What Was I Thinking? (18 page)

“You have papers in there that will identify
us?”

“Yes. This is one of the things we designed in
when we planned the house as a time-travel laboratory. We assumed the future
would require identification papers and money, though we knew we couldn’t
predict what forms those would take. So we stored gold and proof that I was the
incumbent for the E.X. Roland Chair for Historical and Scientific Research and
hoped I would land in an era when both still had value. When I took my first
trip, I stored a little cash, a family photograph, and some letters of
introduction on the Roland Steamship Company stationery, in case my return trip
brought me to a year that no one remembered me.”

Looking over his shoulder, I saw that my
twenty-first century clothes were no longer in there. “Very clever,” I said,
blinking. “You thought of everything.”

He nodded as he removed what he wanted and
closed the safe. “Well, when it takes years of research and mistakes to build
your conveyance, you have plenty of time to think about what your trip will
require.”

“You said ‘we.’ Wh—”

“Ah, yes. Times are very different, Addie. You
won’t personally need any identification. I will introduce you as my betrothed,
and that will be enough.”

A little disturbing, but
believable.
And anyway, not what I was going to
ask.
“No, I meant you said ‘we’ when you talked about the planning
process. Did you—do you—have a research partner?”

“No, I meant Mother.”

Oh, yeah. I remembered now. His mother believed
in him, and he did his experiments in her basement.
Uh oh.

“—do so hope you can meet her. You will take to
her immediately, I am sure. She would fit right into your world. She is very
clever, freethinking, and self-sufficient. She said more than once that helping
me with the project was the only thing that kept her from going mad with
boredom.” He frowned a little at the thought. “I do hope she has fared well in
my absence.”

And then it was time. He tucked the money and
letters into an inner pocket in his suit coat—he was in costume, too,
naturally—took my hand, and led me into the main basement room, the one that
was the entry to the It room. I stopped him before we got to the stairs.

“Bert, one thing—in case we have to explain
ourselves, what’s our story? I know you have papers, but if I’m asked where we
came from or how we got into the house…”

“Right.
Right you are. Sorry. I am too
excited. That’s the main reason for the outside cellar door. That was already
old-fashioned when we built the house, but it provides a secret entrance to the
house—it’s a more plausible explanation than that we steamed in from the
twenty-first century.”

“And we broke in why?”

“I used to live here and I expected to find my
own family still here, so I used my cellar key to come in quietly.” He held up
an ornate key briefly and tucked it back into a pocket.

“Okay, then.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s do
this thing.”

And we went up the stairs.

Chapter Ten

Arrival

“Mother, may I introduce my betrothed, Miss
Addie Hull?”

The stern dowager looked up from her book in
surprise, and then gave a grin just like Bert’s and virtually ran across the
parlor. “You certainly may! Miss Hull, I am glad to meet you,” she said, taking
both of my hands in hers. “May I call you Adeline?”

I smiled back into grey eyes. “You can call me
anything you like, but Addie isn’t short for Adeline. I’m actually Jane
Addams-Hull.” There would be time enough later to explain about my parents’
having hyphenated their last names when they married, then making a joke with
my first name, and me un-hyphenating and going by a nickname that removed the
joke. Whew.

“What year is it?” I asked, colliding with Mrs.
Roland, who was saying decisively, “Addie it will be, then. And you, my dear,
must call me Augusta, at least until you marry. Then you and Bert can decide
whether I’ll be Mother or Mother Augusta.”

“1904. August 28, 1904. You haven’t missed the
fair, Bert!” She turned to him and smart, grey eyes met smart, grey eyes in
matching smiles, and they hugged, though they obviously weren’t accustomed to
doing it often.

My future mother-in-law had looked like a stern
dowager from across the room, but as Bert had promised, there was more to her.
She was stout, with white hair pinned up in an elaborate pile, and strong
features. When she had been reading, she had looked very serious, with tiny,
gold-rimmed spectacles balanced on her prominent nose.

In conversation, though, she had that
quicksilver smile of Bert’s and the mobility of her face softened the features
as any illusion of sternness disappeared. She was wearing a dress that was like
mine, and yet not. It wasn’t as ridiculously tight as mine, I thought with some
embarrassment, and the fabric was much finer stuff. It was dark grey to match
her eyes and had a tidy, white collar trimmed with blue velvet. Though she
hadn’t made any attempt to look young, as she might have in my day, she looked
vibrant and strong. Above the blue velvet, her thick hair gleamed so healthily
that the color seemed more like a style choice than an indicator of old age.

She must be fiftyish, I judged, going from
Bert’s age, but what fifty looked like—thank you, Gloria
Steinem,
though I think you said it about thirty—had changed so much in our hundred-plus
years that I couldn’t really tell.

It seemed to be late afternoon, judging from
the light coming in the parlor windows. They hadn’t changed much from the ones
I had seen the last time I was in the room, in 2010, but the furniture was all
different. The rug was the same one I’d seen in Bert’s third-floor study, I
realized with a start. It just looked different because its colors glowed
bright, and in my time it had been faded and worn, looking like an antique.

Mrs. Roland had seen me looking. “It’s a
beautiful carpet, is it not? My late husband ordered it from Turkey just before
he passed, and I thought it suited this room admirably. But what am I thinking?
You have had an arduous trip, and I have not offered you refreshment, or even a
chair.”

Turning to Bert, she said, “Do ring for Betsy,
won’t you?” and back to me, “I’ll just have Betsy show you where you can
freshen up, and there will be tea and sandwiches when you return.”

Bert forestalled her. “Addie has visited the
house, Mother, and in her world, women are very independent.” He looked at me
with the same glow I’d seen when he showed me the river model of time.
Apparently I was a worthy discovery, too.

“The, um,
bathroom,
is in the same place,
Addie, though you’ll likely find the fixtures different. I trust there are
towels and soap, Mother?”

She nodded. “Perhaps you would like a change of
clothing?” she asked delicately. “Perhaps your elegant frock feels a bit soiled
from travel?”

Not to mention inappropriately tight and
low-cut, I though grimly. But it was a welcome offer, and made with tact. “I
would, thank you, if there should be anything available that would fit.”

“Certainly, certainly.
I’ll just sort something out,
and have Betsy put it in the blue room for you. Do you know where that is?” She
looked from me to Bert, inquiring.

He shook his head as I said I didn’t.

“It isn’t that anymore, Mother. The trustees
redecorated all of the rooms on the second floor many times over the years.
It’s at the end of the hall, Addie. It’s a nice private space with a view of
the backyard.”

“Okay.” I started up the stairs. A bathroom
would
be nice. So would a little time
alone, just to gather my thoughts.

“Backyard?”
I heard Mrs. Roland—Augusta—
say
behind me.

“It’s what they call a back garden in her time,
Mother. The language has changed rather a lot.
As has nearly
everything else.
I’ve so much to tell you!”

That was the last I heard. I washed up in the
quaint bathroom, which had an actual claw-footed bathtub. Fortunately—very fortunately—I
could feel relief sweeping through me at the sight—it also had, in addition to
a sink, an actual, real flush toilet and a roll of toilet paper! I had been
pretty sure toilets had been invented by now, but had had no idea how common it
was to have one. I hadn’t dared hope for toilet paper. Ah, simple pleasures!

I finished up in there and found the blue room.
It was small, but adorable, with blue, flowered wallpaper, a single bed with an
embroidered bedspread, a dressing table and chair, and a wardrobe. As promised,
it had a window looking out on the backyard, which was actually an elaborate
flower garden with grass only in a few winding paths.

I opened the window, and a breeze blew in,
ruffling the white curtains. It was the first fresh air I’d had in many hours,
or more than a century, I thought, feeling slightly unhinged. In any case, the
breeze was very welcome and very soothing. I sat down on the bed and took off
my boots. That was the last I knew that day.

I woke feeling sweaty and stiff in bright
morning light, with a light blanket over me. I was still fully dressed and on
top of the embroidered bedspread. I must just have fallen backward after taking
my boots off, and never moved again. Surprisingly, I wasn’t disoriented. I knew
for sure that I was in the blue room of Roland House, on August 29, 1904. I was
also desperately in need of a bathroom, a drink of water, and some food, in
that order.

Obviously, someone had looked in on me. The
blanket that covered me hadn’t been in evidence when I sat down on the bed, so
I couldn’t have pulled it over in my sleep. Also, there was a bathrobe draped
over the chair and the promised clothes were hanging in the wardrobe, which had
obviously been left open so I would see that they were there.

I changed into the bathrobe, grateful to get
out of my traveling clothes, tucked my toothbrush into a pocket, and went to
the bathroom. There was no drinking glass in there, and no shower, but were
clean towels and a cake of soap. I spared a moment to be extremely grateful
that I’d done my time-traveling with a very rich guy whose family had indoor
plumbing over a hundred years ago.

I ran a bath and sank in while the tub was
filling. A pounding, hot shower would have been my preference after waking up
so sweaty and grimy, but a bath would do. Some people loved baths. I would
learn to.

I leaned forward and washed my hands with water
the water running in from the tap, soaping again and again, and letting the
used bubbles add to the bath water. As soon as I was sure my hands were truly
clean, I cupped them and took a drink from the tap. I did that a few times,
too. Then, leaning close to the tap to avoid damaging the wallpaper—it was
weird being in a tub that had no shower curtain, and no tile to protect the
wall—I splashed handfuls of the clean water up into my face, glorying in the
feel of it.

The fancy stuff done, I turned off the tap and
did my best to wash all over with the soap and a washcloth. I wasn’t sure how
much water was likely to be in the tank in a house like this, and I didn’t want
to be a selfish guest.

I would have liked to wash my hair, but with no
shampoo or conditioner, I just tried to keep it dry. I’d figure out how
shampoos were done later. Finally, I drained the water, running just a little
bit more to rinse under before stepping…there was no bath mat. I would ruin the
floor.

I leaned way out, snagged a towel, which seemed
to be linen and wasn’t anywhere near as absorbent as I was used to. I dried off
as best I could, carefully
lifting
one foot and then the
other to get them as dry as possible before stepping out.

Wrapped back up in the robe, I brushed my teeth
with water, wondering if toothpaste had been invented yet.

I tried to tidy up the bathroom, but I wasn’t
sure what the expectations were. I did remember one thing my grandmother had
always said, though, “A pessimist scrubs the tub before bathing; an optimist
scrubs it after; and
lady
does it
before
and
after.” I’d thought of it
too late to be a lady, but at least I could be a polite optimist. I used the
washcloth to rub down the inside of the tub, and make sure I hadn’t left a
ring.

A maid I hadn’t seen the day before was in my
room when I returned, just finishing making the bed. “I’m so sorry,” I said,
embarrassed. “I would have made the bed as soon…” I trailed off. I hadn’t even
thought of making the bed, and hadn’t expected anyone to notice, much less do
it for me.

“It’s no matter, miss,” she replied, looking
up. “I make all the beds. Mrs. Roland said I was to bring your breakfast as
soon as I heard you up and about.” She nodded toward the dressing table, which
now held a laden breakfast table.

“Oh, that looks wonderful!” No Diet Coke, of
course, but that was another thing I’d just have to get used to. There was a
pot of tea, though, with a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream beside the
teacup. There were various covered dishes as well. I didn’t recognize all the
smells, but I could tell it was food, and I was very hungry.