Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

And Hatchards!

The bookstore still had pride of place on Piccadilly. Alice suggested they go inside, and Mr. Arbuckle agreed.

There were books displayed in far more dramatic ways than in his day, when stacked books near the door had been the only announcement of new publications. Now there were stands as tall as he was, with bright, even bold, covers. He moved from one to another, running his fingers over the smooth paper covers of three or four different books. No more leather covers. And authors seemed to crave publicity, as their pictures were a prominent part of the back cover.

One of the displays particularly caught their attention. The book was Alice in Wonderland , and Mr. Arbuckle explained that it was a perennial children’s favorite.

“That could be a story about us, Weston. For this London is, indeed, a wonderland.”

The earl turned to their guide. “How did this Alice reach her Wonderland? Was it by time travel as well?”

“No, my lord. She fell down a rabbit hole.”

“I did that once too,” Weston said with a laugh. “Well, my horse did. He fell in the rabbit hole and escaped unharmed, but it left me more dizzy than clearheaded. For a day I saw two of everything. Was that Alice in Wonderland’s experience as well?”

“No.” Arbuckle shook his head.

“Shall we purchase a copy?” Alice asked, and made to lift one from the stand.

“You may, if you wish, but you will not be able to take it back with you. If you take something with you, then you must leave something behind. The space-time continuum, you know.”

Weston’s expression must have looked as confused as Alice’s did, because Arbuckle shook his head. “Of course you have no idea what I’m talking about. As I said before you can only go back with what you came with, and that would be the locket. Unless you wish to leave the jewelry behind?”

Weston shook his head. Arbuckle nodded. Nothing was said, but each understood the other.

“If the people pretending to be us must leave the coin, what will they bring back?” Alice asked, as though she had not witnessed the silent commune.

Mr. Arbuckle shrugged. “They will think of something.”

“It will be a challenge to see if we can discover what it is they chose to bring with them.” Alice’s smile hinted that yet another adventure awaited them.

“Indeed,” Weston agreed, though he would agree to almost anything when she smiled at him like that. His smile must have been too suggestive, since Alice turned from him and picked up the nearest book, obviously only pretending interest in it. The book was a large volume called The Annotated Pride and Prejudice.

He stepped closer as though he wished to look at it with her, when all he really wanted was to inhale the lovely vanilla and rose scent she favored.

Alice dropped the book and moved to the other side of the table, clearly more upset than charmed by his nearness.

In the name of all that was holy, he did not know if his presence was welcome or not. Did she really want nothing more to do with him? If so, why had she been at Westmoreland in the first place?

Arbuckle must have sensed the tension, because he announced in a too-cheerful voice, “I think you will be happy to know that Miss Austen’s works still sell very well.”

“Miss Austen?” Alice asked, grabbing on to the conversational gambit as if it were a lifeline.

“Jane Austen,” Arbuckle elaborated, “the author of Pride and Prejudice , the book you picked up.”

Weston was as much at sea as Alice. He had never heard of an author by that name. “A female author? Most likely she wrote gothic novels, the kind of books in which I have no interest.”

“Oh, Weston, do not act so superior, as if you never have read Defoe’s satires.”

Arbuckle picked up the copy of Pride and Prejudice and opened it to the front page. “My apologies. Pride and Prejudice was not published until 1813. It seems you have a treat waiting for you. I do believe at first she wrote anonymously, but the Prince Regent greatly admired her work, and eventually she became known to the public.”

“The Prince Regent? What happened to King George III?” Weston felt some concern. A regent meant the king was still alive but incapacitated in some way. “Did his brain fever return, or did another would-be assassin come too close to success? When and for how long?”

Arbuckle waved his hands as if trying to make Weston’s questions disappear. “Oh dear, oh dear. I know you cannot change history, as this event was always meant to happen, but I don’t know how much we should discuss or if I must watch my words.”

Sensing his real distress, Weston nodded. “I will not press you. The king has been ill several times. For the moment I will assume it is another one of those occurrences.” Mentally, he decided he would find a history of the last two hundred years and inform himself.

That thought was the launching point for an idea that could make this time travel worthwhile. But this was hardly the place to discuss it, for it would, no doubt, upset Mr. Arbuckle even more.

“Since we cannot purchase anything here I suggest that we leave and find a coffeehouse, Mr. Arbuckle,” Weston suggested.

“A coffee shop?” Arbuckle repeated and then smiled. “An excellent idea.”

Weston took Alice’s arm and was relieved when she did not pull away.

“Yes indeed.” Alice laughed. “My head is filled with questions. Everything from wanting to know when did women begin to dress like men, and why did men not choose to dress like women? And what diseases have been cured? How long do most people live?” She shook her head. “My list is endless.”

Weston was glad to see that Alice’s spirit of adventure had come through time with her. He’d always thought her imagination one of her most appealing assets. It was pure joy to see her flourish here.

Why could it not have led her to see a life with him as Countess Westwood? Instead she had apparently imagined a world where the ton would not accept them as a wedded couple because her own family was socially shunned because of her parents’ divorce.

“After I order the coffee, I will answer as many of your questions as seems prudent. You have time, and every visitor to this century should experience Starbucks.”

A few minutes later they were seated at a table in a madhouse of a coffee shop. Mr. Arbuckle insisted that they sit and took their orders. “Starbucks’ system takes some time to understand. It’s as though they have their own language. If you tell me what you would like, I will translate for you. Besides, you have no money with you. You will be my guests.”

Arbuckle took their orders and then left them at the table. Weston knew enough to make the most of his time alone with Alice. Or as alone as they could be surrounded by dozens of strangers.

“Alice,” he began, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. “Mr. Arbuckle said that we both time traveled from the country house. Why were you there?”

Alice Kemp looked away and cleared her throat. “I had just arrived to accept a position to help your sister prepare for her Season.” She shook her head. “Now someone from this time has taken my place. I cannot imagine a woman from 2005 being of any help at all. I fear my efforts at a career are about to be thoroughly compromised.”

Weston tried to conceal his disappointment. He’d hoped she might have come looking for him. He tried to find a way to ask what he most wanted to know. In the end he decided to be honest. “Did you know I would be in residence?”

“No,” she said. “But then a woman who must make her own way cannot expect to have everything as she wishes.”