I know! It's been two weeks already without an update! Many humble
apologies; I've been busy working on my new novel, "Adrienne's New Name",
and got wrapped up in it. Also, this is really bugging the crap out of
me—but does Mrs. Hudson have a first name?? I find it really hard to allow
my characters to be friends with her if they don't even know what to call
her! Anyway, I'm back with the fourth addition. Have fun, read and review!
CHAPTER FOUR: THRUPPENCE AND SIXPENCE EVERY DAY
* * * * * *
After Rita had an ammonia ampule waved under her nose, promptly came to and was helped into a chair, the doctor retrieved his leather bag from within his bedroom, opened it and resumed his examination of my pitiable state of being. After a short while of listening to my lungs with the stethoscope for signs of impending respiratory arrest, although my coughing had died down, he announced his diagnosis to my sister, who seemed to now be doing fairly better than myself. "What your sister has is a moderate case of pneumonia."
"Pneumonia?" Rita cried frantically.
"Don't worry, your sister should be fine; we were able to catch it in its developing stage. It's a very serious illness, but it hasn't had time to fully develop, so with some medicine and rest, she should be fine in a few weeks. I highly recommend that she not go outdoors until those two weeks are through, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The doctor then called for Mrs. Hudson, who helped me down the stairs and took my sister and I under her own wing. She fed us some soup, and tea—which was quite an experience for Rita, who confessed to never having had a 'proper tea' before. I didn't even know how to drink tea correctly, and my being extremely fatigued from the medicine the doctor gave me didn't help matters, much to the woman's amusement.
The next thing I knew, the woman was walking me into her study towards a small couch that had blankets thrown over it. I didn't even ask if it was for my benefit, I simply slid under the covers. The pillow was soft and cool, and I had that weird feeling you get when you're sleeping in a bed that's not your own, but my heavy eyes and exhausted mind didn't much care. All that I knew was that the stress, the medicine, and my ill begotten body had more than taken its toll. I was vaguely aware that it was only four- thirty in the afternoon, but I simply could not stay awake.
"Good night, Leyla," I heard Rita say, and to my surprise, I felt her softly kiss my forehead. I glanced up at her, my dazed vision falling upon my grinning sibling. Well, at least one of us was excited. I probably would have been a little more enthusiastic now that our prospects of surviving were a bit better, thanks to the woman's generous hospitality, but it was an enormous effort just to blink...
My sister's rich giggle was the last thing I heard before I finally drifted into a deep, peaceful slumber.
I had the craziest dream that night. There I was, situated in the largest non-military cafeteria in the world, with Lily sitting directly across from me. The first thing that I noticed was that we were playing a game of Chess, her elbow propped up as she cradled her head against her hand, contemplating a move.
As she carefully moved her bishop across the black-and-white board, she spoke, not bothering to look up at first. "Well, well, lady Leyla," her eyes casting an upward glance as her mouth slowly curved upwards, "are you giving fun yet?"
I felt the urge to laugh, but didn't. "Yeah, sure. Great start! I wake up with a terrific hangover, in a London holding cell no less, after which my sister and I are set loose with no where to go, with no food, no money, and not knowing our way around. Very promising, indeed! Then we make our way to Baker Street, where I cough out a lung and find out I have pneumonia. I'm just dandy, thank you very much!"
She chuckled softly, and glancing up at her to shoot a sarcastic smirk, I noticed suddenly how different she looked from the last I'd seen her. Her face was the first major change I noticed. Instead of decorating her eyes in the usual thick, precise eyeliner, heavy coats of mascara and false lashes... her look was almost shockingly simple. Dark eyes and pale lips now—a pretty, but not flashy, mod-sixties look. Then I took a glance at her clothing. My hippie-obsessed friend, usually with the long, flowing blonde hair and flamboyant colored dresses was now... wearing shoulder-length hair in a girly, up-do hairstyle. She had a baby-doll fashion about her, now dressed conservatively in a feminine collared shirt and knee-length, form- fitting skirt to match.
I raised an eyebrow. "Hey Pattie Boyd, what happened to you? Where did you go?"
Moving my knight a few spaces across the board, I waited impatiently for her reply. She sighed, "Andrew and I were going to go to 1960, but apparently I'd written 1965... I was too drunk to notice, but I'm happy when we ended up. The mod look is all the rage, as you can see." She then looked my attire up and down. "I see you have no plans on fitting in, though."
"Victorian England sucks. I wish we could trade."
She laughed quietly, patting my hand. "Cheer up, Leyla! I'm sure it'll all work out for the best."
I looked up at her, still confused. "What were the ingredients? How do I get home?"
Her eyes twinkled as she replied. "Don't worry; I'll lasso you back to the 21st century when it's time." Her gaze fell back to the board, and her hand stretched towards her Queen as she smirked deviously. "Checkmate."
With that, I woke up.
My whole body felt stiff as a board, and I stretched lazily. The sun's rays filtered through a window and played annoyingly on my face; I blocked them with my arms, groaning audibly. A part of me thought that the past few days had been one crazy, terrible dream, and force of habit told me to get up, kick Rita out of bed, and rush down to journalism class before Mr. Jackson vented fiery fumes on me.
I rolled up to a sitting position and rubbed my eyes. I turned my head, expecting to find my alarm clock on my small walnut bedside table—that I'd no doubt failed to set—and read the glowing numbers on it that told me I'd slept in until the late afternoon.
Wait.
I'm not in my bedroom.
I glanced around the room, my mind quickly sobering up to the quite rude awakening of reality. Instead of finding my bare white-walled dorm with my purse hanging on the post at the end of my bed, my homework and books piled up on the oak desk between the two beds, and a snoozing Rita directly across from me... I found a rose-infested, old-fashioned room. There were cherry-wood bookshelves around the room, floor to ceiling, and framing the marble fireplace at the end of the room.
I looked down in bemusement... a soft blanket decorated with pansies. I was sleeping on a red Cleopatra couch in some study. The blanks in my head suddenly filled themselves in.
I was in Victorian London. 221 Baker Street. Downstairs apartment. Mrs. Hudson. Landlady. I coughed softly—pneumonia. Doctor Watson diagnosed me. Shortly after Rita had fainted.
I threw the blanket off of me, everything seeming to swirl inside of my head and I set my feet on the cold, hardwood floor. I felt truly fatigued, and wanted to crawl back into bed, but I didn't want to sleep. Not anymore. I blinked the tiredness out of my eyes as my mind rapidly woke up—much faster than was usually the case.
I padded barefoot—Rita must have taken my shoes off—over to the window on the other side of the room. It must have been around noon; horses and hansoms and people filled the small cobblestone street. The laughter of children playing in the street, the clicking of horse-hooves and the yelling of drivers and passersby's came flooding into the room as I opened the window with a creak, staring wide-eyed in stunned silence as I observed the strange, very strange world around me.
This was real. No kidding. It really was 1887.
I shuddered slightly. It almost gave me the creeps, in a weird sort of way that I can't describe. I felt like I was surrounded by ghosts from the past... yet at the same time, it all looked so normal. It would be impossible to put it into words how I felt, but... it was oddly intimidating. Exciting, but intimidating!
Just then the door burst open, and I gave a slight jump. I turned around quickly, and gasped to find a grinning, Victorian-ized resemblance of my sister, almost a living Technicolor version of a picture of our great-great- great-grandmother. "Rita!" I cried. "What in God's name happened to you?"
She giggled in delight. "Do you like it?"
"You look like the Haunted Mansion!"
"Isn't it hilarious?"
"It's awesome!!"
I could hardly believe that my sister, instead of sporting her usual khakis and laid-back, glittery-logo shirts, she was actually wearing a dress. And her hair! The bottom of her short hair was curled slightly and layered, framing her face very nicely. Gone also were her schoolgirl pink lip- smacker lips; she was actually wearing... I braced myself... real make-up! Dark lipstick to match the crimson dress, no less! Foundation, mascara, rouge—the works!
I laughed aloud. "Wow, you look... so sophisticated... good God..."
"That's not all," said Rita, entering the room further and sitting on the sofa. "I got a job at this cute little bookstore on Yorkshire! Oh, you should have seen it! There were so many shops; it was so difficult to choose, but this one I really liked! You don't even need an application—I just signed a written agreement to work there and I start next Monday! Isn't that awesome? 10-pounds a week! I love it!"
I started coughing, but managed to reply, "Who dressed you up?"
"Oh! Of course," she grinned girlishly, "Mrs. Hudson had quite a laugh over our outfits, and helped me get acquainted with the latest styles over here. I promised to pay her back for this and also for helping us out with the doctor's bill; and maybe if we save up, we could rent here! Oh Leyla, this is so amazing! AND SHERLOCK HOLMES!! Oh dear God, I met Sherlock Holmes! And Dr. Watson! And Mrs. Hudson! And—"
"Take a breath, girl!" I laughed at her enthusiasm, trying to calm her down before she passed out from sheer excitement. "Be careful you don't hyperventilate. By the way, do you know where the restroom is?"
"It's past the living room," she helped me up and led me quickly through the main sitting room, her conduct amusingly extra-polite this day.
Getting acquainted with the antique bathroom was an experience in itself; everything looked different. The tub looked deeper and the toilet looked like it came from the Dark Ages. Even the little bathroom ornaments—they looked so fragile I dared not even breath on them, no doubt because the only similar items I'd seen previously were pushing a hundred.
Opening up cabinets and drawers, I searched high and low for any sign of—you guessed it—a toothbrush. Well, wouldn't you feel a bit weird trying to adapt to Victorian hygiene? Not to mention that it was one of my phobias, of all things. I absolutely could not *stand* plaque in my mouth. And right now, frankly, it was driving me nuts.
Suddenly remembering something mom had taught me years ago when we were camping, I cracked open the door and asked Rita to get me some salt. She smiled knowingly, "I did that, too; it's sitting on the bathroom sink."
I turned around, and sure enough, there in a crystal shaker, was salt. Shutting the door, I located a small washcloth, wet it with warm water, sprinkled salt on it, and went to work. After I'd finished my bathroom routine, I decided that the two of us would get along just fine, and walked out feeling a million times better already.
As I stepped back into the sitting room, I located Rita, sitting on the little Victorian sofa and grinning madly. I snickered at her unusually giddy demeanor and asked, "Where's, umm... what's her name?"
"Mrs. Hudson?"
"Yeah, her. Is she here?"
"She's serving the tenants lunch right now," Rita replied before patting on a bag, which sat next to her on the sofa. "I want to show you something." She then took out these clothes, covered in this plastic... stuff... and gently placed it on the sofa.
I suddenly caught on to why she was grinning so deviously. "Oh no. Don't even think it, Rita Michelle."
"Come on!" She laughed, no doubt at the horrific expression on my face. "You trust my taste in clothes, don't you? You're gonna love them!"
"No thanks, I think my jeans are just fine."
"You can't wear jeans in 1887, Leyla. You know, you could actually get fined for wearing pants?"
I cocked an eyebrow. "Shut up."
"I'm serious!"
"They actually—what—" I attempted a yell, but it was no use. My voice was shot. "They fine women for wearing pants?" Oh, no wonder so many women wore dresses! I knew it couldn't have been because they actually liked them. "Why?"
"Because people believed in conventional clothing." She pulled out a soft blue dress, and laid it out over the couch. "I know you love blue, so I thought of you went I got this. You hate dresses, I know, but ... it's lovely, you have to admit. And you can't tell me you're not the teensiest bit curious. At least try it on, okay? For me?"
I picked up the fabric with a shudder and held it up to myself, wondering if it would fit. Oh, how I hated these things... but well, as the saying goes. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.
* * * * * *
The days passed slowly; at least for me, anyway. Rita seemed to be having the time of her life, having a new job at a bookstore and coming home to share all of her new experiences... whereas every day, each day for weeks, I would simply lie in bed, slowly improving. Rita always kept me posted with what the outside world was like, though, true to her word; she was in love with the clothes, the manners, the town, and the accents... she couldn't get over the accents. I have to admit, despite being scared at first, her detailed and animated accounts of the day's events gave me something to look forward to.
Meanwhile, Dr. Watson made sure to check up on me every morning and evening, on the way to and from his usual run to patients. After the first few initial visits, I decided that I liked him. He was very conversational and polite, which I definitely needed right now. I felt like I had someone to talk to when Rita was gone. No offense to Mrs. Hudson; she was sweet, but she was always cleaning or cooking. It was hard trying to open the old lady up.
As for my health, the good doctor seemed to be pleased with my progress, and always examined me with scrupulous care. Apparently, the poor doctor's other patients hadn't been making as good as a recovery; he'd told me that he had an outbreak of typhoid fever on his hands. He was actually surprised—delighted but surprised—that I had been healing so quickly.
This information surprised me, however, since I recalled that on our first meeting, he was about to run off with the detective. One day, I decided to pose this question to him. "Say Watson, I don't mean to pry, but I'm curious... why were you so eager to run off on a case with you're detective friend if you're battling with such a huge epidemic?"
"I didn't realize it was enteric until a few short days after he had left. I only had a few minor cases, I thought, and for that... I take up other doctor's runs when they are unable. They're always ready to pay back the debt." He thought for a moment as he checked my pulse and temperature. "I prefer to see my cases through, though, if that's worrying you."
"Oh no, I was just wondering."
"You said you felt ill shortly after you arrived in London?"
"Yup," I answered, my whole story having been quickly elaborated, it being that I had nothing else to really think about lying in bed all of the time, "the day I arrived is when I began feeling it, as a matter of fact."
"That's not uncommon for many people traveling on ships for long periods of time. The sanitation, as I'm sure you know, isn't the best, and with so many people confined together, disease spreads very quickly. Large numbers of people with whom I'd sailed to and from India and Afghanistan had died along the way, and there wasn't much we could do to aid the suffering. I'm surprised your sister didn't fall ill."
Thank God I never was on a boat! "Rita? She hardly ever gets sick."
"Nevertheless, I'm happy at the progress you're making, Miss Clairemont. I wouldn't be surprised if you were completely recovered by the end of the week!"
And as he predicted, that coming Friday... I felt good! Not just the passing feeling, either, but I felt physically well. My lungs didn't rattle when I breathed and my throat didn't itch like crazy. I felt like a normal person again. I was a bit weak, but nonetheless, I managed to get out of bed, and eat breakfast with Rita before she left for work. Getting dressed, however, was another story.
Rita tied the corset even tighter this time. "OW! I can taste my spleen, Rita!"
"I'm sorry," she muttered, "I'll loosen it up... happy?"
"I think you've cracked three ribs, but other than that, I feel just peachy."
Well, having gotten past the horrid undergarments, I tried on the blue dress, which Rita had gotten for me. Amazingly, she had managed to pick out a dress that was my exact size. I was really impressed with the choice that she had made, but even still...
"Do you like it?" My sister asked.
"I feel so constricted. I can barely move... I'm going to miss not being able to run. Are you sure I can't wear pants?" I turned to face her, sighing as she nodded her head in confirmation. "Whatever... it just feels like I *have* to wear this, much the same way as a uniform. It sort of sucks the fun out of it."
"Oh, you'll get used to it. I'll fix up your hair, put some make-up on you, introduce you to your new shoes... you'll look beautiful. You already do."
I smiled—never a bad time to take a compliment.
My sister moseyed her way down Baker Street on her way to work, leading me by the arm as she pointed out at all of the little shops she'd been visiting lately with such giddiness that I couldn't help but grin along with her. I have to admit... not having the stress that I felt a few weeks ago when we first arrived helped me to view the city in a much different way.
The streets were narrow and, being a city girl from the streets of southern California, they gave me a slight feeling of claustrophobia. Everything was narrow, as a matter of fact. The buildings, doorways, windows—everything. The shop windows, despite their age, had a simple charming appeal.
The more I studied this place, the more I found glimpses of elegance and aristocracy. The intricate iron fences adorning homes, the magnificent and delicate architecture of houses and churches... it had a sort of glamour and romance to it, and I began to develop a deep respect for it. It was a wise and experienced city that was no stranger to the taste of glory, pride and power.
Passing the houses, I noticed they were all designed differently, unlike the suburban houses I was used to seeing. All of the yards, however, had similar rose gardens and bushes, and were obviously kept with care. And another thing I noticed—there were so many trees! Everywhere, nothing but trees! As a 21st century city girl, I wasn't used to seeing that. Most of the bigger trees were always cut down to keep the sideways straight and branches were sloppily chopped... I couldn't believe the height of some of these trees.
Having taken a good, hard look at the city, the only word I can find to describe it was: humbling.
"Here we are," Rita said as she pushed open the glass-paned doors to what appeared from the exterior to be nothing more than a hole in the wall, but having stepped inside... it was rather large. The store, being situated on the corner of Yorkshire and Baker Street, boasted floor-to-ceiling windows facing the streets, the light flooding into the little shop.
Rita strolled up to the front desk. "Mr. Cummings, this is my sister, Leyla Clairemont. I told you about her?"
He immediately stopped working on his typewriter, and taking off his reading glasses, the man—roughly around his late thirties—shook my hand. "Of course! It's a pleasure to meet you! Your sister gave me hopes of finding an opening for you in my employment?"
I smiled, "Yeah, I'd love that."
"Excellent! What is your particular line, Miss Clairemont?"
"Well, I've worked in sales and have done filing work before."
"I'd most definitely be able to accommodate you," he leaned back against his seat, scratching his chin. "When would you be able to start?"
"Today, if you'd like."
He rubbed his hands together in glee as he sat up from his chair. "No objections here, Miss Clairemont, but since the day is half-through, I'll take this opportunity to explain the requirements of your work. You would start at ten-pounds a week. How does that sound?"
"Just fine!"
He proceeded to show me around the shop, demonstrated how my job was to be done, not to mention Rita excitedly introducing me to my new co-workers. At the end of the day, having my own job, a place to live, and knowing a few people gave me a good feeling about this place. My awkwardness never ceased to remind me of my newness to this place, but I decided that I didn't detest Victorian England as much as I thought.
Home. That sounded so strange. I didn't know if I would ever feel the true essence of the word here... this place still felt so different. But nonetheless, here I was. No longer at 12 West Chestnut Street, Room 43, University of Santa Barbara... but 221-A Baker Street, London. England.
And you know what the strangest part is... I was starting to like it.
* * * * * *
Oh man! You guys have no idea how hard this chapter was to write! Especially when it came to Watson—I didn't want to make him open up to them too fast; I tried to make it seem friendly but not too friendly, as if they've known each other for years. I hope I succeeded. Anyway, if you know Mrs. Hudson's first name, TELL ME!! This is bugging me!
Sorry again for the delay, I've been super-busy lately *wipes sweat from forehead*. I'll try to be faster next time, but honestly, you may have to wait about two-weeks between chapters at the rate everything here is going. I know! It sucks! Hopefully Spring Break will ease my load, but we'll see.
If you really want to make me happy and have me sing your praise in the meantime, leave a review! =)
CHAPTER FOUR: THRUPPENCE AND SIXPENCE EVERY DAY
* * * * * *
After Rita had an ammonia ampule waved under her nose, promptly came to and was helped into a chair, the doctor retrieved his leather bag from within his bedroom, opened it and resumed his examination of my pitiable state of being. After a short while of listening to my lungs with the stethoscope for signs of impending respiratory arrest, although my coughing had died down, he announced his diagnosis to my sister, who seemed to now be doing fairly better than myself. "What your sister has is a moderate case of pneumonia."
"Pneumonia?" Rita cried frantically.
"Don't worry, your sister should be fine; we were able to catch it in its developing stage. It's a very serious illness, but it hasn't had time to fully develop, so with some medicine and rest, she should be fine in a few weeks. I highly recommend that she not go outdoors until those two weeks are through, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The doctor then called for Mrs. Hudson, who helped me down the stairs and took my sister and I under her own wing. She fed us some soup, and tea—which was quite an experience for Rita, who confessed to never having had a 'proper tea' before. I didn't even know how to drink tea correctly, and my being extremely fatigued from the medicine the doctor gave me didn't help matters, much to the woman's amusement.
The next thing I knew, the woman was walking me into her study towards a small couch that had blankets thrown over it. I didn't even ask if it was for my benefit, I simply slid under the covers. The pillow was soft and cool, and I had that weird feeling you get when you're sleeping in a bed that's not your own, but my heavy eyes and exhausted mind didn't much care. All that I knew was that the stress, the medicine, and my ill begotten body had more than taken its toll. I was vaguely aware that it was only four- thirty in the afternoon, but I simply could not stay awake.
"Good night, Leyla," I heard Rita say, and to my surprise, I felt her softly kiss my forehead. I glanced up at her, my dazed vision falling upon my grinning sibling. Well, at least one of us was excited. I probably would have been a little more enthusiastic now that our prospects of surviving were a bit better, thanks to the woman's generous hospitality, but it was an enormous effort just to blink...
My sister's rich giggle was the last thing I heard before I finally drifted into a deep, peaceful slumber.
I had the craziest dream that night. There I was, situated in the largest non-military cafeteria in the world, with Lily sitting directly across from me. The first thing that I noticed was that we were playing a game of Chess, her elbow propped up as she cradled her head against her hand, contemplating a move.
As she carefully moved her bishop across the black-and-white board, she spoke, not bothering to look up at first. "Well, well, lady Leyla," her eyes casting an upward glance as her mouth slowly curved upwards, "are you giving fun yet?"
I felt the urge to laugh, but didn't. "Yeah, sure. Great start! I wake up with a terrific hangover, in a London holding cell no less, after which my sister and I are set loose with no where to go, with no food, no money, and not knowing our way around. Very promising, indeed! Then we make our way to Baker Street, where I cough out a lung and find out I have pneumonia. I'm just dandy, thank you very much!"
She chuckled softly, and glancing up at her to shoot a sarcastic smirk, I noticed suddenly how different she looked from the last I'd seen her. Her face was the first major change I noticed. Instead of decorating her eyes in the usual thick, precise eyeliner, heavy coats of mascara and false lashes... her look was almost shockingly simple. Dark eyes and pale lips now—a pretty, but not flashy, mod-sixties look. Then I took a glance at her clothing. My hippie-obsessed friend, usually with the long, flowing blonde hair and flamboyant colored dresses was now... wearing shoulder-length hair in a girly, up-do hairstyle. She had a baby-doll fashion about her, now dressed conservatively in a feminine collared shirt and knee-length, form- fitting skirt to match.
I raised an eyebrow. "Hey Pattie Boyd, what happened to you? Where did you go?"
Moving my knight a few spaces across the board, I waited impatiently for her reply. She sighed, "Andrew and I were going to go to 1960, but apparently I'd written 1965... I was too drunk to notice, but I'm happy when we ended up. The mod look is all the rage, as you can see." She then looked my attire up and down. "I see you have no plans on fitting in, though."
"Victorian England sucks. I wish we could trade."
She laughed quietly, patting my hand. "Cheer up, Leyla! I'm sure it'll all work out for the best."
I looked up at her, still confused. "What were the ingredients? How do I get home?"
Her eyes twinkled as she replied. "Don't worry; I'll lasso you back to the 21st century when it's time." Her gaze fell back to the board, and her hand stretched towards her Queen as she smirked deviously. "Checkmate."
With that, I woke up.
My whole body felt stiff as a board, and I stretched lazily. The sun's rays filtered through a window and played annoyingly on my face; I blocked them with my arms, groaning audibly. A part of me thought that the past few days had been one crazy, terrible dream, and force of habit told me to get up, kick Rita out of bed, and rush down to journalism class before Mr. Jackson vented fiery fumes on me.
I rolled up to a sitting position and rubbed my eyes. I turned my head, expecting to find my alarm clock on my small walnut bedside table—that I'd no doubt failed to set—and read the glowing numbers on it that told me I'd slept in until the late afternoon.
Wait.
I'm not in my bedroom.
I glanced around the room, my mind quickly sobering up to the quite rude awakening of reality. Instead of finding my bare white-walled dorm with my purse hanging on the post at the end of my bed, my homework and books piled up on the oak desk between the two beds, and a snoozing Rita directly across from me... I found a rose-infested, old-fashioned room. There were cherry-wood bookshelves around the room, floor to ceiling, and framing the marble fireplace at the end of the room.
I looked down in bemusement... a soft blanket decorated with pansies. I was sleeping on a red Cleopatra couch in some study. The blanks in my head suddenly filled themselves in.
I was in Victorian London. 221 Baker Street. Downstairs apartment. Mrs. Hudson. Landlady. I coughed softly—pneumonia. Doctor Watson diagnosed me. Shortly after Rita had fainted.
I threw the blanket off of me, everything seeming to swirl inside of my head and I set my feet on the cold, hardwood floor. I felt truly fatigued, and wanted to crawl back into bed, but I didn't want to sleep. Not anymore. I blinked the tiredness out of my eyes as my mind rapidly woke up—much faster than was usually the case.
I padded barefoot—Rita must have taken my shoes off—over to the window on the other side of the room. It must have been around noon; horses and hansoms and people filled the small cobblestone street. The laughter of children playing in the street, the clicking of horse-hooves and the yelling of drivers and passersby's came flooding into the room as I opened the window with a creak, staring wide-eyed in stunned silence as I observed the strange, very strange world around me.
This was real. No kidding. It really was 1887.
I shuddered slightly. It almost gave me the creeps, in a weird sort of way that I can't describe. I felt like I was surrounded by ghosts from the past... yet at the same time, it all looked so normal. It would be impossible to put it into words how I felt, but... it was oddly intimidating. Exciting, but intimidating!
Just then the door burst open, and I gave a slight jump. I turned around quickly, and gasped to find a grinning, Victorian-ized resemblance of my sister, almost a living Technicolor version of a picture of our great-great- great-grandmother. "Rita!" I cried. "What in God's name happened to you?"
She giggled in delight. "Do you like it?"
"You look like the Haunted Mansion!"
"Isn't it hilarious?"
"It's awesome!!"
I could hardly believe that my sister, instead of sporting her usual khakis and laid-back, glittery-logo shirts, she was actually wearing a dress. And her hair! The bottom of her short hair was curled slightly and layered, framing her face very nicely. Gone also were her schoolgirl pink lip- smacker lips; she was actually wearing... I braced myself... real make-up! Dark lipstick to match the crimson dress, no less! Foundation, mascara, rouge—the works!
I laughed aloud. "Wow, you look... so sophisticated... good God..."
"That's not all," said Rita, entering the room further and sitting on the sofa. "I got a job at this cute little bookstore on Yorkshire! Oh, you should have seen it! There were so many shops; it was so difficult to choose, but this one I really liked! You don't even need an application—I just signed a written agreement to work there and I start next Monday! Isn't that awesome? 10-pounds a week! I love it!"
I started coughing, but managed to reply, "Who dressed you up?"
"Oh! Of course," she grinned girlishly, "Mrs. Hudson had quite a laugh over our outfits, and helped me get acquainted with the latest styles over here. I promised to pay her back for this and also for helping us out with the doctor's bill; and maybe if we save up, we could rent here! Oh Leyla, this is so amazing! AND SHERLOCK HOLMES!! Oh dear God, I met Sherlock Holmes! And Dr. Watson! And Mrs. Hudson! And—"
"Take a breath, girl!" I laughed at her enthusiasm, trying to calm her down before she passed out from sheer excitement. "Be careful you don't hyperventilate. By the way, do you know where the restroom is?"
"It's past the living room," she helped me up and led me quickly through the main sitting room, her conduct amusingly extra-polite this day.
Getting acquainted with the antique bathroom was an experience in itself; everything looked different. The tub looked deeper and the toilet looked like it came from the Dark Ages. Even the little bathroom ornaments—they looked so fragile I dared not even breath on them, no doubt because the only similar items I'd seen previously were pushing a hundred.
Opening up cabinets and drawers, I searched high and low for any sign of—you guessed it—a toothbrush. Well, wouldn't you feel a bit weird trying to adapt to Victorian hygiene? Not to mention that it was one of my phobias, of all things. I absolutely could not *stand* plaque in my mouth. And right now, frankly, it was driving me nuts.
Suddenly remembering something mom had taught me years ago when we were camping, I cracked open the door and asked Rita to get me some salt. She smiled knowingly, "I did that, too; it's sitting on the bathroom sink."
I turned around, and sure enough, there in a crystal shaker, was salt. Shutting the door, I located a small washcloth, wet it with warm water, sprinkled salt on it, and went to work. After I'd finished my bathroom routine, I decided that the two of us would get along just fine, and walked out feeling a million times better already.
As I stepped back into the sitting room, I located Rita, sitting on the little Victorian sofa and grinning madly. I snickered at her unusually giddy demeanor and asked, "Where's, umm... what's her name?"
"Mrs. Hudson?"
"Yeah, her. Is she here?"
"She's serving the tenants lunch right now," Rita replied before patting on a bag, which sat next to her on the sofa. "I want to show you something." She then took out these clothes, covered in this plastic... stuff... and gently placed it on the sofa.
I suddenly caught on to why she was grinning so deviously. "Oh no. Don't even think it, Rita Michelle."
"Come on!" She laughed, no doubt at the horrific expression on my face. "You trust my taste in clothes, don't you? You're gonna love them!"
"No thanks, I think my jeans are just fine."
"You can't wear jeans in 1887, Leyla. You know, you could actually get fined for wearing pants?"
I cocked an eyebrow. "Shut up."
"I'm serious!"
"They actually—what—" I attempted a yell, but it was no use. My voice was shot. "They fine women for wearing pants?" Oh, no wonder so many women wore dresses! I knew it couldn't have been because they actually liked them. "Why?"
"Because people believed in conventional clothing." She pulled out a soft blue dress, and laid it out over the couch. "I know you love blue, so I thought of you went I got this. You hate dresses, I know, but ... it's lovely, you have to admit. And you can't tell me you're not the teensiest bit curious. At least try it on, okay? For me?"
I picked up the fabric with a shudder and held it up to myself, wondering if it would fit. Oh, how I hated these things... but well, as the saying goes. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.
* * * * * *
The days passed slowly; at least for me, anyway. Rita seemed to be having the time of her life, having a new job at a bookstore and coming home to share all of her new experiences... whereas every day, each day for weeks, I would simply lie in bed, slowly improving. Rita always kept me posted with what the outside world was like, though, true to her word; she was in love with the clothes, the manners, the town, and the accents... she couldn't get over the accents. I have to admit, despite being scared at first, her detailed and animated accounts of the day's events gave me something to look forward to.
Meanwhile, Dr. Watson made sure to check up on me every morning and evening, on the way to and from his usual run to patients. After the first few initial visits, I decided that I liked him. He was very conversational and polite, which I definitely needed right now. I felt like I had someone to talk to when Rita was gone. No offense to Mrs. Hudson; she was sweet, but she was always cleaning or cooking. It was hard trying to open the old lady up.
As for my health, the good doctor seemed to be pleased with my progress, and always examined me with scrupulous care. Apparently, the poor doctor's other patients hadn't been making as good as a recovery; he'd told me that he had an outbreak of typhoid fever on his hands. He was actually surprised—delighted but surprised—that I had been healing so quickly.
This information surprised me, however, since I recalled that on our first meeting, he was about to run off with the detective. One day, I decided to pose this question to him. "Say Watson, I don't mean to pry, but I'm curious... why were you so eager to run off on a case with you're detective friend if you're battling with such a huge epidemic?"
"I didn't realize it was enteric until a few short days after he had left. I only had a few minor cases, I thought, and for that... I take up other doctor's runs when they are unable. They're always ready to pay back the debt." He thought for a moment as he checked my pulse and temperature. "I prefer to see my cases through, though, if that's worrying you."
"Oh no, I was just wondering."
"You said you felt ill shortly after you arrived in London?"
"Yup," I answered, my whole story having been quickly elaborated, it being that I had nothing else to really think about lying in bed all of the time, "the day I arrived is when I began feeling it, as a matter of fact."
"That's not uncommon for many people traveling on ships for long periods of time. The sanitation, as I'm sure you know, isn't the best, and with so many people confined together, disease spreads very quickly. Large numbers of people with whom I'd sailed to and from India and Afghanistan had died along the way, and there wasn't much we could do to aid the suffering. I'm surprised your sister didn't fall ill."
Thank God I never was on a boat! "Rita? She hardly ever gets sick."
"Nevertheless, I'm happy at the progress you're making, Miss Clairemont. I wouldn't be surprised if you were completely recovered by the end of the week!"
And as he predicted, that coming Friday... I felt good! Not just the passing feeling, either, but I felt physically well. My lungs didn't rattle when I breathed and my throat didn't itch like crazy. I felt like a normal person again. I was a bit weak, but nonetheless, I managed to get out of bed, and eat breakfast with Rita before she left for work. Getting dressed, however, was another story.
Rita tied the corset even tighter this time. "OW! I can taste my spleen, Rita!"
"I'm sorry," she muttered, "I'll loosen it up... happy?"
"I think you've cracked three ribs, but other than that, I feel just peachy."
Well, having gotten past the horrid undergarments, I tried on the blue dress, which Rita had gotten for me. Amazingly, she had managed to pick out a dress that was my exact size. I was really impressed with the choice that she had made, but even still...
"Do you like it?" My sister asked.
"I feel so constricted. I can barely move... I'm going to miss not being able to run. Are you sure I can't wear pants?" I turned to face her, sighing as she nodded her head in confirmation. "Whatever... it just feels like I *have* to wear this, much the same way as a uniform. It sort of sucks the fun out of it."
"Oh, you'll get used to it. I'll fix up your hair, put some make-up on you, introduce you to your new shoes... you'll look beautiful. You already do."
I smiled—never a bad time to take a compliment.
My sister moseyed her way down Baker Street on her way to work, leading me by the arm as she pointed out at all of the little shops she'd been visiting lately with such giddiness that I couldn't help but grin along with her. I have to admit... not having the stress that I felt a few weeks ago when we first arrived helped me to view the city in a much different way.
The streets were narrow and, being a city girl from the streets of southern California, they gave me a slight feeling of claustrophobia. Everything was narrow, as a matter of fact. The buildings, doorways, windows—everything. The shop windows, despite their age, had a simple charming appeal.
The more I studied this place, the more I found glimpses of elegance and aristocracy. The intricate iron fences adorning homes, the magnificent and delicate architecture of houses and churches... it had a sort of glamour and romance to it, and I began to develop a deep respect for it. It was a wise and experienced city that was no stranger to the taste of glory, pride and power.
Passing the houses, I noticed they were all designed differently, unlike the suburban houses I was used to seeing. All of the yards, however, had similar rose gardens and bushes, and were obviously kept with care. And another thing I noticed—there were so many trees! Everywhere, nothing but trees! As a 21st century city girl, I wasn't used to seeing that. Most of the bigger trees were always cut down to keep the sideways straight and branches were sloppily chopped... I couldn't believe the height of some of these trees.
Having taken a good, hard look at the city, the only word I can find to describe it was: humbling.
"Here we are," Rita said as she pushed open the glass-paned doors to what appeared from the exterior to be nothing more than a hole in the wall, but having stepped inside... it was rather large. The store, being situated on the corner of Yorkshire and Baker Street, boasted floor-to-ceiling windows facing the streets, the light flooding into the little shop.
Rita strolled up to the front desk. "Mr. Cummings, this is my sister, Leyla Clairemont. I told you about her?"
He immediately stopped working on his typewriter, and taking off his reading glasses, the man—roughly around his late thirties—shook my hand. "Of course! It's a pleasure to meet you! Your sister gave me hopes of finding an opening for you in my employment?"
I smiled, "Yeah, I'd love that."
"Excellent! What is your particular line, Miss Clairemont?"
"Well, I've worked in sales and have done filing work before."
"I'd most definitely be able to accommodate you," he leaned back against his seat, scratching his chin. "When would you be able to start?"
"Today, if you'd like."
He rubbed his hands together in glee as he sat up from his chair. "No objections here, Miss Clairemont, but since the day is half-through, I'll take this opportunity to explain the requirements of your work. You would start at ten-pounds a week. How does that sound?"
"Just fine!"
He proceeded to show me around the shop, demonstrated how my job was to be done, not to mention Rita excitedly introducing me to my new co-workers. At the end of the day, having my own job, a place to live, and knowing a few people gave me a good feeling about this place. My awkwardness never ceased to remind me of my newness to this place, but I decided that I didn't detest Victorian England as much as I thought.
Home. That sounded so strange. I didn't know if I would ever feel the true essence of the word here... this place still felt so different. But nonetheless, here I was. No longer at 12 West Chestnut Street, Room 43, University of Santa Barbara... but 221-A Baker Street, London. England.
And you know what the strangest part is... I was starting to like it.
* * * * * *
Oh man! You guys have no idea how hard this chapter was to write! Especially when it came to Watson—I didn't want to make him open up to them too fast; I tried to make it seem friendly but not too friendly, as if they've known each other for years. I hope I succeeded. Anyway, if you know Mrs. Hudson's first name, TELL ME!! This is bugging me!
Sorry again for the delay, I've been super-busy lately *wipes sweat from forehead*. I'll try to be faster next time, but honestly, you may have to wait about two-weeks between chapters at the rate everything here is going. I know! It sucks! Hopefully Spring Break will ease my load, but we'll see.
If you really want to make me happy and have me sing your praise in the meantime, leave a review! =)
