Chapter 6

Matt hummed along to the radio as he drove. He didn’t live far from the Coopers—just on the south side of campus, off of Jefferson Park Avenue (or JPA, as every resident of Charlottesville called it)—but far enough that he didn’t usually walk. Besides, his truck needed exercise every once in a while, right? The advantage to living close to his office was he didn’t need to drive to work. The disadvantage was it gave him fewer opportunities to use his pickup, and he loved the thing.

Perhaps it was an unusual vehicle choice for a computer science professor—he should probably have something more practical, like a Toyota or a Subaru, or at least sporty, like a BMW or Porsche. Not that he could afford the latter, but someday. Someday.

In the meantime, his trusty pickup never let him down, even if his colleagues joked they expected to see him in cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat.

He didn’t know why he’d wanted a truck, to be honest. He wasn’t a country boy—growing up in Gaithersburg, Maryland, definitely precluded that. He just liked the way it made him feel. Strong. Powerful. Manly. The opposite of the computer geek stereotype. Good God, I sound like a TV ad. He patted the dashboard. Bessie was his rock; she’d never let him down. Never abandoned him. She was the only woman he needed.

Amara’s bewitching eyes danced before him. God, what a strange evening. Not that he was averse to kissing beautiful women, but what the hell had happened back there? And that strange electricity which had crackled between them?

She was sexy, that was for sure. Oddly so, given her garb. When had he ever thought a woman in a bonnet sexy?

Maybe she’d be up for a fling. A relationship didn’t interest him. He couldn’t risk it again. Not with how badly things had gone with Wendy.

It still hurt every time he had to see her with his brother at family events. That was why he rarely attended. Sure, it’d been ten years. Sure, Wendy and Nathan were much better suited to each other than she and he had ever been. Still, she’d left him for his brother, claiming he hadn’t paid her enough attention, that she couldn’t compete with his fixation on computers.

He frowned. He’d thrown himself into his studies, into his work, more after that. Not less. He’d ignored the painful truth in her words by burying himself in screens and research and teaching, avoiding relationships altogether. He didn’t need one. He had his career, his tenure quest, and his determination to make a splash in cybersecurity. And he had Ada Lovelace, his cat.

“A man with a pickup needs a dog, dude,” his brother, Daniel, often ribbed him. But dogs required time and energy, and he didn’t have enough of either to give. Not to a canine, not to a female.

So why did his thoughts keep flitting back to Amara? He didn’t even know her last name, for Pete’s sake. He didn’t know a thing about her, beyond that she was his mentor’s wife’s cousin. Which should automatically render her off-limits. Despite the fact she was wickedly attractive. And a damn fine kisser.

He ran his hands along his thighs at the stoplight, wanting to smooth out the tension pulsing everywhere. For Pete’s sake, it wasn’t like he’d gone months without any action. This physical drive for a woman he’d just met was ridiculous. But there it was.

When the light turned green, he floored the truck, roaring through the intersection, determined to put more distance between himself and the strange events of the evening. An hour’s more work, maybe a break for an episode of Big Bang Theory, a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow he’d begin afresh, with all thoughts of the all-too-strange, all-too-tempting Amara What’s-Her-Name firmly behind him.

Or he could call Julie. She’d made it clear she was up for another night if he wished. That was the kind of connection he liked: no strings attached, no messy involvement of feelings. No chance of potential hurt, either inflicting or suffering. It’d be easier to avoid the opposite sex altogether, but he appreciated an attractive woman and had drives, like any man. Though he shoved his sex drive on the back burner when working. And he was always working. It’s what he loved to do. So what if Taylor claimed he worked so much to avoid dealing with real life? Work was his life.

He pulled into a space in his apartment building’s lot and shut off the engine, sitting for a moment in the dark. Why hadn’t Ben said they had company? They could’ve postponed the meeting. And what was up with this Amara? She’d acted so peculiarly, like she didn’t know the Coopers, despite Cat’s assertion they were cousins. Because of her head injury?

He shrugged, reaching for his phone, which had dinged while he was driving. Who was he to judge the Coopers? Matt liked Ben, but the Coopers were in a different life stage—nearly a decade older, with a young child. Ben and he were colleagues, friendly acquaintances, but not true friends.

Not that Matt had any friends besides her, Taylor often kidded. She was wrong; he lunched occasionally with Ben, or with Dave, whose office was next to his, and on rare occasion, he and several other profs played pool or grabbed a beer. That was enough, wasn’t it?

He glanced at the screen. Taylor had texted:

Hot date. Tell ya later. Wish me luck.

He grinned. His sister was younger by only a year, and they’d always been close. He was glad she was getting her spunk back; her divorce had finally been finalized a month ago, but she’d been down since her marriage fell apart. Further evidence matrimony didn’t agree with the Goodson family.

In truth, Taylor’s ex, Trevor, hadn’t been a bad guy. He just didn’t have any drive, spending his days playing video games and drinking beer while his wife brought home the bacon. When he’d started smoking pot, Taylor left him. Matt hadn’t blamed her, had cheered her on, in fact. Their wastrel of a dad had been enough; neither one of them were willing to relive that again.

“Luck,” he texted back. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Sticking the phone in his pocket, he climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment. As he opened the door, a loud meow greeted him. “Hey, Lovey,” he crooned, bending to pet the calico’s head. “Miss me?”

After kicking off his shoes, he picked up Lovey, rubbing her chin as he walked into the kitchen. Flipping on the light, he pulled a can of food out of the cupboard, then put the feline down so he could spoon her food into a bowl. Setting it down, he surveyed the room. He liked the apartment’s open layout; the main room was one big living room/dining room/kitchen combo, with only a counter blocking off the kitchen area.

Taylor complained his decorating style was Spartan, at best, but he savored the simplicity, the starkness of bare walls and few possessions.

The black tile of the kitchen floor was cold under his bare feet, so he wandered to the other part of the room and sat down at a large desk with double monitors on it. He started up his favorite playlist before settling in for a night of work in this nice, quiet space, with no fussing toddlers. And no oddly adorable bonneted women kissing him unexpectedly.

Amara rolled over in the narrow bed, blinking wearily at the sound of wailing from the next room. Sunlight peeked in around the edges of the window covering. It was morning.

“Shh,” a voice urged. “Cousin Amara is sleeping, Wash.”

The child continued to cry, and Amara yanked the blanket over her ears. At least at Clarehaven, the nursery had been far removed from her bedchamber. In fact, Clarehaven, her family’s estate, was so large, she’d simply moved to another part of the house if something—children, siblings, her mother—disrupted her.

This home was tiny, in comparison. Clarehaven must have overwhelmed Eliza if this was the space in which she’d lived before. Cat had promised a full tour today, but Amara doubted there was much more to see than what she’d taken in last night. The apartment had three bedrooms, though the one Amara was in was quite small.

“More a closet than a bedroom. I’ve mostly stored stuff in it,” Cat had said with an apologetic smile. “It used to be my sister Marie’s—I understand why she was anxious to get the heck out of here after high school.”

There was also a living room with a sofa, a table, and other less familiar furnishings. Amara had got a glimpse into the kitchen, though it looked foreign to any kitchen she’d ever seen and much smaller.

Discomfort in her lower region made Amara aware of pressing needs. She sat up, looking around the room. Ah, yes. No chamber pots. Eliza had wrinkled her nose at said pots, describing modern plumbing and something called a toilet with such a look of wistful longing on her face, Amara couldn’t help but laugh.

She wasn’t laughing now—she had to make use of this bathroom, as Eliza’d termed it. Cat had pointed it out last night, but Amara hadn’t investigated, wanting merely to sleep. Rising carefully, she slipped her feet into her shoes and walked to the door. She’d fallen asleep in her gown, not wanting to ask for help in unlacing it. She’d been exhausted, anyway.

As she entered the main room, Wash let out another cry. Cat held him, bouncing him in her arms as she smoothed the hair off of his forehead. When she saw Amara, she grimaced. “I’m sorry if he woke you. He was fine yesterday, but this morning he’s burning up. I gave him Tylenol, but he’s miserable.”

Amara merely nodded. She had no clue what Tylenol was, but then again, she had no clue what much around her was. A large, black rectangle hung on the wall across from the sofa, with a rope of some sort hanging down behind it. Artwork? On one of the tables near the sofa sat a rectangular object like the ones downstairs the previous night. It resembled a book with its cover propped up or a slim box with a hinged back. Suddenly, it made a noise, and she jumped.

“Sorry. That might be Ben; I messaged him earlier.” Cat walked over to the rectangle and pushed something. The top half illuminated in a manner reminiscent of Eliza’s telephone.

“Com-puter?” Amara gestured toward the machine, testing out the unfamiliar word.

“Uh huh. I guess Eliza told you about them? They are kind of cool, even though I fight with them a lot. Technology and I are not on the best of terms.” She hoisted Wash higher on her hip. “I’ll show you at some point, though Ben’s a better instructor.”

“Mama, my thwoat hurts.” Wash ducked his head against his mother’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” She pressed a kiss to his hair. “I think I should take him to the doctor,” she said to Amara. “It might be strep.”

Amara had no idea what strep was, but if Cat was concerned, it couldn’t be good. “The doctor does not come here?”

Cat chuckled. “If only. Sadly, no, she doesn’t. House calls are a thing of the past.”

A female doctor? It shouldn’t surprise her; according to Eliza, women held a large variety of occupations in this period: engineers, lawyers, architects, doctors ... even astronomers.

She pinched her arm. She was truly here, in the twenty-first century. Her past was behind her. There was only the future now. Euphoria and terror crashed over her, settling low in her belly and reminding her of why she’d come out of the bedroom in the first place.

“I, um, need to ... ”

Cat nodded, thankfully understanding to what she was alluding. Amara walked toward a door between her chamber and another room that contained a miniature bed with tall rails about it. It wasn’t so different from Frederick’s sided cradle, though this one more resembled a cage. A cage for a child. Intriguing. And perhaps wise.

Cat called after her. “Did Eliza explain modern toilets? And flushing? Toilet paper?”

Amara’s ears burned. She was not comfortable discussing such private matters. Before she could answer, Cat crossed in front of her and opened the door, walking in ahead of Amara.

“Here’s the toilet,” she said, gesturing to a peculiar-looking white chair. “You sit on this part, and when you’re done, you use the paper here to wipe. Oh, and you put the paper right in the toilet. Push this handle to flush.” She pointed to a silver bar on the top of the white apparatus before turning to the side. “Here’s the sink to wash your hands—pull the faucet handle up and to the left for hot water, or to the right for cold. There’s hand soap right there; just push down on the handle and it’ll come out.”

Cat’s gaze darted back and forth as if to ascertain whether or not she’d missed anything. “If you’d like to take a shower, I can explain that, too. But I’ll duck out now to let you have some privacy.”

Amara nodded. “Thank you.” Her head swam, but she’d decided last night she was going to do her best to accept everything as it came by pretending she was dreaming. Fantastical dreams weren’t so unusual, right? Because otherwise she might collapse under the weight of all the newness—and she wasn’t the type to collapse. If being caught naked in a garden didn’t destroy her, no modern toilet would do so.

A few minutes later, as she held her hands under the miraculously warm water flowing into the sink, she decided interior plumbing was something she could certainly get used to. Hot water whenever you wished? And whoever invented toilet paper with such softness was brilliant.

What other delightful surprises awaited? Amara peeked behind the curtain to which Cat had gestured when mentioning the shower. A white tub, somewhat similar to the tubs in which she’d bathed at Clarehaven, sat on the floor, but was affixed directly to the wall. It had a similar knob to the one Amara had used at the sink. She turned on the water, enjoying the heat as the liquid warmed beneath her fingertips.

A knob on top of the faucet from which the water flowed drew her attention, so she pulled it, curious. Suddenly, water shot down on her head, inundating her hair and shoulders.

“Eek!” she shrieked, jumping back. She stood there, hair dripping into her face, feeling like a fool. Surely she should have expected that, should have noticed the fixture projecting from the wall above. Eliza had described the shower mechanism with longing, after all. Amara had agreed it sounded heavenly—she’d just wanted her first one to be without clothes on. Leaning back in, she quickly turned off the water.

Cat knocked on the door. “You okay?”

“Yes, yes. All is good.”

“Sounds like you figured out the shower. If you need a towel, they’re in the closet behind the door.”

Amara opened the closet and discovered soft cloths of varying sizes stored within. She took out one of the larger ones, then eyed the shower. Should she try it? She’d only bathed in a tub, or occasionally in the pond at Clarehaven.

Well, if she was to be a twenty-first-century woman, better start now. According to Eliza, most people bathed daily. Amara herself had been a frequent bather, preferring cleanliness to dirt, but full immersion in a tub had certainly not been an everyday occurrence—especially in the winter when the rooms always held a bitter chill.

With excitement, she set the cloth on the counter, preparing to enter the falling water. Blast. She’d forgotten she couldn’t undress herself—her gown laced up the back. Getting used to no servants was going to be more difficult than she’d thought, though she understood why servants were not as necessary with conveniences like showers and toilets.

“Cat?” Using the woman’s first name on so short an acquaintance felt more intimate than was comfortable, but it was custom, and she must resign herself to it. She opened the door a few inches. “I require assistance with my gown.”

“No problem. Give me a sec.” Cat walked into the bedroom with the barred bed. When she walked back out, Wash was no longer on her hip, though his whimpering was audible. “Hopefully he’ll be patient in there a moment.”

As she fumbled with the laces at Amara’s back, the child let out a large wail. Cat sighed as she worked Amara free of her gown and stays.

I am not embarrassed that a stranger is undressing me. I am not embarrassed. Her maid had undressed her every day. It was nothing of which to be ashamed.

“I’m so sorry, he’s not usually fussy like this. He must really be feeling bad.”

“I understand. I do hope the child returns to better health soon.” Cat nodded before racing back to her son.

Amara shut the bathroom door. Shedding her dress and undergarments, she studied herself in the mirror over the sink. They’d had mirrors at Clarehaven, of course—many of them, including a large one in her bedchamber. But with so many servants about, she’d never stood naked in front of one.

It was a luxury to examine her own skin. With a frown, she noted the wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. Minor, yes, but they hadn’t been there a few short years ago; another reminder life was passing her by, changing her, aging her. She was no longer in the flower of youth. She rubbed her hand over her stomach. Was she still remotely desirable?

Mr. Goodson’s face floated before her, those blue eyes rousing dangerous flutters in areas slightly south of her hand. What would he think of her naked? What would he look like naked?

Red fanned out over her skin. Why on earth was she thinking such things? Surely it was only because she’d kissed him that he was anywhere in her thoughts. It’d been eons since she’d had a good kiss. Her flirtation with Lord Hodgins didn’t count—they hadn’t got more than one or two light pecks in before her brother had interrupted them. The only man she’d ever truly passionately kissed was Drake Evers. Until last night, at least. Mr. Goodson had wasted no time in becoming familiar, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She’d liked it. She’d liked it a lot.

Her skin tingling, she turned away from the mirror and fidgeted with the knobs in the tub, remembering to pull up the smaller one only when the water was warm and she was ready.

“There’s shampoo on the edge of the tub,” Cat called loudly through the door. Amara flinched, not used to a relative stranger so close while she was bathing. The door was closed, however, and she had no doubt Cat would respect her privacy.

She stood for an untold number of minutes under the shower, letting the hot water beat down on her back. Heaven. This was heaven. She never wanted to leave. Could one spend one’s life in the shower?

Eventually, she tipped her head back, letting the water cascade over her hair, marveling at the soothing touch of its heat. Reaching down, she picked up the bottle to which Cat had referred. A picture on the front showed a woman lathering her hair. Amara removed the cap and poured out an unexpectedly large amount of liquid into her hand. How strange. She was accustomed to a soap, or Cook’s special paste, to clean the hair. Not something as smooth as this. As she massaged the liquid into her hair, she laughed out loud at the large volume of bubbles this shampoo produced. She rinsed the sweet-smelling stuff from her hair and squeezed out the excess water.

Finally, after what must have been a good half an hour, she reluctantly turned off the water, stepping out carefully onto the soft mat next to the tub. Reaching for the towel, she wrapped herself in it. She looked at her gown. She didn’t particularly want to wear it again, but what other option did she have?

She’d do what she could. Pulling the stays and dress back on, she opened the door. Cat could help with the lacings.

“I’m so sorry,” Cat called, her face pinched as she looped a reticule of some sort over her shoulder while clutching Wash, whose eyes looked red and his skin, pale. “I need to take him in right now. His fever has risen. Will you be okay here?”

Amara stopped in her tracks. Alone? Cat would leave her alone? But the poor child needed care. She nodded. “Of course.”

“Thanks. Feel free to look in the fridge for something to eat. Wait for me before you try the stove or microwave, though. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” With that, Cat raced out a side door different from the one they’d come through last night, shutting it behind her.

Amara walked over and peered through the window. Cat scrambled down a flight of stairs before securing her son in the back of a car. Amara had seen one on Eliza’s phone and knew what it was called. She jumped, however, as Cat leapt into the front seat and then roared backward in the beast. Eliza had described these “horseless carriages” in great detail, but it was bizarre to see one in action.

The car edged into a smooth, nearly black street before moving forward. Amara remained at the window, frozen for some time as other vehicles streaked by. Such speed. Deveric would have loved it.

People strolled on the lighter gray path near the road. Though it was clearly cold, given the coats people wore and the fact that their breath frosted the air, few wore hats. All of the women were garbed in trousers, some of which looked painted on, so tight was the fabric.

Her mother would be scandalized. Even Amara’s throat clenched and a knot of anxiety fed through her at the differences in apparel. Who knew clothing mattered so?

It mattered now. With her stays and dress loose, she couldn’t leave the living quarters. Not that she’d planned on doing so. One small thing at a time was enough at the moment.

She retreated to the kitchen, her rumbling stomach reminding her it’d been hours since she’d last eaten. A large, white rectangle with handles dominated one corner of the room, a noticeable hum emanating from it. Amara pulled on the handle, and it opened to reveal numerous foodstuffs, all cold to the touch.

Most of Clarehaven’s food had been kept in the pantry or cellar. They’d had ice much of the year in the icehouse, naturally, but to have coldness available directly in one’s home, year round? Brilliant.

Amara inspected several items before selecting one labeled strawberry yogurt. That sounded good; she loved strawberries. Now, how did one eat it?

Opening various drawers, she studied their contents. A few of the implements were familiar, others were not. What did the green-handled object that turned do? Or this flat, round blade on a handle, sharp all the way around? Finally, she found a drawer with recognizable items—spoons, forks, rather dull-looking knives.

Pulling the thin metal coating off the top of the yogurt container, itself made of an unknown shiny but malleable material, she dipped in a spoon and took a mouthful. She nearly spat it out at the unexpected, extreme sweetness, but let the taste settle on her tongue. It wasn’t bad, reminiscent of pie, but with a decided tang. She took additional tastes of the creamy substance as she investigated the kitchen.

“What are all of these things?” she asked out loud. One large boxy item held visibly soiled dishes. Why did they store such things and not wash them? Not that Amara had ever washed dishes. Perhaps it was easier to save them for one big scrubbing session.

Selecting an apple from a bowl, she ventured back into the living room and, curious, moved a narrow knob on the wall, jumping when a light overhead illuminated as a result. Instant lighting? Anytime one wished it? Capital!

Cat’s computer rested on a little table near the sofa. Amara was tempted to push the screen to see if it worked similarly to Eliza’s telephone but didn’t want to risk damaging the item. Instead, she sat down on the sofa with her yogurt, exhaling loudly as she sank into the cushions. The sofa was soft, far softer than any at Clarehaven. She picked up a long black rectangle covered with buttons. What did it do? She pushed a button labeled Power. Suddenly, the large box across from her sprang to life, voices emanating from it as pictures flashed on the screen.

Amara screamed.

Television. This is what Eliza called television. Her eyes widened at the life-like figures moving across the box. Life-like though cut off—only their upper halves were visible. Then the box switched and she could see all of them. One was saying something about Alex being her long-lost twin sister, and Barrett should have known that and not run off with her and had that secret baby.

What? Spoonfuls of yogurt went into her mouth absent-mindedly as her eyes remained glued to the screen. Here was another handsome young man, with his shirt off. Discomfort danced across the back of Amara’s neck at the sight of so much skin, so much muscular skin. Discomfort mixed with something else, something she didn’t wish to acknowledge. She squirmed in her seat and crossed her legs. This was acceptable, to be nude in public? On a television?

The man’s muscles flexed as he strode around. He was an attractive fellow, with blonde hair and blue eyes, though not as light blue as Mr. Goodson’s.

What would Mr. Goodson look like half-clothed? He was likely as solid as this television gentleman, at least from what she’d touched yesterday. She closed her eyes, picturing his face, his lips inches from hers, as she’d reached up and pulled him closer.

She couldn’t believe she’d kissed a stranger so brazenly. The tendrils of excitement that had snaked across her skin reappeared. What fun that had been in the midst of this all. Where was Mr. Goodson today? What was he doing?

She pushed the Power button again, grateful when the machine fell silent, and rose, taking a bite of the apple as she moved the yogurt container onto a side table. She didn’t want to think of Mr. Goodson at the moment, or of any man, for that matter.

A meow echoed from another room. Feline? Cat had a feline? Inside her home? How had she not heard it the previous evening? She set the apple next to the yogurt, then followed the noise, stopping at the edge of Cat’s bedroom. It didn’t feel right to enter her personal chamber. A sheaf of papers lying on a stool just inside the open doorway caught her eye, however, because the top paper featured a vividly colored illumination of a woman holding a book. Was this the magical manuscript whose powers had enabled Amara to come here? It didn’t look old.

As a large, fluffy, striped cat wove itself in and around her feet, Amara debated. Should she peek at the manuscript? She took a step into Cat’s room, guilt riding her as she did so. But she had to see it, had to touch the item that held such power.

Picking it up, she glanced at the script. Latin. She knew a few words but could not read this. Her eyes skimmed over the page, and she wondered at its history. How had Cat ended up with this? And how on earth did it work? Witchcraft?

Goosebumps erupted at the thought. That’s what many in her era would say—this was black magic, something of the devil. And yet, could magic that created the kind of love her brother and Eliza shared be bad? Amara didn’t think so. That kind of love was a once-in-a-lifetime love. You could have that. The manuscript enabled it. But she didn’t want it. Did she?

Mr. Goodson’s eyes shimmered before her.

Shaking her head to rid herself of his image, she studied the pictures. The illuminations were gloriously rich. She hesitantly ran her finger over one. The page was flat. She could not feel the ink, of the pictures or the words. How bizarre. Was this somehow a reproduction? She carefully turned the pages, nonetheless, not wanting to damage the artifact. The last page was an image Amara had seen on Eliza’s phone of a woman with reddish-brown hair who bore a striking resemblance to Cat. Peculiar.

A noise beeped behind her, and Amara dropped the manuscript pages, startling the cat, which shot into the child’s bedroom. She hoped the boy was all right. When her nephew Frederick had taken so ill, they’d feared for his life. It’d been weeks of fevers, even an occasional delirium.

When the beep came again, Amara sought its source. The computer. A white square containing words had popped up, with the name Ben Cooper written across the top, and below it a message:

Be home as soon as I can. We might want 2 find somewhere for Amara 2 stay for a day or 2. Easier on her & safer than w/a sick child. Maybe Shannon?

As she stood there, a second message suddenly appeared beneath Ben’s words, Cat’s name at the head of it:

Shannon texted: both her kids r sick, too. & Jill is @ that conference. Can u ask Matt? Makes sense in many ways.

Stay with Mr. Goodson? Cat and Ben wished her to leave them and stay with a man? The hair on her arms bristled, and panic flipped her stomach. She forced herself to take a deep breath. In truth, she hardly knew her hosts any better than Mr. Goodson. It shouldn’t matter they wanted her elsewhere temporarily. She could do it.

But to be under the same roof as an unrelated, unmarried man? Her sense of propriety warred with temptation. Temptation she didn’t want or need.

On the other hand, if the child was to spend much of the next days crying and whining, she would rather avoid that. She was grateful for their consideration.

Was she not?