CHAPTER ELEVEN: April 21, 1914

The Barker estate is enormous. It’s incredible to think that the giant, sprawling building is really intended as a residence for just one family. The silvery Rolls Royce—“imported from London,” Madeline explains—rattles down the sweeping drive and through the wrought iron gate, and the house rises up before us like something out of a fairy tale.

“It looks like a castle.” I feel silly saying it, but it’s true.

“My husband, God rest his soul, had it built in the style of an English manor,” Madeline says, not even taking her attention from the small book in her lap to glance up at the enormous brick building. “Charles II era, I believe.”

“It’s lovely,” I say, admiring the perfectly aligned windows and dormers, the elegant columns and balconies, and the multiple chimneys reaching skyward. There’s nothing like this around in my era, at least not in the city where my family lives, where I spent my life until this point. There, everything is built for efficiency, and while there’s a certain artistry to its clean lines and smooth surfaces, there’s something about the design of this manor that feels more naturalistic, as if, instead of being built, the bricks slowly sprouted from the earth, the shingles opened like petals across the roof, and the glass panes pooled like rainwater in the empty spaces. “Your husband had superb taste.”

“He did,” Madeline says, her voice strangely hollow.

At the front entrance, a footman opens the door and helps me down from the seat. “Your bag, miss?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any, sir.”

“Hugh is the butler,” Madeline says. “You needn’t address him as ‘sir.’”

“Sorry.” I look from my hostess to the servant, uncertain which one I ought to be apologizing to. All those lessons I took on the 19th century, and not a single one of them had anything to say on what the proper etiquette would be in this situation. At least back with the Harvey Girls, Mrs. Wallace made certain I knew my place.

“And you needn’t worry about your wardrobe,” Madeline says. “We’ll get you settled into one of the guest rooms, and then Hugh, tell Clarice to bring Miss Argent some of last year’s gowns. It shouldn’t take her too long to hem them up so they’ll properly fit you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your generosity,” I say, following Madeline through the front entrance and into the foyer. I nearly forget what I’m saying when I step inside and see the intricate woodworking on the banisters and elegant, polished furnishings, lit from above by a crystal chandelier.

“It’s the least I can do.” Madeline tosses her gloves and hat on a side table and sweeps up the curving staircase. I rush after her, feeling like a puppy tagging along on her heels.

“You don’t need to go through all the trouble of fitting things for me, though. I’ll need to be getting back to Chicago as soon as…” I glance at Hugh, who’s lingering at the bottom of the steps. “As soon as I’m done here.”

I’d been so hasty in leaving with Madeline, I hadn’t even thought of what I’d do after saving the world from a massive global conflict. Maybe, if things work out, I can still get back to Chicago and beg Oliver McIntire to give me my job back before Dodge makes his next visit, whenever that is.

“I don’t know how you’re used to things working,” Madeline says lightly, “but in these days, gaining an audience with the president takes a bit more than a simple request. And to convince him of your qualifications may be tricky.”

“What do I need to do? How much time will it take?”

“All you need to do,” Madeline says, stopping at the top of the steps, “is to leave everything to me. First, we must meet with my organization. With their support, many more avenues will be open to us, I assure you.”

“And until then? What should I do?”

“You’re welcome to remain here as my guest in the interim. In fact, for your own protection, I must insist upon it.”

“Insist upon it?” A sudden, fleeting thought occurs to me that I have no way to communicate with anyone outside this manor. It’s a strange, unwelcome thought that makes me feel suddenly very small and vulnerable.

Madeline laughs. “Oh, dear. I don’t mean to startle you. You do realize, though, the power of the information you carry in that pretty head of yours? There are those who would die for—who would kill for—even a few of your secrets. For a glimpse into that mind of yours.”

Something like a cold shiver works its way up my spine, but I shake it off. I’m safe here.

“I have a brother,” I say, on impulse, not quite knowing why. “He’s a traveler as well, and he promised he’d be looking in on me. I’ll need to send word to him about where he can find me.”

“Of course,” Madeline says, sweeping once more down the long, paneled corridor. “Do you know where to reach him?”

“Yes. There’s a boarding house where he always stays when he’s in Chicago. I can send a letter to him there.”

“Excellent,” Madeline says. “As soon as you’ve written him, just give the envelope to Hugh, and he’ll see to it that it’s posted immediately. Now, this will be your room while you’re here.”

The first thing I notice when I step inside the door at the end of the corridor is the fire burning brightly in the fireplace across from a lace-adorned canopy bed. There are chairs and sofas on the opposite end of the room and a door beyond that, which presumably leads to a bathroom. Enormous windows line one wall, opening onto a balcony that looks out over a beautiful spring garden.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s all so excessive, so impractical, so inefficient compared with the living quarters I’m used to.

“I do hope this is sufficient for your needs,” Madeline says, running a finger across the mantle and nodding to herself when it comes away clean. “I’m afraid I won’t be much company to you; there’s always so much to do in running an estate like this. There’s a library downstairs; do people of your time still enjoy books?”

“Um, yes.” I hesitate, trying to figure out how to explain to someone of this era all the changes books had gone through in the centuries between now and my time. In the end, I leave it at that. A book is a book, regardless of the form it takes.

“You’re welcome to explore the first floor, the grounds, the library…” she says, ticking off each area in a way that makes me briefly wonder what she’s excluding. “Oh, and there’s a music room down the corridor, if you play. Now, I’ll be headed to the city in the morning to meet with the members of my organization and arrange an introduction for you.”

“And that will help us get an audience with the president?” I press her. “That’s really all I’m here for.”

“One step at a time,” Madeline says, smiling. And with that, she sweeps from the room, leaving me again balking, unbalanced, in her wake.

***

The next day is so surreal, I feel as if I’m living in a dream. By the time I wake in the morning, Madeline is gone, leaving me alone with a staff of servants who will only answer my questions with single-word answers.

The butler in particular seems to have quickly developed an overwhelming disdain for me that comes out all the more clearly now that my hostess has departed. Whether it’s because I called him “sir” or some other faux pas I’ve committed, I don’t know, but when I approach him with questions about where to find a pen and some ink for writing Dodge, or how the faucet on the tub works, his answers are accompanied by a condescending sneer that makes me want to yank the prickly-looking mustache from his face.

After a morning of keeping quietly to myself and a luncheon of sandwiches served on a tray in my suite, I muster up the courage to wander about a bit, my footsteps echoing conspicuously in the empty rooms. I find the library and music room that Madeline mentioned, and, at the end of the hallway, another staircase leading upward. Had Madeline mentioned a third floor?

“Looking for something?”

I spin around, startled to see Hugh there when I’m sure that moments ago, I was alone.

“What’s on the third floor?”

“Just the mistress’s quarters,” Hugh says, taking me by the elbow and leading me from the stairs. “Have you seen the gardens yet?”

“Ah, no. I haven’t.”

“Let me show you out.”

The way he rushes me off makes it obvious that, though not explicitly stated, the third floor is, for some reason, “off-limits,” and makes me wonder why. What might Madeline be hiding up there: her “dead” husband, locked up a la Rochester’s wife?

“Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering the letter to Dodge I’d tucked into my pocket. “Madeline said that I could give this to you.”

I’d had to sneak my PVDs out of their hiding place to check that I’d addressed it correctly; still, Hugh looks at it as though it’s a dead rat that he doesn’t want to touch. Reluctantly, he pinches it between two fingers. “I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of.”