Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

He spent most of the trip leaning against the cushions, pretending to himself that he could doze off, but he’d spent the whole of the trip considering ways and means of righting the accounts. In a half-dreaming state, his head was filled with ideas from sensible to bizarre.

Weston fingered the round locket in his pocket and wished the future had a different look. One where he and Alice faced it together, with enough money to make her every wish come true.

He drew a deep breath and a sudden lassitude overcame him, dragging him to sleep just when he thought he might never sleep again.

“What the blazes is going on?” A hard thump had awakened him.

Weston’s first thought was to have a word with the coachman, but when he opened his eyes he wondered if his last visit to deal with the estate’s debt had done the job and he was ready for Bedlam.

He was not in his coach at all, but in the library of his town house in London.

He’d left London. He was sure he had. Weston could recall his conversation with Ian and his final words to the majordomo. “Send the overdue bills to Herbert.” His man of business knew what to do, and it would not be wise to let the staff know how much to let he was. Not with his sister’s come-out within the next year.

Now that seemed to be the least of his worries. As he straightened, he realized he was seated on the sofa, and that there was someone next to him.

And another man stood nearby, wringing his hands in a way that was not at all reassuring.

“Answer me, man. What the devil am I doing in London after riding in my carriage for ten hours?”

“I can explain, my lord. Truly I can. You must calm yourself and allow me to see to the lady. She should be awake by now.”

Weston turned to the person beside him. He’d assumed it was a man, given the clothes worn. Pantaloons. Dark blue pantaloons of some coarse material. He leaned forward a little to see her face.

“Alice?”

Alice Kemp stirred, and Weston shook his head, then checked to make sure he still had the locket. At first he could not find it, as he was no longer wearing a coat, but then he felt it at his hip in the pocket of the strange pants he was wearing, surprisingly like the pair Alice had on.

“Maybe insanity is not the nightmare I thought it would be.” Alice being next to him was a wondrous delusion.

He was speaking aloud but to himself, a sometimes unfortunate habit, and quite naturally, the man thought Weston was addressing him.

“Oh, my lord, I assure you. You are as sane now as you were yesterday. Something most unusual has happened, and as soon as I am certain the lady is well, I will explain it to both of you.”

“Kemp. Her name is Alice Kemp.” The earl took her hand and felt for her pulse. Alice’s hand was as warm and soft as he remembered, and her pulse was not much quicker than a normal beat.

As he watched, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttered, and he smiled at the green eyes he had never forgotten, any more than he had forgotten how she felt against him.

“Weston?” She asked more than said his name, and as her eyes cleared she moved to a sitting position. “Where am I?”

She brushed at the pants with an expression of disgust, if not outright revulsion. “Showing the outline of my legs is very embarrassing.”

“Yes, Miss Kemp, I am sure, but I can explain if you both will give me your attention.” The gentleman was wringing his hands again.

As was typical of Alice Kemp, she went on as if she had not heard him. “Where are we and why am I here?” She looked from the gentleman to Weston. It was not a friendly look. It was more like a glare.

Weston stood up and began to circle the room. The mantel that had needed paint last night was now a green marble. The room looked well-kept and dusted. “Now. I want explanations now.”

The man nodded, a series of short rapid movements that showed he was ready to comply.

“First, my name is Mr. Arbuckle. Until today and for many years, centuries even, I have been the caretaker of a magic coin. It was placed into my keeping in the early nineteenth century, where I was born and raised, and I have been responsible for it ever since. I have not always been in control of it, but I have always been responsible for it. But that is another story entirely.”

Weston rolled his eyes. If he was not mad, then this man must be.

“Listen, please, my lord.” He turned and bowed to Alice. “And you too, miss.”

“How do you do, Mr. Arbuckle. I am Miss Kemp. It appears I have been kidnapped and have no choice but to listen to your fantastical story. Luckily, I have always had a fondness for fairy tales.” Her disdain was obvious. She stood up and moved to the fireplace and chose the sharpest poker in the lot. “If I do not like what you have to say I want to assure you that I am more than capable of defending myself. Is that perfectly clear?”

Now that was the Alice Kemp he loved. She had a unique way of taking command of a situation. He did his best not to react at all.

“Yes, miss. Yes,” Arbuckle said as he took a step back, even though he was not within striking range. “And my story will sound fantastical, but will be amazingly easy to prove.”

Alice—he really should try to think of her as “Miss Kemp,” but once you have held a woman in your arms and made love to her it was almost impossible to think of her with any element of formality, so “Alice” it was—lowered the poker but moved closer to the library door.

Weston wanted to understand as much as she did. With that, the earl turned to the gentleman and narrowed his eyes. Arbuckle seemed innocuous enough. Portly, with a ring of hair surrounding a bald dome. Eyes a soft if aging blue. He had the air of a man of ideas rather than a man of action. He was not a physical threat, to be sure.

“My lord Earl and Miss Kemp.” Arbuckle bowed to one, then the other. “You have both traveled in time from your country home, my lord, to your town house in London. The year is not 1805 but 2005.”

“We have traveled through time. Of course we have,” Weston said. “Why did that never occur to me?”

“Weston, stop being sarcastic,” Alice commanded. “That is not the way to find answers.”

“Indeed, my lord, it is odd, but I can explain.”

“Explain away, but can you prove it? How do we know that you are telling us the truth?” Weston walked to the windows that looked over Green Park.

He turned around on his heel. “The park looks just as it did in 1805. The library is the same.” The earl reconsidered. Hadn’t he just noticed that the mantel was different? “Except for the mantel and that box on the desk and that odd-looking glass on the wall.”

“Yes, my lord. The box is a computer, an instrument that transfers information, and the item on the wall is a screen that shows pictures on demand. Would you like to see how they work?”

“Definitely not,” Weston said at the same moment that Alice said, “Yes.”

“Prove it, sir. Prove we have time traveled,” Alice demanded.

“Wait, Alice.”

“Wait for what, Wes?”

Alice had called him Wes. Did she even realize it? The verbal gesture inclined him to agree to anything she asked.

“Mr. Arbuckle”—Weston nodded to the man—“before you prove this time travel to us I want to know why we would have made this leap through time. What purpose would it serve?”

“Thank you, sir,” Arbuckle said, drawing a deep breath. “Do you see your portrait, my lord?”

Weston turned to the wall—so the artist had finished. It looked a bit different than it had last he saw it. “Indeed.”