§ § § -- May 7, 1995
The tiny grocery in the town was barely big enough to hold all three of the customers who came in through the door. The proprietor bustled out from a back room, eyes alight at the idea of so many sales all at once. "Good morn, all, and what may I help ye with?"
Leslie drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin, speaking slowly and regally. "I am Lady Hamilton-Roarke, and this is my sire, the esteemed Lord Roarke. We are newly arrived from London and have been told that you carry the finest oat stirabout in all the colonies. Have we been informed correctly?"
The proprietor stared in awe at the "lord and lady" who eyed him down their aristocratic noses. "H-how came ye to know of my humble establishment, m'lady?"
"Our dear friend, Mistress Patience Anne Lindley," said Roarke, his upper-crust British accent dead-on, and turned to indicate Greta Gail, who nodded to the proprietor. The man brightened with recognition.
"Mistress Lindley! So good to see ye this morn. Aye, m'lord and m'lady, I do indeed have the oat stirabout of which ye speak. Shall I have some measured out for ye?"
"We should prefer to speak with its maker," Leslie told him, lowering her chin fractionally. "I am given to understand that she is an Irishwoman?"
"Oh…yes…that'd be Master Fearghal O'Donahue's good wife," the proprietor said, head bobbing in vigorous affirmation. "Ye're in luck, m'lady, she happens to be here this moment with a fresh supply. I shall bring her directly out." He bowed at them and scuttled off to the back room.
"Wow, if I didn't know it was you two, I'd be intimidated," Greta Gail whispered at them, grinning. "Nice work."
Leslie snickered cheerfully. "Hey, this is fun!"
A moment later the proprietor emerged again with a black-haired woman in tow. Greta Gail had been right; she could have passed for the woman's sister. "M'lord Roarke and m'lady Hamilton-Roarke, may I present Mistress O'Donahue, the good lady who mills the fine oat stirabout ye seek." They watched Mrs. Fearghal curtsey low.
"Please rise, Mistress…and do tell me, how large a supply can you ship to London?" Leslie inquired. "Mistress Lindley has informed us that there is none better than your oats."
"Ah, noo, m'lady, ye praise me too much," said Mrs. O'Donahue, blushing. "I merely make enough fer me own bairns an' sell the remainder fer a poor pittance."
"Why, mistress, we had a taste of your product this morn, and it was utterly delicious," Roarke put in with a smile. "Mean ye to say that it is merely a hobby?"
"Aye, m'lord, 'tis true, I fear," Mrs. O'Donahue said with a tiny sigh. "Me husband, noo, he sells the smokin' weed, an' he don't hold wi' me little 'hobby'."
"Might we speak with him? Perhaps we can persuade him otherwise," Leslie said. Mrs. O'Donahue blinked and gave the proprietor a stunned look, while Leslie fielded a quick warning glance from Roarke.
"Forgive me, m'lady," Greta Gail broke in then, stepping forward. "Perhaps we impose upon ye, mistress. I do apologize. But I too am a dedicated purchaser of your fine oats, and perhaps we three together might speak with Master O'Donahue."
"Ye need nae wait," thundered a voice from behind them, and they all whirled around to see none other than Fearghal O'Donahue himself stride through the door, towing the hapless Barry Lorimer by the ear. "Here be the blackguard who burned me latest cr-rrr-rop! Ye ha' rrrr-rrruined me, ye interferin' fool!"
"Which crop, precisely, did he burn?" broke in Roarke.
O'Donahue stopped in his tracks, took in the newcomers with widening eyes, and let go of Lorimer long enough to bow. "M'lord an' lady! Welcome to our wee hamlet! Might I ask what brings ye ta these parts? Ha' ye a pipe that needs fillin', m'lord? I ha' the finest…"
"We come inquiring after your good wife's fine oats," Leslie said, peering at him with great disapproval. "My lord sire smokes not." At which Greta Gail pivoted away to hide the grin that was trying to break out. Roarke gave Leslie a long, dubious sidewise look.
"Me wife's oats, ye say, m'lady?" O'Donahue exclaimed in disbelief. "Ye dinna mean the verra same oats she feeds the bairns, then!"
"Oh, indeed we do, Master O'Donahue. They carry a reputation that has reached all the way to London!" Roarke said expansively. "Why, our very own Mistress Lindley here has naught but high praise for your wife's fine oats!"
Greta Gail, having recovered her composure, curtseyed to her ancestor. "I certainly do, Master O'Donahue. They are worth any price she cares to ask for them."
These words prompted O'Donahue to raise one eyebrow and regard his wife with new interest. "Enna prrr-rrrice a'tall, ye say? Hmmmm." He turned the thought over while they watched him; then he aimed a disgusted look over his shoulder at Lorimer. "Well, ye blackguard, if ye desired ta send me an' me family ta the poorhouse, ye ha' failed. Methinks it be time ta look inta plantin' some o' that horsey swill ye persist in feedin' the bairns, Keelin. Come along an' we'll discuss the possibility." And out they went.
"So that's how it's pronounced," said Greta Gail, earning perplexed looks from Roarke, Leslie and the proprietor, but making Lorimer grin broadly. She caught the eyes of the others and cleared her throat loudly. "I believe we shall accompany the master and mistress to their home so that m'lord and lady might take some oats home with them. A fine day to ye, my good sir, and thank you ever so much."
"Of course, of course…and a fine day to ye also," murmured the proprietor, obviously too bewildered to do more than watch them leave.
An hour or so later, Roarke and Leslie stepped out of the time-travel room, followed by Barry Lorimer and Greta Gail O'Donahue, each carrying a bag of oats. Leslie and Greta Gail were both laughing over their performance like longtime friends, but their merriment was cut short by the sound of the ringing phone. Leslie hurried across the room to pick it up. "Yes? Oh…yes, Mr. O'Donahue…" She held out the receiver in Roarke's direction. "Needless to say, it's for you, Father."
"Actually, I think it's for me," Greta Gail said hastily, before Roarke could reply, and took the receiver from Leslie. "Hi, Dad…long time no speak." She winced as her father's outraged bellow filled her ear; the others could easily hear the noise. "Hey, look, don't blame Mr. Roarke! I'm the one who wanted to disappear, and I wouldn't have let up on him till he agreed, no matter what. You're the one who's always claiming the customer should get what he asks for." She rolled her eyes at his response. "Dad, will you clam up a minute and let me try to get a word in? Honestly, every time I try to say something, you shut me up, and I gotta tell you, I'm sick to death of it. Just because I'm the only person in the family who hates the product—" She stopped abruptly and, after a few seconds, blinked in disbelief. "Huh?" Her silence became protracted, and Lorimer began to shift his weight, catching her attention. "Oh, by the way, Dad, your bounty hunter's right here." She promptly thrust the receiver into Lorimer's hand and presented him with her back, staring at Roarke and Leslie.
"What happened?" Leslie asked.
Greta Gail blinked, as if coming back to the present from some flight of imagination. "Apparently this year's tobacco crop wasn't up to par, and Dad was looking for some way to make up the loss of income. And wouldn't you know it, but one of my nieces was doing a school project on family history and chose none other than Mrs. Fearghal to be the subject of a report she has to give. She found out about Mrs. Fearghal's little business. To quote Dad: 'Your multi-great-grandmother produced some mighty fine oats, I hear, and if Mary Leigh can find out how she did it, we're going into a side business.' He's already planning some TV ads, and he wants me to be the spokesperson for Mrs. Fearghal's Oats."
Leslie peered at her bag, then at Greta Gail. "Is that what he plans to call them?"
"Yeah, I think so," Greta Gail said, still looking dumbfounded. At this point Lorimer hung up and approached them.
"Say, Greta Gail—your dad tells me that if I can convince you to do the TV commercials for his new oatmeal enterprise, he'll double the fee he was gonna pay me." He caught her outraged look and shrugged. "Well, geez, what's the harm? I get paid, you don't have to pitch cancer sticks, and your pop gets to make up the income he's losing through lack of a crop. It's a win-win situation, so why fight it?"
Greta Gail frowned dubiously. "I just have this feeling that there's some hidden agenda in there someplace. Like Dad's got some trick up his sleeve, so that as soon as I'm back in Richmond, he'll corral me and force me to pose for the next ten years' worth of magazine ads for all eight family brands of cigarettes, or something."
"Well," Leslie said slowly after some moments' silence, "my opinion here is that it might be worth it. If you go back and put all your effort into making the oatmeal enterprise succeed, there's a chance it could be profitable enough to convince your dad that there's decent money in oats and eventually lessen his dependence on tobacco for a living."
"That seems plausible," said Roarke, making her smile with appreciation. "It may be a gradual operation; but nothing worth having comes easily. Should you turn your back on your father's offer in favor of returning to eighteenth-century Virginia—where, I might add, you have yet to convince anyone to give up the smoking habit—there is less likely to be a permanent change in the O'Donahue livelihood."
Greta Gail thought this over for a couple of minutes, while Lorimer watched her intently, a passionately hopeful expression on his features. To prod her along, he suggested, "You could always tell your pop you'll do it as long as he doesn't make you go out and stump for smoking."
Greta Gail frowned harder, adding his thought to the mix that was clearly churning in her brain. "Well…" she mumbled, drawing out the word.
"Maybe you could make that suggestion after you tell your father you'll do the oatmeal ads," Leslie offered. "You don't want to push your luck at the very beginning, and anyway, I'm sure he's completely aware of your feelings about cigarettes."
Greta Gail focused on her, her brow clearing. "That's true. You know, the more I think it over, the better I like it." She drew in a deep breath and turned to Lorimer. "Okay, buddy, looks like I'm going home. I guess that means you'll be able to pay your rent."
Lorimer lit up and let out a whoop that made both Roarke and Leslie wince; even Greta Gail grimaced a bit and rubbed one ear. "Oh, sorry about that. But lady, you just made my day. Better than that, you made my entire year! Mr. Roarke, thank you…my fantasy just got granted, and I appreciate it. Not only that, I apologize for all the guff I gave you and Leslie this weekend." He grinned sheepishly.
"No harm done, Mr. Lorimer, and I am very pleased that we were able to bring your fantasy to fruition. And you, Miss O'Donahue…have we granted your fantasy as well?"
Greta Gail laughed. "You know, I think you have. I never expected it to turn out this way, but I guess this is the best way it could've happened." She shook Roarke's hand and then Leslie's, beaming. "Thank you both so much."
"You're very welcome," Roarke said warmly, a broad smile lighting his dark eyes. "It's always gratifying when we can fulfill a fantasy. Miss O'Donahue, we have a vacant bungalow which you might like to make use of. You need only inquire and our staff will bring you whatever you wish—new clothing, a meal, toiletries, anything."
"Fabulous," Greta Gail said and grinned at Leslie. "First thing I'm doing is taking the longest, sudsiest bubble bath in the history of womankind. And then I'm going to have a big lunch with all my favorite exotic food. I've really missed Chinese cuisine, y'know?" She and Leslie laughed; Leslie offered to take Greta Gail to the bungalow Roarke had mentioned, and the heiress agreed and accompanied her out.
Lorimer watched them leave and scratched his head in contemplation. "Mr. Roarke…you think it's possible that she might let me share her lunch?"
"Oh, you never know, Mr. Lorimer," Roarke remarked, still smiling widely. "Perhaps if you hurry and catch up with her and Leslie, you might ask."
"Right." Lorimer grinned. "Thanks again, Mr. Roarke." He rushed out the door, and Roarke indulged in a long chuckle before settling behind the desk to complete a little more paperwork till Leslie returned.