The Bride of Time (34 page)

“My poor Tessa,” he murmured in her ear, gathering her against his hard-muscled chest. “With no pins for her lovely hair. Tomorrow I will buy you hairpins fit for a queen.”

She snuggled close in his arms. “You will have to suffer the dreadful clothes I came to you in,” she reminded him. “To go about here now as I am would brand me a lightskirt. What’s more,” she said through a musical giggle, “you will have to accustom yourself to modern togs.”

Giles hadn’t thought of that, and he frowned, prying an outright laugh from her. But it was a fleeting expression, replaced by a wry smile as he leaned back and stripped off his shirt. “That shan’t be a hardship,” he said, stripping her frock off over her head. “I won’t be wearing clothes often. I expect to spend the rest of my days naked in the arms of my lady fair.”

“Ahhh, but you will have to dress sometime,” she teased.

“And what shall I wear?”

“For one thing, breeches are something that for the most part only schoolboys wear, unless the man is shooting grouse or otherwise engaged in sports. Men wear trousers and shoes, and their shirts have detachable collars that fasten with brass collar buttons in back. Poet shirts are a thing of the past. They surely took us for Gypsies when we entered below, which was not a bad thing, since I am evidently still a wanted criminal.”

All the while they were talking, he had been burrowing under the counterpane with her. Their naked bodies entwined beneath were slippery with the dew of sex, and would be for the better part of the night, if he had his way.

“And what of Foster?” he asked. “The poor man was born a slave to the fashions of his calling. What is he facing in the year 1903?”

“Believe it or not, menservants’ attire has not changed overmuch. But for seeming a bit dowdy until we can outfit him properly, he is quite well to pass as he is.”

Giles’s hands began to roam over her body again, more tenderly now, feeling every curve, every voluptuous swell, and she leaned into his caresses, bringing him once more erect. “I swear you have bewitched me,” he murmured. “I cannot get enough of you, Tessa.”

“I cannot stay long in London, Giles,” she said. “We must do what must be done and leave the city.”

He frowned. How could he tell her what was in his heart? What would she do? He was loath to darken so perfect a night of love with mundane things, but there was nothing for it. It was best to have it said and put it behind him.

“Tessa,” he began. “I know you feel you have brought us to safety, and you have—all but yourself, that is, and at great risk to life and limb in the bargain. Well…I do not care what clothes I wear or what clothes you wear. I shall become accustomed to horseless carriages, and pavement, and gas lamps, and curbstones in the streets, but I do not believe I could abide Yorkshire.”

She stiffened in his arms, and he drew her closer, grazing her brow with fever parched lips, for indeed the fever in his blood that brought his sex erect had heightened the fever in his skin.

“I am a Cornishman, Tessa,” he went on quickly, while he possessed the courage to say it. “I can bear the shock of coming into your time, my love, but I do not know if I would be able to stand to never see my homeland again.”

“What are you asking me, Giles?”

“I know the Abbey is gone,” he said, “but nearly a hundred years into the future…would it be safe for us to return to Cornwall? Should we not try? I feel this strong pull to visit…and to visit soon.”

There was silence, the kind that is tasted like death: so long a hesitation that Giles feared she wasn’t going to answer. She’d begun to tremble of a sudden, and he drew her closer against his naked body for the benefit of its heat.

“I do not know, Giles,” she finally said. “I honestly do not know.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

Tessa’s savings were depleted by noon the following day, but they had paid for their food and lodging, and set aside funds to purchase clothing for them to wear without turning heads while venturing out in the London streets.

Foster was enlisted to do the shopping, since he was the only one dressed reasonably enough to go abroad as he was. As Giles’s dresser, he knew his master’s correct size and tastes, though the latter was of no extended consequence. The object was simply to outfit themselves in the fashions of the day in order to visit the banks on Threadneedle Street and convert Giles’s 1811 bank notes into turn-of-the-century currency.

As for the exchange, it was decided not to do this all at once, to avoid casting suspicion upon themselves. Converting enormous sums would certainly be suspect. All they needed was enough money to purchase the paintings and hire a coach to leave London—to a destination at this point uncertain. This was the only facet of the thus far flawless adventure that worried Tessa. She’d woken in Giles’s arms after a perfect night of excruciating ecstasy with a nagging fear that would not leave her, fear of returning to the place they’d just so successfully fled.

Of course there would be no one there to remember after a hundred years, but that was not what she feared. It was the lay lines. There were so many, and though they seemed to welcome her, they did not welcome Giles. She feared Moraiva was right, that he had found the only corridor open to him. If that were so, returning to Cornwall might be a grave mistake for them all.

Foster returned shortly after noon with his purchases. He laid several parcels wrapped in brown paper on the bed in Giles and Tessa’s room, then hesitated, his eyes flashing, before he placed a hatbox on the bedside table and began unwrapping everything.

“Bad luck to place a hat on a bed,” he muttered, for Tessa had regarded as odd his previous deliberation.

Her husband laughed. How very handsome Giles was when he laughed! “Spoken like a true Cornishman!” he said. “We can ill afford any more bad luck, eh? Pay us no mind, my love,” he said to Tessa. “We are a superstitious lot, I fear.”

“I barely had enough blunt to manage,” the valet remarked, clearly embarrassed. He unwrapped Giles’s garments first, taking out a collarless shirt and separate collar, and a pair of long red-and-brown-check tweed trousers with cuffs.

“What the deuce are those?” Giles said, raking the trousers with a dubious glance.

“I know, sir. I knew you would say that, but I am assured they are the height of fashion.”

Tessa laughed, earning herself a scathing glower. “They are,” she said, “very smart-looking.”

“And the length is such that they will cover nearly all of those dreadful boots the Gypsy supplied,” Foster said. “I didn’t have enough blunt to purchase shoes.”

Giles sighed. “What is that other garment, there?” he said, pointing at a piece of folded cloth the color of mushrooms.

Giles unfurled the suspicious garment with a flourish. “It’s called a motoring coat,” he explained. “One wears it when driving one of the horseless carriages to keep the road dust off. I saw one—a horseless carriage. Beastly thing it was. Explosions came out of a pipe at the rear, and it had a horn. It frightened the horses in the street…I dare say it frightened
me
. Such things will never become popular.”

“Well, this redeems the rest,” Giles said, “it will cover everything else. A little too narrow for riding, though.”

“Oh, you aren’t supposed to ride in it, sir.”

“Evidently,” Giles pronounced. “Carry on, then. What have you found for my lady wife?”

“First, these,” Foster said, withdrawing a handful of hairpins from his waistcoat pocket. “They are only whalebone, but that was the best I could afford.”

Tessa squealed with delight and snatched them from the valet’s hand, proceeding to order her hair with them.

“Yes, well, I shall buy you fine ones once we change the notes,” Giles said, still examining his new togs.

The valet unwrapped a long gored skirt of indigo wool, with a matching capelet and a white pin-tucked blouse. “They are called leg-o-mutton sleeves,” the valet explained.

“I know, Foster,” Tessa said. “But I believe we have gotten you an education in fashion today.”

The valet opened the hatbox and lifted out a wide-brimmed indigo velvet hat covered with downward-pointing pearl-gray feathers and a dark net veil.

“What the devil is that?” Giles cried. “It looks like the aftermath of a cockfight, shroud and all. Tessa, surely you do not mean to
wear
that.”

Tessa sank down upon the edge of the bed, convulsing in laughter. She had always longed for just such a hat. But Giles’s incredulous expression, and the valet’s
forlorn attitude while sporting the feathered finery in his hand, was more than she could bear. Not without erupting in giggles.

“And here I thought I’d been so clever,” Foster said. “I fail to see the humor here. The veil will hide your face, madam, since you must go abroad in daylight. I was only thinking of your safety, since you are still being pursued.”

“Just so,” Tessa said. “And I am undyingly grateful for your cleverness. With so much on my mind, I would never have thought of it. What did you purchase for yourself? Anything?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t presume to outfit myself, madam,” Foster said. “A different-shaped collar and waistcoat, a jacket with a bit more or less material in the cut of it doesn’t mean much. No one batted an eye when I was abroad. As long as the clothes are black, well-pressed, clean, and unobtrusive, they can be outdated. Besides, from what I’ve observed, I can’t see that serving-class clothes have changed all that much in a hundred years. Well, except for the collar, which I took the liberty of remedying.”

“You are certainly welcome,” Giles said. “We’ll get you sorted out and up-to-date once we exchange the notes.”

“Yes, sir,” the valet said gratefully.

“We should do that quickly,” Tessa said. “There isn’t much time before the banks close. I wish we knew what day of the week it is. We can’t very well ask. The curator at the museum knows me by sight. He said his partner sold the paintings. That man does
not
know me. He’s in on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“It is Thursday, madam,” Foster spoke up, fishing a newspaper from the parcel wrappings.

“Well, well, you’ve certainly thought of everything, haven’t you, Foster?” Giles observed.

“Yes, sir,” the valet said. “I hope so, sir. I will leave you to change.”

Foster did not accompany them to the bank on Threadneedle Street. Passing themselves off as newlyweds from Yorkshire wanting to convert funds left to them in an inheritance, they had no difficulty at the bank. The gallery was closed when they reached it, however, and it was with gross disappointment that they returned to the Black Boar Inn. This meant that they wouldn’t be able to purchase the paintings until Tuesday next week if Tessa was to be present, which she assumed was proper. That was five days away, and none were pleased about that.

Giles and Tessa dined in their room. Tessa had lost her appetite. She wanted to be out of the city straightaway, and it wasn’t going to happen. The longer she stayed in London, the more the danger that she would be discovered.

Seated beside the fire, it was Giles who broke the awkward silence that had fallen like a pall of doom around them.

“I know you are disappointed,” he said, “but what can a few more days matter? We have the blunt—more than enough—and plenty more to convert once that’s gone.”

“A young couple from Yorkshire bought those paintings, Giles. I cannot go when the curator is there; he will recognize me, veil or no. I know it. Yet if we wait until Tuesday week, perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps a
true
couple from Yorkshire—”

“Wait!” he interrupted her. “I can solve that. I’ll have Foster go ’round and leave a deposit on our behalf. I shall send a missive with him. You can trust him to know how and what to do, Tessa.”

“Could we?” she murmured.

Giles surged to his feet. “I shall go and fetch him
forthwith to prove the point,” he said, striding toward the door.

“Wait!” Tessa called after him.

“What is it?” he asked, halfway over the threshold.

Now seemed a good time to get something else off her chest. “Giles…I know you do not want to go to Yorkshire,” she began awkwardly, nervously. “Well, I can’t be sure, but I believe it’s a mistake to go back to Cornwall, even now, after almost a hundred years have passed. We can’t stay there. I also know that you will not be content if you do not go—”

“Tessa,” Giles interrupted, stepping back into the room. He closed the door.

“No, you must hear me out,” she said. “We cannot access the corridors. That would be dangerous. We could lose each other. The only one that has ever opened to you brought us here safely, but I do not trust that luck again. I believe this is where we are meant to be. And not because it is my time—I would live with you in any time. It’s just something I know deep down inside. I believe Moraiva knew it.”

“Then…that shall be the end of it.”

“That’s just it—it won’t be the end of it, Giles, not until you see your beloved Cornwall one more time. If your instincts tell you that you must return…But not in your time. That would be suicide for us both. And not by the lay lines.”

“What then? My gut says that I must go soon, and we can’t possibly return to the coast and be back in five days, Tessa. If we are to purchase that—”

“Yes, we can.”

“How?” he asked.

“The railway.”

“The rail…?”

“Yes, coaches that run on rails in the ground. They
move very swiftly. I will show you. Experiments with steam engines were done in your day, but the railroads didn’t come to the fore until about 1840. It will have us there and back with plenty of time to spare.”

“But if you do not think it right…”

“A thing must be faced to be put right,” Tessa said. “You feel a draw to Cornwall, so we must heed it. Unless you go, you will always wish you had. You must learn what has become of your land in the year 1903, and you will not be happy until you put that longing to rest. I only hope we do the right thing.”

While Foster set out to secure the sale at Tatum’s Gallery, Tessa and Giles boarded a train at Victoria Station bound for Cornwall. The closer they drew to the coast, the more apprehensive Tessa became.