Moonlight Wishes In Time (5 page)

“That’s it then, Master William.”

William nodded. “I agree, Mrs. White. It is likely she has had some sort of head injury and does not now understand where she is.”

Miss Crockwell gave him a look from under veiled lashes that he did not quite comprehend
.

“
This is what I think we must do for tonight, Miss Crockwell. The hour is late, and everyone needs to sleep. Mrs. White will escort you to one of the guest bedrooms. In the morning, if you still have not recovered your memory and your address, we will call for the doctor. You do understand, of course, that we need to be…ah…discreet in this matter.”

Miss Crockwell watched him carefully but said nothing
.

“Master William
. You know I don’t go above stairs. How would I know what room to put her in? Mrs. Bailey will have my head. Perhaps you should ring for one of the maids.”

William eyed her with a frown on his face
.

“No, that will not do
. We cannot have every servant in the house wondering about Miss Crockwell.” He looked toward the kitchen door with a harried expression.

“Very well then, Mrs. White,
I
will take her above stairs myself.”

“Master William
. Begging your pardon, but don’t you think you ought to wake your mother and ask her advice?”

“
No, Mrs. White, I would rather not do that just yet. If Miss Crockwell regains her memory in the morning, I could whisk her away to her address with none the wiser except you and I. You have held my childhood secrets these many years—therefore, I have no fears in that quarter.”

Mrs. White
flashed a toothy smile.

“That is certain, Master William.”

William held his hands out to Miss Crockwell to help her rise.

“Shall we,
madam?” Her widened eyes gave him pause. “Mrs. White, I think you must accompany us at least for propriety’s sake. She looks somewhat wary. I do not blame her.”

Mrs. White
nodded and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Yes, Master William
. I can see that. Come now, dearie. Let me help you up, there’s a good girl.”

Mrs. White pulled Miss Crockwell
from the chair, and William led the way to the door of the kitchen. He grabbed a candle from the sconce in the wall and pulled open the heavy wooden door. A slight creak of the door hinge stilled him, and he listened intently. Hearing no other sounds, he moved through the door and beckoned for the women to follow. Miss Crockwell seemed reluctant—appearing, in fact, as one heading to the guillotine—but Mrs. White had a plump arm firmly around the smaller woman’s shoulders.

They climbed the stone steps in silence and reached the family dining room
. William passed through the dining room and led the way to the main hallway. With a finger to his lips and a glance over his shoulder, he beckoned to them to follow him up the great staircase. Miss Crockwell’s eyes grew wider still, as if she had never seen the inside of a house before. She did indeed look frightened, and he wondered if putting her into a room by herself was a wise thing for her, or for the safety of his mother and sister. What if she were an escapee from some institution?

He glanced over his shoulder once again
. The idea seemed unlikely. Her clothing appeared clean, albeit somewhat strange, bringing to mind a large pink rabbit. However, if she were from America, that certainly might explain things.

They reached the landing to the second floor, and William paused once again to listen
. No sound. His mother and sister seemed to be safely tucked in bed. He led the way to a door directly across from his own bedchamber, with every intention of leaving his own door open throughout the night in case the hapless young woman decided to stray. He should have had Mrs. White take her to her own room, but something told him that Miss Matilda Crockwell was not from the working class. He did not like to put her in the servant’s quarters.

He opened the door and stood back while the women preceded him into the room
. Miss Crockwell entered slowly on Mrs. White’s arm and paused just inside the door as William shut it behind them. He lit a candle on the side table, illuminating the room. He set his own candle down beside it.

“My sister and mother sleep f
arther down the hall. My room is directly opposite this one. I shall sleep with my door open tonight should you require anything.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Sinclair
. I’m not dangerous, and I’ll be quiet if that’s what you’re worried about,” Miss Crockwell surprised him by saying. “I’m fairly sure I’ll be gone in the morning, so you won’t have to worry about me anyway.”

William and Mrs. White
both stared at the unexpectedly loquacious Miss Crockwell, who moved away to study the furnishings in the room.

“I never suggested
…” William paused. “Might I ask? Where do you think you will be able to go in the morning—without clothing, without conveyance?”

She turned to face them
. “Well, this can’t be real, can it?” She smiled ruefully and held up empty palms. “I mean…who really gets their dreams?”

William excha
nged a look of concern with Mrs. White once again.

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

Miss Crockwell gave her head a quick shake, russet curls swaying on her shoulders.

“Never mind,” she murmured
. “I’m just mumbling. I feel so tired. I think I’ll just lie down for a few minutes.” She moved toward the bed, and Mrs. White stepped forward to pull back the coverlet.

“Goodness me, I think you should,
miss. You’ll feel much better in the morning after you’ve have some rest. I’ll bring you a cup of tea myself…if I can manage to avoid Mrs. Bailey in the morning.”

William stared at Miss Crockwell for a moment as she sat down on the edge of the bed
. He was aware of a distinct feeling of dismay when she said she would be “gone by morning.” In fact, he rather had the absurd notion that he wanted her to stay for an indefinite period.

“I will bring the tea, Mrs. White,” he said
. “It will not do to have Mrs. Bailey wondering who is staying in the Green Room until I have a chance to devise a story.”

Mrs. White moved to the door.

“As you wish, Master William. Good night, miss. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Miss Crockwell,” William said, feeling as if he had a million questions for the strange young woman from America
. He would have to bide his time. “I am just across the hall if you need anything.”

“Good night,” she said as she seemed to study his person intently
. Unused to such steady regard from a woman, his cheeks bronzed. He gave her a tight bow, picked up the candle and held the door open for Mrs. White.

He turned back with a final glance to see Miss Crockwell raise a hand in farewell—a seemingly final gesture that gav
e him an uneasy feeling. He felt certain he would not sleep a wink that night.

Mattie pretended exhaustion as she waited for the door to close behind William Sinclair. Once the latch clicked, she jumped up and ran for the candle. Lifting it high with a trembling hand, she surveyed the room.

Even by the light of only one candle, she could see that the high-ceilinged room was decorated in varying shades of green
. The coverlet was white but the walls were painted pale green, and dark green velvet drapes covered the windows. She hustled over to the window and pulled back one of the heavy curtains. The moon rode high in the sky, full, round and familiar in a world suddenly gone mad. She could see little of the grounds, but the lawn seemed extensive. She dropped the curtain and turned around.

A glance at her watch showed it was almost 1 a.m. her time, the date
September 17
th
. Why then was she standing in the bedroom of a house very obviously several hundred years old? She sank down onto a dark green velvet and gilt love seat in front of a large hearth and set the candle down on a small marble occasional table to her left. The flames of her candle reflected on the large white carved mantle. The love seat, an antique collectors’ treasure in her time, seemed new and was surprisingly comfortable. She had always wondered what one of the “settees” of her novels might feel like.

A glance over her shoulder at the massive four-poster bed draped with velvet hangings made her shiver
. The thing looked forbidding in the dark. What she wouldn’t do to flick on some bright lights and dispel the darkness in some of the corners of the large room. Mattie pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs while she contemplated her predicament.

What had happened
? The last she knew, she was on her balcony babbling at the moon. Then she awakened in the massive kitchen of what appeared to be some sort of historical house…in England. The cook, Mrs. White, a sweet lady who looked and acted as if she were straight out of some Regency novel, had offered her tea and asked her to wait for the “master” to return. “Master” indeed, Mattie smirked.

Ashton House!
Mattie twisted her neck and surveyed the shadowed room once again. When asked, Mrs. White had given her to understand that she was at a place called Ashton House. So odd that it should be named after the hero in her favorite book—the handsome and charismatic Lord William Ashton.

And then—as if things couldn’t get any more surreal
—the man of her dreams, the hero of her book, whose face was plastered across its cover, had walked into the kitchen. And she’d fainted dead away.

Was she caught in the midst of some strange dream
? It seemed nothing like the dreams she’d been having for weeks—those delightful encounters where she, gowned in lovely silks, floated about beneath a brilliant chandelier in William’s arms as they waltzed across the ballroom floor. The stark reality of this dream—the impotent light of the candle which only added more creepy shadows to the room, the dismay on William’s face when he saw her and the feeling of complete and utter aloneness as she stared at the cold fireplace—were nothing like her dreams.

She slid down on the settee and rested her head against a tasseled roll pillow
. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself back to sleep, back to the sensuous dreams of life and love with William Ashton in England’s Georgian era. That the waltz was still frowned upon as slightly “vulgar,” and William could, in reality, have little to do with her since she was “in the trades” troubled her not one little bit. That was the beauty of dreams. One could adjust them as needed. She had apparently just made some odd adjustments in this one.

Her eyelids twitched, unwilling to remain closed, and she opened her eyes and sat up
. She rose restlessly and crossed over to the window once again, pulling open the curtains to gaze at the moon.

“Hey, buddy, is this a dream?” Mattie asked aloud
. She thought she could really see the face of the man in the moon. “Because this is not quite what I had in mind. The edges are a little rough. I’m supposed to be happy and in the arms of a man who loves me.”

Mattie swallowed hard.
The harder she stared at the moon, the less romantically mystical it appeared and the more it looked like a round sphere of cold rock made bright by the sun.

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” she whispered as she clutched the velvet curtains in a death grip
. “I’m really in someone’s house somewhere in England in I-don’t-even-know-what-year-it-is, aren’t I?”

The moon didn’t so much as blink in response, and Mattie loosed her grip on the curtains and turned away, wiping perspiration from her upper lip though the room was cool
. She felt slightly nauseous.

What was she going to do now, she wondered with rising panic
. How long would this last? Could she get back if she wanted? How? Tap her heels three times? She looked down at her slippers. They would make no tapping noise. They weren’t even red, she thought idiotically.

Mattie looked toward the door
. She heard no sound in the hallway. Maybe she could slip out and at least explore the house while she was here. If she woke up the next morning in her own bed, she would regret losing the chance to look around. And if she had truly traveled back in time, there was no telling how long she would be here. She thought she’d better make good use of the time and reconnoiter the area.

She crossed the room and p
ressed her ear against the door. Only the noise of her rapid, shallow breathing broke the silence. She pushed on the door handle, hoping she hadn’t been locked in. Mattie hadn’t missed the looks of concern that had passed between William Sinclair and Mrs. White. They thought she was crazy and didn’t quite know what to do with her. She considered herself lucky she hadn’t been turned over to some sort of authorities by now, or at least chained below stairs in the dungeon.

Despite her anxiety, Mattie managed a weak grin at the vision
.

She eased open the door, no small feat as it appeared to be made of thick
, solid wood, nothing like the hollow metal doors in her apartment. She stuck her head into the dark hallway. No one stood guard at her door. No one patrolled the hallways, wondering if she were going to make good an escape or murder the family in their beds.