. Trimbleton stood and began to pace restlessly across the room, mumbling prayers. I didn't have a chance to get a word in. I could only wonder why my falling off a horse hadn't prompted her to call a doctor, but my silence and stillness was the real emergency. I couldn't help but wonder—
Who am I
?

Chapter Four

The physician made me nervous. I had read enough to know that bleeding and leaches were still practiced at this time, and I didn't want any of those things near me. As Mrs. Trimbleton and the physician conversed, leaving me out of the conversation entirely, I felt my headache develop into a full-blown migraine.
What I wouldn't give for some ibuprofen
.

"Enough!" I shouted. Thankfully, it got everyone's attention. With the last of my patience, I took control of the situation so I could have some time alone to think. "Dr. Larson, thank you, but I do not require your services. Mrs. Trimbleton, please escort him out. I would like to rest alone."
Surely my position would require their acquiescence to my request, right? Isn't that
how it works
in all the books I've read?

My attitude must have been all the affirmation she needed. Suddenly Mrs. Trimbleton was all smiles, ushering the physician away and leaving me in peace. Expelling a deep breath, I closed my eyes and decided I needed to get up and walk around. Earlier Mrs. Trimbleton hadn't let me up, but I was going to go crazy just lying in bed.

As I walked around the room, I noticed the décor. The bed I had been lying on had four posters draped with red velvet curtains to block out light. The dark wood stood out in sharp contrast to the light yellow of the papered walls and large, bright windows. I ran my hand over the wood, feeling its smooth texture.

Looking to the windows, I saw drapes of thick, woven fabric embroidered with a gold design offset by blue. The room also boasted a small sitting area that surrounded a fireplace. A small fire crackled.

Closing my eyes, I felt the tears begin to fall. Hadn't I been through enough losing Nanna? And now I had to leave everything behind I had ever known? It wasn't fair. Even though I was twenty-three, all I wanted to do was have a huge pity party.

Wiping the tears away with the sleeve of the nightdress I had changed into earlier, I struggled to figure out everything and still feel sane.

Sleep, I needed sleep. And maybe, just maybe, I'd wake up and find myself home. The crisp sheets and soft pillow were welcoming, and I snuggled deeply into the bed. Though I tried to be optimistic, I doubted I’d wake up anywhere but here. The words in Nanna's note flitted through my mind just before sleep captured me.

****

I opened my eyes and tried to focus in the darkness, but I couldn't see anything but a few slivers of light. "Please, oh please, let me be home," I whispered. Right now I wanted ruby red slippers to click together.

Rising slowly, I took a deep breath and moved toward the slivers of dancing light, barely moving aside the thick fabric. "Nope." I mumbled. The thick drapes that surrounded my bed were heavy as I pushed them farther back. I wiped my hands down my face, then stomped my foot and groaned.
This must be real — or as real as falling back a few hundred years can get.

With a sigh, I looked around the room. I needed some coffee, but I doubted they had an espresso machine in London during this era. They would have tea, though, and it would be good tea. The thought of caffeine made the whole day seem brighter.

I went to the large mahogany wardrobe and searched for something to wear. No jeans, just dresses—a huge assortment of dresses. I searched through them, trying to imagine needing so many types. Back home I'd owned a grand total of five dresses. I missed my jeans, but I couldn't exactly go around in my nightdress, so I found a simple muslin dress that looked suitable for wearing around the house.

As I started to undress I ran into another dilemma. Regency London was not familiar with my idea of lingerie, boy shorts, or panties of any sort. I glanced around the room once more. I found a chest of drawers and opened each drawer till I found a light shift that looked like a short nightshirt. But I couldn't find underwear, even after searching meticulously.
Did they not wear underwear in Regency times?

In the last drawer, I found a small pair of frilly-looking boxers.
Better than nothing.
Biting my lip, I decided to look for a bra. To my utter horror, I found a corset lined with stays, ridged and stiff.
This can't be happening.

I resigned myself to wearing the offending article of clothing …somehow. The hippy look of "going free" didn't seem like a wise idea. "In for a penny, in for a pound," I muttered as I pulled it over my head and wondered how I could lace it backward. After some maneuvering and a few comments my Nanna would have grounded me for, I managed it. The empire-waist dress gathered slightly under my bust. Its lightweight material made me feel nearly naked. The garment was feminine and beautiful with long flowing lines.

For shoes, I found little slippers that reminded me of my ballet lessons as a little girl. Thankfully, these were more comfortable. As I looked through the rest of the shoes, I found not a high heel in sight, which was promising, but no sneakers, either, which was not.

As I stuck a few pins I had found on the vanity table into my hair, I cursed the inventers of elastic hair bands for being so late in developing their products. But the siren song of caffeine called me, and I left my grumblings behind as I walked out into the hallway of the home I somehow owned.

It was early. The sun was just rising, so it had to be around five in the morning.
I guess time travel is also susceptible to jet lag.
As I walked quietly through the halls, I took in my surroundings. Candles burned dimly between the stretches of the morning light, bathing everything in a golden hue. Art hung everywhere, with pictures ranging from flowers to scenes to people. Side tables and sculptures tastefully accented the alcoves, and the ceilings were at least fifteen feet high. The doors leading to other rooms were etched with heavy wood moldings I had only seen in pictures.

"Wow," I breathed.
If I'm going to be stuck in the past, I want to live here. It's beautiful.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten in…wait. With a slightly hysterical laugh, I remembered all the times I had complained to my grandmother when I was hungry.
But Nanna, it feels like I haven’t eaten for two hundred years!
Who knew that some day it would be true? With a shake of my head and a wry grin I continued on my trek to the kitchen. After searching a while, I finally heard the commotion of pots and pans rattling and inhaled the blissful smell of fresh bread.
Carbs
. At least no one in Regency England was on the low carb diet. It might have killed me.

I pushed a door open and entered the room filled with smells from heaven. One maid leaned over a pot, stirring something, while yelling at a young boy to fetch some eggs. As I took another step in, all the motion in the kitchen stopped.

"Mademoiselle Westin?" An older woman with rosy cheeks and a thick French accent spoke to me with a question in her voice and a disbelieving expression.

"Yes, ma'am," I responded automatically, forgetting the British accent and whatever protocol I should have followed. S
hould I call a cook ma'am? If not, what
do
I call her?
I should have paid more attention to Nanna and all my Regency romance novels. By the look on her face I knew I hadn’t addressed her correctly.