Cora Rey

       Cora glanced around. No one. She stepped into the shadows of the tree line around the mansion’s back park, but the ground became increasingly soggy and uneven as she neared the Thames. She backtracked to just the outer edge and stood between sparse trees, where she would still have enough privacy from curious eyes for a workout and not throw out her ankles.

At the disastrous ball—though she admitted meeting Simon wasn’t a disaster—Lady Cottrell had introduced her to her daughter, May, and invited her to spend the next few days with her in London. It wasn’t the same town Cora had visited just a week ago. The London Eye was conspicuously missing, and there were no modern buildings. However, Big Ben still stood, holding court with the neighboring palace and cathedral. And the whole city stunk. She had returned late last night to Twickenham Manor to attend a picnic Aunt Nellie had planned.

It was peaceful here. After her workout, she would enjoy a few moments wandering through the woods before returning to the manor house. She pulled the earbuds from where her phone was stashed in her bra and selected a mix. What would she do when the battery ran out? She’d have to conserve.

She stared down at the hopeless dress she wore, wishing for leggings and a sports bra or anything Spandex. When she kicked one foot in front of her, her toe caught in the material, nearly tipping her.

She studied the skirt, yards and yards of blue material folding over itself and hanging to her ankles. For a moment, she considering taking the whole thing off and wearing just the shift underneath. Way too risqué for this time period—even for Americans. Cora pulled the hemline up on both sides, pushed them backward between her legs, then pulled the ends to the front and tied them. It was ugly but functional as it drooped near her knees. It would allow her more freedom of movement.

Music pulsed as her body moved through warm-ups and into a kickboxing routine. But today, even the movement and the decibels directed into her ears couldn’t dampen her memories. If she were back in her time, today would mark three years since he died.

Her father’s last day, last hours, were fresh behind her eyes. He was lying in the library where she’d had the daybed removed and a hospital bed rolled into place. That was his favorite room, and because of him, it was hers too. A lifetime of his reading of ancient cultures and world history was shelved there, and several bookcases held her own collections. Her memory scanned the shelves. She’d read his books, and he’d read hers. Reading and discussing literature and the world was their special bond.

All the instruments had been removed weeks before to make room for the medical monitors and equipment—all of them except the harp. Her father claimed he had a right to hear harp music as he stepped ever closer to heaven.

But that day, her father wasn’t talking about the economics of ancient Greece, the causes of World War I, or the early trade routes across Africa. He wasn’t regaling her with stories about antics in his college years or his relationship with her mother. He spoke sparingly when pain etched his face between increasing doses of medication. “I love you.” Later he was able to say, “I know your mother would be proud of you.” Right before midnight, he died.

Cora intensified her Krav Maga workout. Roundhouse kick. Pummeling. Closed fist. Open fist. Sweeping someone’s legs. She imagined herself being grabbed, choked, and bear-hugged and executed releases from each. Sweat trickled down the sides of her face, jaw, and the middle of her back. The breeze had picked up and cooled her as much as possible through layers and layers of fabric.

She would end with relaxing yoga positions—standing ones. But not yet. She extended her workout.

All my days are precious gifts. Her dad’s favorite saying bounced through her thoughts. She wondered how a man being consumed by cancer considered each day worth living, but he maintained his optimism to the end. Cora’s left arm hooked through the air, her right hand fisted and ready near her chin. Then she stepped forward and kicked her foot swiftly to chest height.

       What if I’m stuck here? In this time and in this place? This would become my life. Frustration bubbled up. There were no paved roads. She couldn’t shop online. And the debate on women’s rights was new and unpopular. The music in her ears reminded her to start her cooldown, but she hit repeat and started the exercise over. What kind of a life could I possibly have here? Every cliché she’d read haunted her—needlework, afternoon teas, balls, and musicales. Well, the last two were all right but probably not frequent enough. Her arms and legs moved through the motions of protecting herself and attacking with little thought taken to direct the muscle memory.

       Her father would have loved the opportunity to be pulled into the past and crawl through history with his own experiences and senses. He would have made the best of it. Although believing Nellie when she said she could send her back, Cora needed to have some kind of plan should she have to stay.

She could teach. It settled her to know that even here were children who would need her, who might be less understood or tolerated in this world than even the one she left. The history of anyone with differences that society saw as a disability wasn’t good. They were abandoned to orphanages, hidden in cellars, or killed for the inconvenience of being born. Her outrage at the barbaric conditions those children must live in steamed into her workout.

Refocusing on her exercise, Cora imagined someone grasping her neck and shoving her against a tree. Feeling the bark along her spine, she dropped one shoulder lower and swung both arms up the center of her body, and then pushed them out as if to bend the elbows of an attacker. Her fist rammed toward the soft tissue between the jaw and neck. At the same moment, she advanced, kicking her knee repeatedly toward his invisible groin.

Her music switched to a slow instrumental piece again, signaling the stretching set. She’d been a little too aggressive with the defensive moves, but her tension had diminished. A thick cloud of dust blew past her. She turned to see the cause as Simon dismounted his horse and hit the ground on a run toward her. Thankfully, she knew him. Still, her muscles tightened, and her heartbeat quickened.

He stopped not far from her and whipped his head around, looking into the forest. His chest heaved, and his eyes were still wary when he turned toward her. “Are you all right? Were you attacked?” His words were gentle but earnest.

“I’m fine. There’s no one here but me. And now you.” He had seen something suspicious and come to her aid. She felt deep gratitude. “I was only taking in some exercise.”

Although he quickly shifted his eyes away, Cora caught him staring at her legs. Knowing she was going to work out this morning, she had opted not to wear stockings and the dozen underskirts this fashion demanded.

He focused on her face. “Exercise? It looked like you fought for your life.”

Cora fumbled with the knotted material at her waist. She had embarrassed him. She shook herself inwardly and pushed a smile onto her face. “That’s why I chose to exercise here. Can you imagine if I did that in the parlor or the garden?” The skirt unraveled and dropped to cover her legs.

When Cora looked up, Simon walked closer and held out a handkerchief. She took it and wiped her face and neck. “Why are you here?”

“I went out for a ride and saw you doing—the only word that comes to mind is ‘combat.’”

       “That sounds about right. It gets my heart pumping.” Cora reached down and fluffed her skirt. “I should get back to the manor,” she said, then pointed toward the manor house.

“No, I don’t live there,” Simon replied.

It took Cora a moment to decide what question he thought she’d asked to give that response, and she tried to keep the confusion from showing on her face. “I’ll see you at noon for the picnic, then.”

He mounted his horse and rode away. Cora hurried back to her room to clean up and change. The morning passed quickly, and soon Cora and her friends were walking to the field for the picnic. Other houseguests ventured out past the formal gardens, too.

“Aunt Nellie doesn’t do anything in a less-than-grand style,” Kaitlyn said as the women moved away from the carriages bringing guests.

Tables topped with white linens and piled high with food dotted the rear lawn, and a legion of servants stood ready to assist with the guests, or with the food, horses, and games. There seemed to be more people working than enjoying, but there were plenty of those, too. Carriages and gigs continued in a long procession, delivering their occupants, and when the road finally cleared, what seemed to be dozens of guests had arrived.

Cora scanned the area. She wasn’t looking for Simon per se. She was just looking for … anyone she knew, and it so happened that she knew him.

Aunt Nellie joined the women. “What a morning it’s been. I always have something new going on—new goals and such. It helps the decades pass. Now I’m trying to learn how to send something through time that didn’t appeared as a result of the ley lines.” She leaned in, and the women huddled closer. “It isn’t going well. I painted a lovely still life on my bedroom wall, so I could try to send back a vase of roses. I tipped the vase against its image, and—” Nellie’s hands formed a ball, then blasted apart. Her eyes widened as she made an explosive sound. “You’d think a red feather pillow blew up in my room. The vase melted into a heap on the carpet.”

Cora wondered if sending their group back was as certain as Nellie had made it sound a few days ago. Blowing apart wasn’t on her bucket list.

“Well, make merry.” Aunt Nellie waved to them as she scampered off to greet some guests.

Cora had witnessed some of Aunt Nellie’s other attempts. She had painted a spoon, a shoe, and a candle. The paint sparkled like the mural Cora had fallen through. The likeness of the objects was very detailed. Still, they were all failures. They twisted, caught fire, and turned to water, respectively. This attempt might be the most spectacular one yet. It seemed to her that each effort was getting farther from the desired result instead of closer.

Cora’s voice shook a little when she said, “Human trials are out of the question. She can send us back, right? She’s done it before? She said she has. It will be fine, I’m sure.”

The other women were silent. The expression on Kaitlyn’s face said she might be as nervous as Cora felt while Reece’s eyes held barely concealed fury.

Cora silently considered a future in this time period, which sounded better than ending up as a lump on the carpet. It was unacceptable. They would return to their time. She would resume teaching. Her life would go on as planned. She just needed to keep a positive outlook and do something to take her mind off the time-travel business.

“Well, it’s a beautiful day, no rain for once, and I intend to enjoy the afternoon,” Cora said.

“Oh, don’t you worry. It will rain,” Kaitlyn replied.

Cora’s attention flitted from one group of party-goers to another. The women were dressed in their best with tightly cinched waists and bell-shaped skirts. The men seemed well turned out, too, in as many pastel colors as the ladies. She recognized introductions being made and flirtations taking place. There was one thing all had in common. They were all here to make a match.

It was the same game played in the ballroom at the Full Moon Ball. It was a game she was bound to lose by the rules of this century. But what if she did as Simon suggested that first night and changed the game? She’d have to think about how to do that.

Across the lawn, Cora recognized Simon’s powerful form standing in a small group.

“Have a wonderful picnic, ladies,” she said to her roommates as she hurried off. She only felt the slightest twinge of guilt for not spending more time with them. Throughout the whole week of the immersive experience, she’d seen the smitten looks Cyrus had been sending Kaitlyn—the same ones Jem had for Reese. Cora was a fifth wheel.

She recognized a few other people she’d been introduced to as well—Everett and Lucy and May. She’d met May’s mother when she’d arrived and the daughter later that night at the ball. She liked her very much. May had none of the pretense so many others displayed around Simon. A handful of other men and women rounded out the group. When someone approached, Everett seemed to protect Simon from the arrival of the newcomer.

       Let’s see how good you are at this tactical game, Everett. Everett always seemed to hover near Simon and run interference for him. Cora angled herself to approach from Simon’s flank. She opened a parasol and held it close to her head, so little of her face would be seen. She decided to walk a straight line as if she were going to the fountain by the pond. As long as she didn’t walk toward them, they shouldn’t take notice.

When she was firmly behind Everett’s back, where only Simon would notice her, she flipped her parasol to the other shoulder, turned and faced him directly, tipping her head toward the pond, giving him a genuine, inviting smile, then turned back and continued walking.

       She stood along the water’s pebbled edge, gazing over the surface to the rolling hills beyond when she felt his presence behind her left shoulder. She didn’t think she had heard him or even seen his shadow since it fell the other way, but something about Simon was like gravity that gently tugged her toward him.

       “Do you fish, Mr. Duke?” Cora asked without facing him.

       Everett snorted a laugh. “‘Mr. Duke!’ That’s an American—making one of the highest-ranking members of the peer common.” He raised his voice. “So, Mr. Duke, do you fish?”

       Cora looked to see if she’d offended Simon since Everett had repeated the question to him but caught Simon shoulder-bumping Everett good-naturedly. “I suppose I need a lesson in titles and such,” she added. “Perhaps even a tutor.”

       “Yes, I fish.” Simon stayed on her left but angled to look into Cora’s face.

       “I do too,” she replied. “Only fishing—not catching. It’s a perfectly good way to spend an afternoon pretending to be productive.”

       “Perhaps I can arrange for you to visit my estate and take in some fishing.”

       Cora handed her little purse to Simon and then leaned down and chose two smooth rocks from near her shoe. “Perhaps.” She skimmed the first pebble across the surface of the pond. “Hmm, two skips. I can do better.” She paused, moving the second rock between her thumb and finger. When she found the surface she wanted, she flung the pebble, side-armed, across the surface. “Three skips. Better.”

       Simon piped up from behind her. “Was that three skims?”

       That’s what she’d just said. Cora checked Simon’s expression. He looked serious. Then she saw Everett, smirking, holding back a laugh at some joke. He chucked a rock at Simon’s knee and received the quick reaction of Simon lobbing one near Everett in return.

“How about a contest?” Everett asked, gesturing to the pond. “To determine the champion stone skimmer?”

“Though your little purse looks quite fetching with my morning suit …” Simon held his hand up and swung the purse around his wrist. “I must return it to you to if I’m to win the game.” He handed it to her.

       Cora set it aside and removed her gloves, earning raised eyebrows from both men. “This is a serious competition, one I intend to win.” She handed the gloves to Simon. “Get over it. And please put them in your pocket.”

The men removed their gloves as well while she began the search for acceptable rocks.

“Best of five pitches,” she yelled back over her shoulder.

       During the selection, the small group drifted apart in search of the perfect stones. When Cora rejoined the men, Everett was telling Simon he could only have five, and Simon was dropping the rejects to the ground. She stepped into their little line on the shore with Everett to her left and Simon on her right, but the men quickly shuffled, ending with Simon on her left and Everett to his left.

       Each took a turn flinging their arms in wide arcs and throwing the stones across the tense surface of the water.

Simon counted aloud as his rock skiffed the top of the pond. “Two, three, four!” His smile turned full-force on Cora. His eyes were bright with excitement before he bent slightly at the waist and said, “I’ve bested your three. Sorry to nudge you out of the lead.”

Cora caught her breath. She completely understood why women went out of their way to try to meet him.

At the end of five rounds, Everett was declared the winner for six jumps by one of his pebbles.

The diversion had given her a chance to determine her course while on this little vacation. I’ll join their game and turn it on its ear. Her father would tell her to embrace life, to live this one as fully as she did the other one.

Simon was the runner-up at four skips.

       As each replaced their gloves, Cora said, “I don’t have family here and only Aunt Nellie to help me make connections. I wondered if you two would help.”

       “Of course,” Everett replied.

       “Who would you like to meet?” Simon asked as he pulled on his second glove.

       “Eligible bachelors.” She looked between the two of them. “Ten to twelve would do.”

       The seam that attached the thumb of Simon’s glove ripped across his palm. His stare met Cora’s gaze.

       She wondered how big of a faux pas she had made, but the men didn’t seem critical of her plan. Cora reminded them, “I’m here, of course, to marry. Without family history or reputation or relations to make introductions, I’m at a disadvantage. It would be an enormous service for you to weed through the men who would not make good husbands.”

       Simon’s finger lifted into the air, and his mouth dropped open, but no words came out during a long pause. Finally he said, “Everett, may I ask you a question?” He turned to Cora. “Excuse me—us, Miss Rey. I’ll—we’ll return in a moment.” He pulled Everett by the shoulder and took two steps, but turned back. “Wait here.” He spun away, then toward her. “Please.”

       Everett and Simon moved off a few paces and began what looked like an impassioned conversation. Occasionally, Simon gestured toward Cora while Everett laughed often.

From the looks of it, she doubted they wanted to help, but she continued to watch. Well, that would make the game a bit harder. Not impossible, though. I came on this trip for an immersive experience and got an authentic one instead. We may have taken Aunt Nellie’s little detour down a rabbit hole, but the principle is the same. Soak it all in.

       When the men returned, Simon replied, “We’re considering who we might introduce you to. It could be a while before we can.”

“That’s fine, and thank you.”

As they walked back to the central lawn area to watch the children’s games, Cora wondered what pieces of Simon she was still missing to understand him. Probably quite a lot since we only met a few days ago. Still, there was something familiar that she couldn’t put her finger on.

During the rough-and-tumble of the children’s games, Simon introduced her to the people who were near them. At the end, he walked Cora back to Twickenham Manor. “Your company was a pleasure.” He bowed slightly.

“I had a wonderful afternoon as well.” Before she reentered the house, she remarked, “There’s something about you. I don’t know what, but something.”

       Although his eyes widened momentarily, his smile overcame any hesitancy Cora thought she’d detected a second earlier. Long, shallow dimples sculpted his face.

The next morning, a letter was delivered with her breakfast tray and sat beside a plate of eggs and ham. The plain linen paper, folded and sealed, the wax stamped with a rearing stag, had only her name on the front. She slipped her finger under the seal, then unfolded the pages to read.

Miss Cora Rey,

It would be my pleasure to escort you in the evening two days hence and provide you with the introductions you desire if you are available for the event. We will attend a dinner at the home of Lord and Lady Stafford at their residence, Mount Lebanon, at nine in the evening to be followed by a pageant on the River Thames. Mr. Everett Hawley, Miss Lucy Radnor, Lady Radnor, and our mutual acquaintance, Miss May Cottrell, will accompany us for the events. Your acceptance is eagerly awaited.

       Your servant,

Mr. Duke

Cora smiled at the nickname that not only concealed his identity to anyone who might see the letter but affirmed his friendship with her. She quickly dressed and went in search of paper and a pen for a written response. A maid directed Cora to a secretarial desk in the library. The wooden desktop was cleared. “Is there paper I could use?” Before the maid left the room, she added, “And a pen?”

“Yes, miss.” The woman touched the top of the cabinet, lowering a dropdown table onto an arm that swung out from below. Inside were trays of paper and bottles of ink. Beside the ink were pens, sort of. The tools resembled the ones used by calligraphers.

Oh, no. “Thank you.” Cora hoped her tone conveyed more confidence than she felt, but she sat down and slowly began selecting paper to place on the desk. The door whispered closed, and she let out a breath. Is nothing easy in this century?

Over several minutes, she struggled with the ink and pen through several attempts only to have unreadable words on ink-splotched paper. She hit on the problem and swirled the tip of the pen around on the ruined papers to remove the excess ink, wiped it with the paper, which she threw on the fire grate, then sat again. This time dipping only the end in the ink, she was able to write two legible words at a time. With much effort, she had a passable letter.