Anne Barbour (27 page)

“You must not sell out of the funds.” When Ash’s mouth opened in protest, she continued hurriedly, “I must talk to you, in private.”

Ash shook himself from her grasp in some irritation. “I don’t have time for a tête-à-tête right now, Amanda.”

“Ash, this is important. Wait right here.”

She whirled about and ran up the stairs to her room, returning a few minutes later garbed in pelisse and bonnet. “Now,” she said breathlessly, “take me someplace where we can talk, privately and without interruption.”

Ash opened his mouth to speak, but staring down into her eyes, he caught himself. He said nothing, but ushered her from the house. Fifteen minutes later, his curricle swung into Green Park, from whence he proceeded to the leafy glade where they had conversed on Amanda’s first day in Regency London.

“This is a good as place as any. Now, what is it, Amanda? I really must not stay long.”

Amanda drew in a long, shaky breath.

“Ash, you have commented several times on the change you have observed in me since—since my little debacle in Grosvenor Chapel.”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice tinged with impatience.

“There is a reason for that.” Amanda paused for a moment before continuing. “My Lord Ashindon, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amanda McGovern and I was—will be born in the year nineteen hundred and sixty-eight.”

Chapter Nineteen

For a long moment, Ash simply stared at her, his eyes wide with shock. “Amanda,” he said at last, taking her hand in his. “Amanda—”

“No—please. Let me finish. It all started on a day in April of 1996. I was sitting in Grosvenor Chapel when I met this strange man ...”

Her story did not take long in the telling, and when she was finished, Amanda sat back, her hands folded, and watched Ash expectantly. Her heart sank when his only words were, “Amanda, my dear, I had no idea you were so ill.”

She sighed. “As in bonkers, you mean. I guess I can’t blame you for coming to that conclusion. I thought the same thing at first. I thought I was hallucinating, and it was days before I realized that I had actually, er, traveled through time,” she finished lamely. It seemed like such a lunatic fringe sort of thing to say. “Look,” she continued hastily as Ash opened his mouth, “you have remarked frequently on the abrupt change in my personality after my supposed elopement attempt. The way I spoke, for example. In fact, I think you said specifically that I was a different person.”

“I meant that you
seemed
a different person. Merely a figure of speech.”

Amanda paused, as a thought struck her. “You also thought I was faking amnesia. Ash, do you think I made up the story I just told you?”

His answer was oblique. “It did not take me long to realize that your amnesia was genuine—although now, I suppose you will say it was not amnesia at all. Frankly, I do not know what to think now, except that I believe you think you are telling the truth. As I said, you are obviously suffering from some sort of mental aberration.” The concern in his eyes took some of the sting from his words, and Amanda exhaled a sigh of relief.

She grinned determinedly. “Let us shelve for a moment the subject of my general dottiness. I have in my possession something that I think will convince you that what I claim is true.” She ran her finger beneath the lace at her throat and pulled out the little gold pendant that she had placed in her dressing table drawer on that morning so many weeks ago. Passing it over her head, she handed it to Ash.

“What’s this?”

“It’s something I brought with me from the twentieth century. I was wondering why it came with me, when nothing else did, but now I understand. Whoever, or whatever brought me here figured I might need proof at some point. Look at it, please,”

Ash examined the coin curiously. “ ‘In God we trust,’ ” he read, “Who is the bearded gentleman?”

“His name is Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States of America. He was—will be—assassinated in 1865, shortly after the Civil War. Yes, we had one of those, too,” she added. “The date, Ash—look at the date.”

“ ‘1989,’ ” murmured Ash wonderingly. “Where did you get this?”

Amanda stiffened. “I did not have it made up myself during the last few weeks, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No,” said Ash, still turning the coin in his hands. “It looks undeniably authentic, but I don’t understand—”

“From—from a friend. Ash, this is currency. It was—will be minted in 1989, just as it says. Don’t you see what that means?”

“Of course, I see what it means,” growled Ash. “I’m just saying there has to be some other explanation.” He turned the coin idly in his fingers. “Who is Derek?” he asked abruptly.

“Der—? Oh. He—he’s someone I used to know.”

“It sounds as though you must have known him rather well.” Ash’s tone was light, but contained an underlying edge.

“Ash, I do not wish to talk about Derek right now. There will be time enough later to tell you about the life and times of Amanda McGovern. Right now, we have other things to discuss. As it happens, I have a good reason for divulging my recent, ah, adventures.”

Ash said nothing, but lifted his brows once more.

“You see, I am in a position to do you a spot of good.”

“Oh?”

Amanda clenched her hands at the skepticism in Ash’s voice.

“Yes,” she said curtly. “You must not sell out of the funds, Ash. In fact, you must try to buy even more, for right at this moment Wellington is defeating Napoleon in a terrible battle near a little village called Waterloo.”

“I never heard of it,” said Ash, the disbelief in his tone undiminished,

“I daresay. It’s about ten miles south of Brussels.”

“Mmp.”

“Anyway, the price of government stock will continue to fall until by tomorrow afternoon you’ll be able to scoop up shares by the bucketful for practically nothing. All the next day, a pall of gloom will hang over the city, but late on Wednesday, the twenty-first, a carriage will be sighted leaving St. James’s Palace. It will drive up St. James’s Street, past the gentleman’s clubs, and then to Grosvenor Square and there will be French Eagles sticking out of the windows. Shortly afterwards, the official announcement of the British victory will be made, and
voilà.
Stock prices will soar and you will have made a lot of money.”

Ash said nothing for a long time. He continued to gaze at her with eyes like liquid smoke, finally falling once more to the coin in his hands. Amanda took it from him.

“Do you have a penknife?”

Wordlessly, he fished in his waistcoat pocket and, producing a small, ivory-handled blade, handed it to her. In a moment, having pried the penny from its gold shell, Amanda gave it back to him.

“ ‘United States of America,’ ” he read from the reverse. He glanced up quickly. “That is where you live?”

Amanda nodded.

“ ‘E Pluribus Unum,’ ” he continued.

“That means, ‘One From Many,’ ” said Amanda helpfully.

“I know what it means,” snapped Ash. “I took a first in the classics. What’s this building with the columns?”

“The Lincoln Memorial. It’s in Washington, D.C.”

“Mm, yes, the new capital. I hear it’s nothing but a noisome swamp.”

Amanda smiled. “I guess you could say that—in more ways than one.” She stopped. “But I do not think this is the time to go into all that, Ash. I realize I’ve given you a great deal to think about, and I think you ought to take me home now.”

Ash said nothing, but after a moment set his horses in motion.

“Where in America were you—or will you be—born?” Ash asked after a moment.

“A little town called Custer, South Dakota. I was born there in 1968. I am twenty-eight years old.”

Amanda went on to tell him of the accident that had disfigured her and the—

“Car crash?” he asked.

“Yes, although the proper term is automobile—a, er, horseless carriage. It runs on gasoline. That’s a by-product of oil,” she added.

“Uh-huh.”

Amanda continued as though unaware of his continuing incredulity, telling him of her later life in California, then in Chicago.

“Are you saying,” he demanded, “that in the twentieth century females teach in universities?”

“Yes.” She bridled. “In my time females even vote. We have women governors of states and they serve in our legislatures. We can even—” She was about to launch into one of her favorite subjects, that of the advancement of women, when Ash interrupted.

“The men of your time must be witless weaklings,” he snorted.

“No more than those in any time,” she retorted. “We have a long way to go, but we’re certainly better off than we’ve been in any other period of history.”

After another brief silence, Ash spoke again. “Why?” he asked.

“Why what?” she said blankly.

“Why were you chosen for this singular undertaking? At least, I assume it’s singular, since one doesn’t hear of similar occurrences. Why should Amanda—McGovern, is it?—be sent on such a fantastic journey?”

Amanda regarded him soberly.

“I have wondered about that, too. I’m not sure I’m the only one to whom this has ever happened. However, in this instance, I believe Amanda Bridge was supposed to live a full lifetime. Instead, something went wrong in her brain—something fatal.

“Someone, or something, took steps to remedy the situation. That—person—encountered me—me with my knowledge of English history and a life that was less than perfect—and, I think, suffering from a similar malady. We shared the same first names and even, as I recently discovered, the same birthday. Perhaps that was all coincidence, or perhaps it was part of some impenetrable cosmic plan, but I think it was decided that I was the perfect candidate to live out Amanda’s life. I don’t know if it was coincidence that I arrived in Grosvenor Chapel on the same day in 1996 that Amanda was to meet her untimely end there on the same date a hundred and eighty-one years earlier, or it may have been arranged by some supernatural—arranger. At any rate, there I was—and there I went. I don’t have any idea—”

She halted suddenly, for the curricle had swung into Upper Brook Street, and a few seconds later Ash drew the vehicle to a halt outside the Bridge home.

He walked her to the door, and before he departed, she reached to place her fingers lightly on his waistcoat pocket, where he had slipped the pendant. “You keep the penny,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps it will help convince you that I’m telling the truth. But don’t wait too long. I don’t want to sound like your fairy godmother, but if you do not act tomorrow you will have lost your chance.” She started to enter the house, but turned with a start. “Oh! I just happened to think. I have quite a bit of valuable jewelry. Did you notice that rock Papa gave me to wear at our betrothal ball? They would bring in—” She stopped abruptly as Ash stiffened in outrage. His eyes assumed an aspect of arctic ice.

“Why, thank you, Miss Bridge. It appears you wish me to add dishonor to the already intolerable burden of debt I owe to your family.”

Amanda’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, Ash, I never meant—”

“I’m sorry,” Ash’s expression softened minimally. “But even if I were convinced of the—the extraordinary sequence of events you have just described, the idea that I would so take advantage of our relationship is intolerable. You must see that.”

Amanda’s heart sank. She might have known her revelations would meet with this response, to say nothing of his stupid masculine pride in refusing her offer. Well, she would just have to see what she could do about the latter. She smiled up into his face.

“I understand what you must be feeling, Ash. I have spoken nothing but the truth, but I know how fantastic it sounds. All I can say is, just think over what I’ve said.”

He smiled thinly, and brushing her fingertips with his lips. turned on his heel.

For an hour or so, Ash drove aimlessly over the streets of Mayfair, his thoughts in turmoil. Lord, he should have deposited Amanda directly at the doors of Bedlam instead of taking her home. How could she have formed such a farrago of nonsense in her brain? Time travel, for God’s sake! Horseless carriages! And yet...

And yet... A picture of Amanda’s clear, blue eyes rose before his eyes. Could a damaged mind lie behind them? She had been lucid and compelling in the telling of her story. Of course, sanity could be feigned by the insane, but surely there was no other evidence of mental aberration in her behavior—or her demeanor.

He retrieved the coin from his pocket and studied it carefully. There was an undeniable air of authenticity about the coin. It would have taken an extraordinary craftsman to create those minute letters, raised so painstakingly on the copper.

He remembered, suddenly, Amanda’s deathlike aspect when he had cradled her in his arms after her swoon in Grosvenor Chapel. There had been no pulse in her slender throat, no breath from between her pale lips. Had Amanda Bridge really died in that moment, to be replaced by a woman who had traveled the corridors of time to live out the young girl’s allotted span of years?

Good God.

He turned the curricle toward St. James’s Street and entered Brooks’s a few minutes later. The atmosphere was subdued in the coffee room, and clumps of agitated members murmured in low, discordant tones. Apparently, the news from Belgium was no better than when Jeremiah Bridge had buttonholed him earlier. The army was decimated, he heard from one gentleman. The allies had failed Wellington, reported another, and surrounded and outnumbered, he had been forced to ignominious defeat.

Ash left the club a few minutes later, and spent the evening staring at his own fire.

Good God, he thought again, he was betrothed to a woman from the future! The words clattered meaninglessly in his brain. Try as he might, he simply could not come to grips with the concept of a human being traveling through time as one might embark on a walking tour.

Yet, apparently, this is what had happened. And because of it, Amanda had assured him, his financial woes were at an end. He realized she had taken a great risk in telling him of her—adventure, for she must have known it might have resulted in her being committed to an asylum. He dared not contemplate the implication of this act of trust on her part.