RHYTHMIC BUMP OF CARRIAGE, CRUNCH OF GRAVEL, TATTOO OF hoofbeats, smell of night, sleep. When I awoke, I saw the sun just up—dawn—and what could only be the Thames, a ribbon of silver dotted with boats, a bridge ahead. On the other side, the pastoral persisted: we swept past an orchard, a flock of sheep, a big brick house with a circular drive. Then houses began to cluster thicker, streets to narrow, people to multiply. The dusty air was filling with human voices and the rumble of cargo wagons that clotted the road, along with ragged pedestrians staggering under their various burdens: a heap of cloth, a load of coal, half a pig.
What kind of a maniac travels in time? I was thirty-three the year I went to 1815, single and childless, a volunteer after humanitarian disasters in Peru, Haiti, and most recently Mongolia. Between these, I worked in the emergency department at Bellevue Hospital in New York and liked vacations that involved trekking through mountains or swimming in very cold water, in corners of the earth where such things were still possible. Love of adventure might seem an odd mix with devotion to the wit and subtlety of Jane Austen, but together they are me. What Norman had revealed that night—Jane Austen, time travel—was nothing less than what I had been waiting for my whole life. Unknowingly, of course, because who could imagine such a crazy thing?
“We’re here,” Liam whispered; I had not noticed he was awake. “It’s real. Unbelievable.”
Now, buildings that I recognized; we were passing Hyde Park, heading down Piccadilly, and there was too much to take in. We pulled into a big square with a fenced-in equestrian statue and our destination, the Golden Cross inn. We’d barely stopped before a man in livery was asking what he could do for us; before we were hurried up a flight of steps, down a dim corridor, and into a private coffee room with a view of the square. Hot water for washing, effusive promises that someone would shave Liam in a bit, and finally breakfast.
THE COFFEE CAME IN A TALL SILVER-PLATED POT, ITS SMELL REVIVING my optimism about life in 1815. And it tasted even better: hot, espresso-strong, vanquishing the road dust in my throat. I wrapped my hands around the cup and shivered with pleasure.
Liam picked up a roll and sniffed it. He took a bite. “Hmm.” Another.
I tried one. It was like nothing I had ever tasted, and I chewed slowly, poised between analysis and sensual delight: still warm, with a pleasantly elastic texture, tangy aroma, and hint of salt.
Suppressing a groan of ecstasy, I said: “Maybe we just landed on a good inn. And lucky, because who knows how long it will take to find a place to live.” As I thought of this challenge, and all the others, my bread-and-coffee-fueled euphoria faltered. “Hard to know where to start.”
I meant this as a general comment, but Liam said: “I’m thinking, with clothing. It will take time.” He brushed some schmutz off his sleeve. “Tricky to pose as a gentleman when you’ve only one shirt.”
“Our guidance is to go to a bank first. It’s more important.” Until we deposited our fake money, we had to wear it. “The Project Team was clear on that.”
“But we have freedom to improvise, to respond to unexpected developments. Like you did when there were no rooms at the Swan.”
“How is deciding you feel like going to a tailor instead of a bank an unexpected development? And anyway, you can’t be measured for clothing with all that money on you.”
He stood and took off his coat. “Some of it’s sewed into the shoulders here—but this, sure they will notice.” He was unbuttoning his waistcoat, lifting his shirt, reaching under and back, offering a glimpse of taut, pale, and lightly furred midsection. I dropped my gaze just in time as he turned and tossed a belt like mine on the table: silky fabric, tiny zippers, heavy and thick with its rag-paper contents. “Do you mind? You can add it to yours, just for now. A mantua maker isn’t going to measure you around the middle.” This was true. The construction of 1815 dresses brought the waist way up, to just below the bustline, with everything below loose and floaty.
“I can’t possibly fit this much more under my corset.”
There was a pause before he said: “Just today, till we visit a tailor.”
“I’m not sure why you think it’s such a great idea to deviate from the mission plan on this. Walking around wearing our entire fortune makes me nervous.”
Liam, after tucking and buttoning, adjusting and smoothing, returned to the table and sat, resting his head on one hand. His long face was ruggedly unhandsome, with too much chin, a habitually gloomy expression, and a slightly crooked nose. He’d been some kind of actor before going into academia—part of why he’d been selected for the mission—but his looks could not have propelled his career. Only the eyes, maybe: I allowed he had beautiful eyes, finely shaped, a luminous blue, now fixed on my face.
“Me too. But so does visiting a bank. I’m not ready to face one today, Rachel. My clothes might be wrong, my timing’s off, I need a bath.”
I was silent. Liam had always been chillingly formal during Preparation: polite, giving away nothing. This might have been the most revealing admission he’d ever made, and I was divided between sneaking sympathy and reluctance to strap more money onto myself as he continued:
“The hardest thing we do, at least till we meet Jane Austen, assuming we ever manage that. Not a single thing can make a bank doubtful. If they find us out as forgers, we’ll be sent to New South Wales in chains. Or hanged.” He added in a whisper, “And we are forgers.”
A little more time before taking on a bank might not be such a bad idea. I looked down at the table, at the money belt, and rehearsed the series of steps needed to conceal it on myself. Undressing would be easier with help, yet I hesitated to ask. But did undue modesty give the moment an importance it did not deserve, like I was trying too hard to pretend we belonged to 1815? As I puzzled over this, a knock at the door solved my problem: “Barber here, sir; if you’ll step down the hall I’ll be pleased to shave ye.”
Liam stood up, eyes still on me. “You’ll manage? Lock the door.” And he was gone.
The frock was easy: I could reach the three buttons in the back and ease it over my head. I squirmed out of the petticoat and undid my corset: front and back panels of quilted linen stiffened with whalebone, compressing and shoving my breasts upward for an unfortunate shelf effect and keeping my spine rigid. So I could dress myself in the early days before I had a ladies’ maid, the Costume Team had made me a front-lacing model. Over my chemise, my money belt circled my rib cage. I added Liam’s below and put the corset back on. To make room, I laced looser, but found the petticoat’s unforgiving bodice no longer fit over my less-compressed breasts. I heaved a deep sigh, last one for now, and laced myself up again, tight this time.
OUTSIDE THE INN, WE STOOD BLINKING IN THE DUSTY AIR. IF HALF of London had been awake when we arrived, now the other half was up too, making as much noise as possible.
A line of hackney coaches waited nearby. Also several chairmen in grimy suits, arms folded, next to their sedan chairs. These were little boxes one sat in, to be carried on springy poles by two men, one front and one back.