Every night, chirping crickets and the croaking frogs were the same until one eerily silent summer night changed everything for Helen Sinclaire. She unlocked the sash lock of a nearby window and took a hold of the lift, pulling the lower sash of the window up to allow some air in. Nothing seemed to abate the warm and humid night, not even her loud fan. She crossed her arms as her chocolate-colored eyes stared at the bewitchingly serene landscape. Helen unfolded her left hand, staring at her palm.
"That dream," she muttered to herself. I can't shake it off. "Why can't I forget it? Why can't I forget him? He doesn't even exist!" And yet that kiss... Her face flushed as the scene flashed in her mind, triggering a warm sensation that still lingered on the top of her left hand. "What the hell am I doin'?" She facepalmed. "It's just a Tavington dream! I seriously need to sleep."
With outstretched arms feeling through the darkness as her small bare feet shuffled across the wooden floor, Helen reached her bed and climbed into it. She lay on her side, staring at her leather messenger bag hanging over her desk chair. I can't believe tomorrow I'm visitin' Stratford Hall Plantation. She smiled as her eyes dropped and sleep washed over her. It's gonna be a good research day.
Straightaway, the intense morning heat immediately wrapped around Helen as she stepped out of a taxi. Pulling out her writing journal, Helen gawked at the riveting historical scenery. She never imagined she would, at last, visit the charming Colonial brick building of Stratford Hall, home of the well-known Lees of Virginia. It was only a two-hour drive from where she lived. The mere thought of the place excited Helen's heart and brought a grin to her face as she scribbled away descriptions. Her eyes absorbed every detail of the plantation's exterior with great scrutiny.
A gentle, warm breeze swept in, ruffling Helen's ivory dress splattered with delicate pink blossoms. The neckline of the dress had a floral trim and a ruffled hem. A matching belt and a pair of cute brown flats of leather completed the elegant but pretty ensemble.
Helen slapped the paper back to its original position in her journal. After quickly tucking a lock of her black shoulder-length hair behind her ear, Helen brushed away any extra pencil debris and continued scribbling more descriptions down on paper. She took a moment to read what she wrote, oblivious to what was transpiring in front of her. When she finally looked up again, she took note of a film crew in the distance.
Helen's face fell, feeling discouraged from knowing that she likely couldn't proceed any closer. She cursed herself for not researching better on the happenings of this historic site. With all her preparation she felt she still failed. She sighed in disappointed resignation.
"I suppose I'll just sit beneath them trees," Helen muttered to herself as she made her way up a small hillside strewn with yellow-green grass. Other people were present as well. Whether they were a part of the film crew, simple bystanders, or fans Helen couldn't quite tell. And her mind had better things to focus on.
Beneath the shade of a tree, Helen stood and quietly wrote away. The world around her faded away as she lost herself in her thoughts and imaginations. It wasn't until after a few callings from an old man with glasses did Helen snap out of her deep stupor.
"O-Oh! I'm so sorry, sir!" She blushed and bowed her head. "I didn't realize you were standin' there. I was kinda lost in my writin'." She glanced at her journal with a sheepish smile.
"It's quite alright, madam." The old man chuckled as he languidly waved a hand in the air. He was holding a well-crafted wooden cane in his right hand and had a noticeable English accent. He was dressed in a fine tailored white suit with brown leather oxford shoes. "I was wondering why you looked rather familiar, and now I know why." He smiled. "You're the delightful writer of historical fiction romances, Miss Helen Sinclair, are you not?"
Helen's eyes widened in surprise.
The man chuckled again.
"Judging by that reaction, I must've hit the target properly."
"Yes, my name is Helen Sinclair." She curiously stared at the man. "How did you know it was me?"
"A person can train their eye well by simply observing and listening, you know. And you, my dear, have been in papers, social media, and the telly. Word travels rather quickly." He grinned. "But I must confess; it is a surprise to find you here, Miss Sinclaire. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name's Stanley Pearce." He held out a hand.
Helen shook Stanley's hand. "You can call me Helen. And it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pearce."
"Very well, Helen, and please, call me Stanley."
"Will do, Stanely." Helen smiled.
"It's a rather hot day, isn't it?" Stanley wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief he pulled out from the pocket of his grey vest.
"Yeah, it is mighty hot." Helen looked up at the azure sky with a frown, feeling the heat of summer even as she stayed in the cool shade of the trees. "What are those people down there doin'?"
"Ah, they're simply filming scenes for a movie."
"A movie, huh? Do you know what it's called?"
"I overheard it's called 'The Patriot'."
"I see." Helen raised a hand to her lips as if in contemplation. "So, that's why they're using Stratford Hall Plantation," she muttered to herself.
"I wonder what made them pick this location, though."
"Perhaps they be usin' it as a British headquarters. I can see men in red coats at the front an' on top of them two towers," said Helen as she squinted her eyes, pointing in the general direction. There were red coats lined up in an orderly fashion across the green in front of the Great House, the biggest building on its acre.
"Ah, you're quite right, Helen." Stanley adjusted his glasses. "Quite right, indeed. You have remarkable eyesight, Helen, if I do say so myself." Stanley patted Helen's back.
Helen laughed.
"I reckon so."
"I did not expect to see an audience watching this, however. At least, not o' this size. I'm quite surprised."
"I didn't think so either." Helen glanced around at the small crowd picnicking and enjoying the spectacle. "They must be here for somethin' or someone."
Stanley chuckled.
"Fans, eh? Do you think all of them are fans?"
"I don't know. It depends on if there be any famous actors in this film. If so, I imagine some of these people be fans. But I be here for research. I was hopin' I'd get the chance to enter the plantation an' see its interior, but it looks like that will wait."
"Indeed. They're not going to let anyone in until the film crew is finished with the area."
"Probably."
"What are you writing about, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Oh, I'm writing historical romance fiction."
"I ought to have guessed," Stanley smirked, "you have a talent for writing exceptional historical romances, Helen. The pages ooze with your heart and soul. I can tell."
Stanley's words instantly drowned out the world around Helen so much so that Helen paid no heed to the crowd growing more animated toward something. Voices were growing louder too.
"Wow! You really think so?" She blushed. "You've read my books, then?"
"I have, yes."
Helen's face lit up with joy. "That's wonderful! I hope you've enjoyed 'em."
"Quite so. I always look forward to reading them again."
A sense of pride and accomplishment swelled in Helen's breast. "I be honored that you love my stories, Stanley. It's my goal to have readers enjoy my worlds, and that makes me happy."
"What the devil is going on o'er there?" Stanley's eyebrows furrowed.
"Hmm?" Helen followed Stanley's gaze. There in the distance, a small cavalry group dressed in red coats with green facings, black breeches, brown jockey boots, and noticeably black plume helmets galloped up the hillside. She recalled what she partially overheard from the audience. The Green Dragoons...
As Helen's heart raced with every beat of the horses' hooves, there was one well-built man who, even from afar, was unmistakably handsome. He had black hair or so Helen's eyes were able to discern.
"They must be finished filming," concluded Stanely.
"Or they be takin' a break."
"They could be."
Helen couldn't seem to remove her gaze from the handsome man. And for whatever reason, her cheeks felt like they were burning. She tightly hugged her journal, pressing it hard against her chest as if that was going to abate her racing heart. Her small hands were gripping it tighter as the handsome man rode closer and closer. He rode ever closer, and Helen could see his face more clearly.
Helen broke her gaze the instant he looked at her. She hoped with all her heart he didn't notice her staring like a fool at him. Helen quickly opened her journal and feigned reading it.
"Ah, Jason! Jason Isaacs!" Stanley chuckled. "O'er here, young man!"
Oh, no! Does this man know him?! Wait. Isaacs...? No, it couldn't be... Helen briefly looked up at the handsome man. It is him! Helen's gaze returned to her journal as she intensely blushed. I don't believe it. He's right here. Her heart raced faster.
"Good afternoon, Jason. How are you?"
"I'm quite well. It's good to see you, Stanely." Jason, remaining on his horse, reached down to shake the old man's hand. "How have you been? It has been a while."
"Ah, that it has. That it has. I am well. I'm still ticking." Stanley chuckled. "We really ought to have some drinks at a pub sometime and catch up."
"Yes, I'd like that."
"It looks like filming's moving rather smoothly."
"It is. It's bloody hot, though," Jason laughed, "but it is progressing quite nicely." Jason tugged at the fingertips of his black leather gloves to pull them off.
"Well, let us hope the weather decides to be nice to us. I'm glad to see you're well and enjoying yourself. Just don't push yourself too much, Jason."
"Of course."
"I've been talking to this lovely little lady here. I was pleasantly surprised to see her here. Her name's Helen Sinclair. Perhaps you've heard of her. She's a Fictional Romance writer with many fine stories set during historic times. Helen, meet my good friend Jason Isaacs."
Helen looked up from her journal and closed it. Here we go. Helen took a few steps forward and smiled at Jason. With a nod of her head, Helen said, "it is a pleasure to meet you, Jason."
"Likewise, Helen." Jason reached down to take Helen's small hand in his. Instead of a handshake like Helen anticipated, she felt soft lips touch the top of her hand, which surprised her and startled her heart.
And he's a gentleman! Why can't men be like this?
"Well, I hate to leave on such short notice," interrupted Stanley, which gave Helen the perfect chance to retrieve her hand from Jason without feeling awkward, "but I must rejoin my wife. I've been away for far too long, and it looks like she has tea ready. If you'll please excuse me." He bowed and walked past Jason.
"An' I should continue my research."
"Research...?" Jason smiled. "What are you researching about, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Well, they're just descriptions of the area and Stratford Hall Plantation. I want to be as accurate as possible in my story. I feel details like that helps in immersing readers into a real Colonial world."
"I see." Jason smiled, his striking ice blue eyes conveying admiration. He crossed his wrists over the pommel of his saddle. "You have an interesting approach to your methods, Helen."
Helen laughed, mostly from nervousness. "Why, thank you. I was hoping I could get a glimpse of the interior of the plantation, but I didn't plan very well. I had no idea this was happenin'."
"Would you like a tour of the place?"
"What?" Helen stared at him as if she didn't understand the language he spoke.
Jason laughed and smiled. "I said would you like a tour of the plantation?"
"Is that even...allowed? Is that okay?"
"We're finished, and they do allow us to take a tour of the historic areas during our pastime. And if you're with me, there won't be a problem." Jason smiled.
This seemed too good to be true to Helen, but she greatly desired to see what the interior of Stratford Hall looked like. With a steady inhale, Helen nodded. "Okay. Let's go."
"Perfect! It isn't far. We can just walk."
"Okay. That's fine with me."
Jason dismounted his horse, still holding onto the reins to keep the brown mare near him as he and Helen walked side-by-side.
I can't believe this. How the hell did it end up like this?! It's supposed to be a day of research. So, how is it that I was found out by a fan and now I'm walking with the actor Jason Isaacs? I don't know if this is a cruel joke or reality. Helen sighed. To her surprise, neither one talked but this was okay with Helen. She was enjoying this quiet, simple stroll. Besides, what words could she possibly have that would intrigue a famous actor, who's in a world far away from her own? Helen sighed again.
"Are you alright? You keep sighing."
"Huh? Oh!" Helen blushed. "I am still worried, I guess. I don't want to get you into trouble."
Jason smiled, which impressed Helen, for she could see and feel its warmth.
Such a kind man, Helen thought.
"I'll be fine. We'll be fine. Trust me. Here." Jason handed the leather reins to a nearby staff member before holding out his left arm for Helen. "Take my arm."
Helen blinked before stretching forth her right hand to grasp Jason's forearm.
"Now you'll see precisely what it looked like back then. For your research." Jason smiled.
"Yes." Helen nodded. She eagerly stared at the front entrance. It was grand with its wide stone staircase leading up to a red door. Wow! It's so big! It was two-stories high with two towers and many white eight-pane windows. Her heart was racing. Whether from nervousness or excitement, Helen did not know.
Jason and Helen ascended the stone steps. Upon reaching the top, Jason opened the red door for Helen, who still held onto his arm. And in an instant, after passing through the doorway, everything changed in a flash. So much so that Helen stood motionless, blinking as she tried to comprehend what lay before her.
The room was suddenly darker, lit only by the soft glow of candlelight. Baroque music flooded her ears as couples swirled about the Center Great Hall. More nobility in lush gowns and fine suits were conversing while sitting in Chippendale chairs and settees outlining the raised paneling walls. Servants with powdered white wigs walked around with a silver tray of either Madeira or delicate snacks.
W-What in the world is this?! Helen perfectly knew she was in a historic place, but she did not expect to see this so soon. It was frighteningly accurate. Yet, something still didn't feel natural to her. Something felt off. As if seeking the reassurance of her mental state, Helen turned her head to look behind her. She saw other nobles in formal attire stepping out from black carriages, which were never there before. The sky had blackened, too, decorated with twinkling stars and a soft full moon. Where did everyone go? Where's the film crew? Bewildered, Helen continued frantically glancing around. And where's the staff member that was just here a moment ago?
Helen suddenly felt something tickle her elbows and upon looking at it, she noticed she was wearing a silk navy blue Robe à l'Anglaise with lace ruffles tacked to her elbow-length sleeves. My dress! What the hell? What happened to it? "Where am I? What is happening?"
"I should think that was rather obvious," said a familiar, handsome English voice as the two maneuvered to one side of the room away from the dancers. "We are at a ball, madam." The voice was pleasant to Helen's ears, but something wasn't quite right. It was cold and apathetic. It had lost the warmth and kindness it held a minute ago.
Fearing the worst, Helen coerced herself to look up at Jason. His stern, bored expression wounded Helen's heart. It was such a drastic change from what she had witnessed.
"Jason...?"
The man threw an icy glare down at Helen. "Pardon me?" His intense blue eyes pierced Helen's heart. "You know perfectly well my name is William Tavington."
Tavington?! Well, yes, but...he's Jason, isn't he? Worry flooded Helen's heart.
"I don't know who this 'Jason' is, but it would be unwise of you to insult me among the guests."
"But I wasn't-"
"If you are considering even the slightest of turning around in an attempt to escape, I'd advise you don't lest you prefer losing more than, apparently, your eyes and ears tonight, Miss Sinclair. You're a prisoner. My prisoner, and you will obey my orders. Is that understood?"
Prisoner...? Since when was I his prisoner? Just what the hell happened?! The overwhelming situation, melded with her confusion and her hurt toward Jason's strange behavior, rendered Helen speechless.
"Is that understood?" repeated Tavington but a bit more tersely.
"Y-Yes!"Helen instinctively straightened her back, feeling surprised by how intensely commanding he was in person.
"Good."
Helen sighed. "Okay. I'll admit it. You play your character's role well. Now, can you stop actin', please? I think you be goin' mighty far with it."
"Acting...?" Tavington slid his hand up Helen's right arm to grasp her elbow, giving it a squeeze hard enough to send a warning, as he pulled her aside away from the crowd. Tavington led her into a more private room at the east end of the building. "You think I'm acting. You're a bold one, aren't you? I don't think you quite understand the situation you're in, Miss Sinclair." He released Helen only to grab her chin, forcing her to stare at him. "I know not if you're wishing to die or if you hit your head somewhere, but allow me to clarify for you. You will behave properly under my presence while we're here. I will not have you make a fool out of me in front of my officers. Keep quiet and you can keep your pretty head on your shoulders."
"Ahem! Colonel Tavington," spoke a posh English male voice, "Lord Cornwallis wishes to speak with you."
Tavington quickly removed his hand but kept his gaze fixed on Helen, even as his face fell. "As you wish, General O'Hara." Tavington lowered his voice just enough for Helen to hear. "Stay here and don't you dare move from this spot, understood?"
"Yes, Colonel Tavington." It was all Helen could manage to say.
And with that, Tavington followed the officer, disappearing from Helen's view.
With a heavy sigh of relief, Helen wavered two steps backward. She pressed a hand on her forehead as she began to feel dizzy. Her knees gave out and she approached a Chippendale chair from behind. Remembering her research, Helen slightly picked up the side hoops around the hip area of her gown and sat down, perching on the chair. She sighed again, placing a hand on her racing heart as she looked at the ornate paintings on the wall across from her.
This is a joke, right? I am seeing things. It has to be a joke. Heh. It certainly has me fooled. But the more Helen fought to convince herself of this, the more she began to realize it wasn't a joke. This was a reality. Her reality. She wasn't home anymore, and Jason Isaacs never existed. There was only the infamous William Tavington, "The Butcher".
"Just where in the world am I?"