Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“How, um, interesting.” Weston did not know whether to be relieved or impressed. “Do men have nothing more important to do than care for puking and mewling infants? Have the women taken all their positions?”

“Oh, Weston, please.” Alice’s tone made him feel like a fool. “Did you not hear Mr. Arbuckle say that they share the responsibility? I imagine that both men and women work, and sharing domestic duties is the only way they can manage.”

Frankly, this struck him as more amazing than cars and computers.

They had come out of Green Park and continued along Piccadilly, arrowing back toward the town house, both of them lost in their own thoughts for the moment.

Weston tried to decide if he would be willing to share “domestic duties” if that meant Alice would marry him. The answer was an unequivocal yes. Ah well, then he was not quite so far removed from twenty-first-century man as he’d thought. But then the problem had never been his willingness to commit to her, but hers to him.

Her obstinate belief that her parents’ divorce and her family’s social ostracism would extend to him had truth at its core, but he was convinced that the two of them could have persuaded the ton that she was as much a lady as any Countess Weston. And it was probably a fantasy on his part to think that the open-mindedness he was seeing in her was something that would travel back with them.

Sorry soul-searching was becoming an unwelcome habit, but Weston was stopped short of further conjecture by Alice’s insistent tug on his arm. “Tell me why all those people are walking into that building. They cannot all have positions there.”

Weston had been so lost in thought he had not even noticed that oddity as they turned the corner. “Yes, I see, and at least as many are coming out. But why?”

“They are not actually going into the building, my lord. The building access is also the entry to the Green Park Underground station. The Underground is a train system that runs in tunnels beneath the city. In London, it’s the most popular method of moving from place to place.”

“I want to see it!” Alice said. “Can we ride on it?”

Mr. Arbuckle hesitated and shook his head. “Not now, miss. It’s the time of day when everyone is going home, and the trains and tracks are much too crowded. Maybe later this evening.”

“Judging by the number of people pouring in, I suspect you have the right of it,” Weston said, pulling Alice just a bit closer. “I would not like to be separated. From either of you,” he added quickly.

They were standing in the shelter of a small, freestanding shop that appeared to exist to meet the needs of those who used the so-called Underground. It did not look like it would survive a strong wind, but it did appear to have occupied the space awhile. As he watched, people purchased packages of food and newspapers.

“At least newspapers still exist and do not appear to have changed that much.”

“But the pictures. They are not paintings, and are printed right on the paper. In colors.” Alice let go of his arm and picked up a periodical.

Weston examined several of the newspapers that were on display and was brought up short by one that proclaimed: Vinton to Divorce. He picked up the paper and handed it to Arbuckle. “Purchase this for me.” When Arbuckle hesitated, Weston insisted, “Then give me the money! You told us before that nothing we can do will change the future, as this event was always meant to be, so let me have this.”

“It’s not that, my lord, but this is hardly a reputable newspaper. There are others that would be more, uh, honestly informative.”

“Will they have stories on this divorce that is on the front page?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then let’s have this one and we can look on the information box for more when we are back at the townhouse.”

“Computer, my lord. It’s called a computer.”

Weston did not care what it was called, as he was damn sure he would never see one when he returned to Westmoreland. It ranked with the space-time continuum as something he had no need to understand.

Twenty minutes later they were in the library again. As soon as they were seated, the housekeeper brought tea and some small sandwiches and sweets.

“Will you be here for dinner, then, sir?” she asked, with a casual air that reminded Weston of his sister rather than a servant.

With a look at Mr. Arbuckle, Weston nodded. “And have a guest room made up for Miss Kemp.”

“Of course.” She nodded to Miss Kemp. “Dinner will be served at eight o’clock,” Tandy added as she left the room.

“She seems rather more a friend than a servant, does she not?” Alice said.

“Yes, I almost thought I should add a ‘please’ to my request for a guest room.”

“Servants are much more difficult to find these days,” Arbuckle said. “The Weston housekeeper has been with the family for near forty years.”

Weston nodded. “Then she is family. I will add the ‘please’ next time. I would not want to create problems for Mr. West.”

They sipped tea and Weston ate several of the tasty but too-small sandwiches. As he ate he moved about the room, looking more closely at the modern additions, touching them carefully, anxious to read the paper but wise enough to wait until they were both fortified with some food and tea.

Alice kept to her seat and sampled the pastries. Weston watched as she took a delicate bite, closed her eyes and savored the taste with such bliss that he wanted to capture the taste of it, and of her, with his mouth.

When she reached for a third treat with a guilty glance his way, he raised his tea cup in salute, came back to his chair and took a cream confection himself.

They sat in silence. After finishing his tea, Weston held the newspaper in front of him so that the headline was clear to everyone in the room, especially Alice.

But Alice was engrossed in the periodical she had purchased, called Vogue UK , whose colorful pages held her in thrall.

It took him a few minutes to focus on the article that accompanied the headline on the front page. It was one of his less salacious wishes to do just this with Alice: sit in the library, reading what interested them and sharing the best bits, all the while watching the clock until they could retire. Together.

He cleared his throat and gave his full attention to reading about Vinton and his divorce. When he was done he had more questions than answers. “But that’s what time travel is all about, is it not?”

He had not meant to speak aloud, but both Alice and Mr. Arbuckle turned to him.

“What is time travel about, Wes?” Alice asked, the magazine spread open to a page of women in gowns cut low and without sleeves. Gowns that showed an amazing amount of the body. Weston considered them with interest until Alice looked at him.

“Are you ogling, Wes?”

He shook his head and cleared his throat, turning away.

“While you were distracted, Weston, I asked what you think time travel is about.”

Relieved that she did not pursue her question about ogling, Weston answered promptly, “Questions, my dear. Time travel is all about questions. For everything I learn, ten more questions come to mind.”

Weston took a deep breath and directed Alice’s attention to the front page of the article he had just finished.

“Do you see this headline?”

She nodded with a frown and looked back down at her magazine. “I can see divorce is as shocking now as it is in our day.”

“Not exactly,” Weston said. “Vinton is a member of Parliament who, and I quote, ‘has built his career on deploring the rising rate of divorce in the country.’”