Eliza rolled over and stared morosely at the floor, pulling the coverlet up around her ears for a bit more warmth. England was freezing. Clarehaven was freezing. How did these people stand it? She longed to be sitting on the couch in the Treasure Trove in front of a roaring fire with a cup of hot chocolate—really sweet hot chocolate—at her side and her laptop on her lap.
What had she been thinking? Who in their right mind would give up all they knew and travel back in time to a period where so much was different? Granted, she wasn’t in ancient Rome or medieval Germany, where she would have had no shot with the language, much less everything else. She wasn’t a beggar on the streets in India, nor a slave in the New World. She wasn’t among the working classes here in Regency England, much less the poor.
She shouldn’t be complaining. She’d gotten exactly what she wanted, as absolutely impossible as it had sounded, and should have been. She was in a duke’s home, living a life of relative luxury. Servants waited on her, meals were prepared for her, and the family was pleasant and friendly with her. Well, except Deveric’s mother, who, though not as harsh as she’d been at first, still reminded Eliza often of her position in the family: cousin or not, she was going to earn her keep as Harrington’s governess.
She was a servant, but not a servant. She was family, but not family. And she was lonely. Desperately lonely.
Deveric had been in London for nearly two weeks. Two weeks! How was she supposed to get him to fall in love with her if he wasn’t even in the same vicinity? How could she fall in love with him if he was nowhere to be found?
She’d asked Amara when he would return, but Amara had merely shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible he will remain in London until the family joins him.”
If that were the case, and the Mattersleys didn’t take her with them, then what? What was she supposed to do on her own in this cavernous house? Eliza was unused to the silence; there was little noise except for occasional sounds of servants cleaning, or the sisters talking.
She missed music. Thank God Grace played the piano every day; it soothed her. She wished now she’d learned to play when she was younger. She’d tinkered a bit one morning, but figured out only one line of Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, her favorite Wham! song. It’d take a long time for her to become remotely proficient; talent like Grace’s she was sure she didn’t have.
How much she had taken for granted the ability to flip on the radio and hear songs any time she chose! They’d always had music playing in the store—usually classical, but sometimes they’d switch it up with a day of ’80s music or ’50s rock and roll.
What she wouldn’t give to hear those songs now. She sang to herself often, but it wasn’t the same. She missed all the creature comforts of life she’d taken for granted in twenty-first century America. But even more than that, she missed Cat.
She’d spent several evenings in Amara’s company, whom she liked more and more. The woman was clever, with a biting wit, and keen observations of the people around her. But their interactions were more formal than Eliza was used to; no lounging about on the floor in pajamas, no snapping each other with dish towels, no giggling over kooky customers in the coffee shop.
Would she ever again have a friendship like she’d had with Cat?
She sighed as she hauled herself out of bed and over to the fireplace, coverlet firmly in place about her. The fire was blazing, thanks to Betsy. Eliza wasn’t sure where the maid was at the moment, but she didn’t mind the alone time. Sulking was always better in private.
She hummed the lively tune Grace had played yesterday while the dance teacher was there, trying to distract herself from the hopelessness creeping in. Because Becca was coming out this season—she’d turn eighteen in just over a week—Deveric’s mother had brought in a dance instructor from the City, and several afternoons, the sisters practiced their steps in the ballroom, with Grace on the piano.
The dowager allowed her to attend once when Freddy was napping. Eliza’d fumbled her way through a dance or two, the instructor almost comical in his over-the-top reactions to her ineptitude. She envied the grace the sisters displayed as they moved easily and familiarly through the steps.
Even Becca knew most of the dances by heart. She didn’t need an instructor anymore, really, but Eliza figured it gave the women something to do while the cold winds raged outside; they were all getting restless in the house. The dowager likely also wanted to ensure her youngest daughter was a diamond of the first water her first season out.
She certainly could be. With her ebony hair and stunning round blue eyes, Becca would turn heads wherever she went. All of the sisters would, actually. Their beauty would have intimidated Eliza more if they’d been more stand-offish and if, well, Eliza had been less attractive herself.
She knew, in spite of her complaints about her rounded hips and poofy stomach, men considered her beautiful. They’d told her so all her life. It was a bit harder to feel attractive here, however, without the mouthwash or daily hot showers she’d been used to.
She was growing accustomed to her face without makeup, at least. She actually looked younger—though Becca’s glowing, unblemished, unlined skin brought out her envy. Women thought aging in the twenty-first century was hard; try being twenty-nine in Regency England! She was far past the bloom of youth here.
“Over the hill, and I’m not even thirty yet. Great,” she muttered, as she clutched the blanket around her shoulders.
Betsy entered the room as quietly as usual, bustling around with efficiency, stirring up the fire, pulling out a borrowed dress, and setting fresh water on the washstand.
What if I didn’t want to get up at this time every day? What if I told Betsy to leave me alone so that I could stay in bed all morning, burrowed beneath these blankets? Could I get away with it?
Not that she’d ever be rude to Betsy. Eliza considered her a friend, though she doubted Betsy thought the same. Betsy still addressed her as Lady James half the time and was always eager to do whatever she could to please Eliza. At least she was willing to chat with her, and Eliza enjoyed hearing about Betsy’s family. Betsy’d also confided she was sweet on one of the footmen, although he didn’t pay any attention to her, much to Betsy’s chagrin.
Eliza could relate to that. Here she was, two hundred years away from her own life, trying to get a man to fall in love with her who was nowhere to be found.
She groaned. What her mother would have said about that.
“A relationship shouldn’t be the center of your life, Eliza,” she had chided often, especially when Eliza and Greg got so serious at such a young age. “You need other interests, something to do to give yourself your own identity.”
That had worked for Eliza’s mom. But was it so wrong if Eliza wanted to find her identity in her relationships with others? Her parents had found it in their work. She wanted it in people. Why was that so bad? Once upon a time, in this time, as a matter of fact, women were expected to center their lives on marriage and family. She was glad, of course, that women had far more choices in the twenty-first century, and no longer had to do that if they didn’t want to. But what about those women who still did? Did they have to be devalued for those goals?
Once upon a time. Eliza had wanted to come here for the fairytale, for the Cinderella story. But not for the rags to riches part. No, for the part about finding where she belonged. Of being the center of someone’s life in a way she never had been before. Of being able to make someone the center of hers, to devote herself to loving that person and building a relationship, a family, like she’d never had.
She grimaced. That sounded so anti-feminist. Maybe it was if taken on the surface. But if feminism meant women had the same choices as men, shouldn’t they be able to choose marriage and family, if that was what was central to them, without being made to feel lesser?
It’s not that she didn’t prize her intellect. She certainly did. Frankly, maintaining a healthy family and marriage while running a household required a great amount of smarts. Especially a ducal household.
She covered her chilled ears with the blanket. She just wanted to be loved for who she was, like the heroines in romance novels. The heroes loved those women exactly as they were, often exactly because of how they were. Okay, maybe she wasn’t a Civil War spy or a duchess running a school for heiresses, or a viscount’s daughter masquerading as a pirate. She still deserved love, didn’t she?
And so did Deveric. So much pressure on him, as the leader of a great ducal family. A mother to deal with, sisters to help, a son to raise, estates to manage, duties to perform. He needed support, more than she was sure he ever got. Dukes were supposed to know exactly what to do at all times. But, come on, he was human. Surely he had doubts and worries and insecurities, too?
She could help him, could be there for him. She could be his touchstone. She could do that. If only he’d come home.
Eliza let out a large harrumph, blowing the hair out of her eyes. This wasn’t quite the fairytale she’d fantasized it would be. Though she’d not wanted the outcome guaranteed, she had to admit she’d wanted Deveric to fall madly, deeply, instantly in love with her. Guess I watched Cinderella one too many times. This feels more like Snow White, with an absentee prince and a wicked dowager mother.
Come home, Deveric.
It’d been a good day, after all. It really had. She’d loved her time with Frederick. They’d visited Pirate, who was growing by leaps and bounds, and then spent time reading stories and studying the globe. She was doing a decent job of covering for her geographical faux pas, she hoped, having forgotten Italy wasn’t wholly unified yet, and that places like Iowa weren’t yet part of the United States. Frederick was a bright young boy, and she was grateful for his natural curiosity—while still wondering how long she could pull off this governess charade.
Dinner had been more stilted since they dined in the presence of the Dragon. After a few questions about Frederick’s studies, however, the dowager left her to eat in peace, discussing plans for the upcoming season with Emmeline. Mother and daughter were in the midst of preparations for hosting a ball at their London home in a few weeks. Eliza had to admit, she desperately wanted to go to London. No matter the vast size of Clarehaven, cabin fever had set in big time.
If only she’d had a hamburger on her plate, instead of fish, which she’d never cared for. She longed for a salad, instead of over-boiled vegetables. Guess fresh greens are hard to come by this time of year.
The seasonality of foods was something Eliza had never thought about. Every grocery store in Charlottesville offered great varieties of fresh produce any time of year. To not have lettuce or strawberries because they were out of season was a foreign concept.
Of course, her local-food-crazy friends would love this era—everything Eliza ate probably came from within five miles, if not right here on the estate. But, as she lay in bed later, mulling over the day, how she wished for pizza. Or good old-fashioned apple pie. Or even just a fresh orange.
Her stomach rumbled. One positive thing about these Regency foods to which she wasn’t accustomed; she was losing weight. The dress she’d worn the night she arrived was noticeably looser in the bust, much to her delight. She’d never be as tall and waifish as, say, Grace, but it was nice to feel less like a stuffed sausage in her borrowed gowns.
She fell asleep on that pleasing thought until her stomach—and her bladder—roused her. She was hungry. And now had to go to the bathroom.
Dang, she missed modern conveniences. The chamber pot grossed her out—both using it and knowing someone had to clean it. Who knew how much a good old-fashioned toilet and toilet paper would mean to her? And don’t even get me started on how much I long for a hot shower, to be able to stand under the streaming water for fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, soaking in the heat and the relaxation!
Huffing, she rolled over again, then gave up and got up to use the pot.
Her stomach growled. Turtle was almost sounding good, with how hungry she was.
What time was it? She had no idea. No light peeked in around the edges of the window coverings, but the fire had died down to smoldering coals. Early morning, perhaps.
Maybe there was something in the kitchen she could mooch.
She pulled the heavy robe on over her chemise, and left her room, making her way down as quietly as possible to where she thought the kitchens were. After more than one wrong turn, she eventually found herself in a large room, filled with pots, pans, and people. Wow, they’re up early. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”
A large, ruddy-cheeked woman hurried over. “Come in, come in, lassie.” A Scottish burr laced her speech. “I’m Rowena. Ye must be Mrs. James, the American,” she said, more to herself than Eliza, apparently, as she kept talking without pausing to wait for an answer. “We’re so happy the little laird’s been eatin’ more o’ his dinners since ye’ve come, lassie. He needs fattenin’ up.”
Eliza couldn’t argue with that. Frederick was still painfully thin, but he’d regained his appetite and had tucked away quite a bit of food in the past week or so.
“Thank you,” Eliza said, unsure if an answer was expected. “I was, um, wondering if I might find something to eat?”
“Of course, my lady! The bread be rising fer baking an’ not quite ready yet, but let’s see. I have some cheese, an’ a few cherry tarts fresh out o’ the oven.”
“That sounds delicious.” Cherry tarts? They had cherry tarts? Had they served those before and she’d missed it?
“The dowager, she likes me not ta make too many sweets; doesn’t want her daughters leaning toward fat, but I say there be nothin’ better in the world than a properly made cherry tart. His Grace and Lord Chance agree, so I bake ‘em fer them. And extras fer meself.” She chuckled, patting her large belly.
The cook indicated a stool and Eliza sat down gratefully. “Thank you,” she said again.
Rowena beamed as she set a plate of cheese and tarts in front of Eliza. “How nice to hear a bit o’ gratitude.”
Eliza took a bite of the tart. The light crust melted in her mouth, and the mix of cherry and sugar exploded on her tongue. She wanted to kiss the cook, literally. It was delicious. Beyond delicious. Oh, how she’d missed sugar. “Rowena!” she exclaimed. “These are awesome!”
“Awe-some? That is no’ an expression I’ve heard applied ta food,” Rowena said, “but I’m hoping ‘twere a compliment.”
“A compliment indeed!” Eliza took another bite. Oh my God, these are insanely good.
“They be His Grace’s favorite, too,” the cook confided. “Have been since he were a wee lad.”
It hardly seemed possible Deveric was ever that small.
Had he been? She stopped chewing. If Cat had created Deveric for her, had he had an actual childhood, or had he sprung forth fully formed as an adult, like Athena from Zeus? Did Cat truly create Deveric, his family, the people around her, from nothing, or was it possible she’d somehow tapped into people who already existed?
Eliza’s head spun from trying to figure out the ramifications of her friend’s gift. It was incomprehensible to fully grasp how this people-creating power worked, or that time-travel was possible, and yet here she sat in a nineteenth-century kitchen, eating cheese and tarts, surrounded by strange utensils for which she didn’t know the use, listening to the cook and watching kitchen maids prep food for the upcoming day.
She bit into another tart. She’d have to be careful, or she’d eat all of them she could find.
“It’s nice ta see a lady with an appetite,” Cook said as she bustled about, slamming a slab of dough onto a board and kneading it with her large, beefy hands. “Would you like a cup o’ chocolate?”
“Oh, that would be heavenly. Could you add a bit of sugar to it, as well?”
“Indeed. Moira?”
A small, dark-haired maid nodded, setting down the knife with which she’d been chopping potatoes. Taking what looked like a brown bar of soap, she chopped it into small bits then added the bits to a pot that rather resembled a modern coffee pot. Pouring in some milk, she then held the pot over the fire, occasionally stirring the mixture. Removing the pot from the heat after a few minutes, Moira added sugar the cook had shaved off of a cone and mixed it in with a spoon. She poured out the chocolate into a china mug another maid had brought over and set it in front of Eliza with a smile.
Holy cow, that’s labor-intensive. Nothing like popping milk in the microwave and adding hot chocolate mix. Remorse hit her for making the women go to so much effort when they were already busy. On the other hand, the chocolate was delicious.
“Thank you. You all are so very kind. Would you mind if I spent time here in the kitchens when I can? I’d be glad to help out if you’d like.” Not that she knew a thing about cooking in a nineteenth-century kitchen, but a girl could learn, right?
Rowena gave her a wink. “Ye be more than welcome, lassie, but I don’t know that His Grace, or Her Grace, would approve.”
“I’ll take full responsibility if there’s an issue. I like it here. It’s warm!”
The women grinned at each other. “Then ye be most welcome anytime,” Rowena affirmed.
Eliza munched on another tart, relishing the warmth of the fire as much as the food before her, a bit uncomfortable that she was relaxing while they worked. Not uncomfortable enough to leave, though.
A door on the other side of the room whipped open. Eliza dropped her tart in surprise when a deep voice echoed through the kitchen. “Rowena, have you got any of those cherry tarts for me?”