At the Great House at Collinwood, four individuals have come together to hold a séance. Stymied in his attempts to learn about a mysterious artifact, Professor Stokes has attempted to contact its original owner, Evan Hanley, a man familiar to the residents of the great estate in 1897—including Quentin Collins. But it is Quentin's wife, Maggie Collins, who has been visited by a spirit, one whose message and intent is as yet unknown.
Maggie felt as if she were floating. Everything around her seemed far away. She was transported back to the cove on a sunny afternoon—Pop painting a seascape, she reading the latest teen magazine she'd picked up at the newsstand in the drugstore. She knew it was a dream, but it was the best kind of dream, and the only time she'd ever see Pop again.
Then her eyes fluttered open and the dream abruptly ended. Reality set in. She was back at Collinwood—in the Great House drawing room.
Her hand went to her head. "What happened?" She tried to sit up.
"You mustn't try to get up," a familiar voice told her. "Just stay where you are and rest."
"Roger?" she asked. She tried to remember. No—she was certain of it—Roger had not been there when … when …
"It's me, Kitty. It's me—Edward."
The man on one knee beside the couch looked remarkably like Roger Collins, but his clothes and thin moustache were so old fashioned.
Maggie struggled to sit up. The man beside her said, "You should rest, Kitty. But if you insist on sitting up, let me help you." He retrieved a cushion and propped it behind her then resumed his place beside her.
"Roger?" she said, her mind still in a daze. She was still in the drawing room of the Great House. A fire blazed in the fireplace. She took in the room with her eyes. It was the same but different. The furnishings were different.
"It's me, Kitty—Edward—Edward Collins," he repeated. "I'm afraid you must have hit your head. I'll send for the doctor, at once."
"Edward?" Maggie said tentatively.
"Oh, Kitty," Edward said, taking her hand. "I was so worried about you. We expected you this morning. And when your trunks arrived ahead of you … well, I was so worried that something terrible befell you. What happened, Kitty?"
"I'm … I'm not sure," Maggie said, still uncertain of her surroundings.
"Of course, you must rest. Later … tomorrow, you can tell me how you came to be on the drawing room floor … and dressed so strangely."
Maggie looked down at herself. She was still wearing the belted knit dress—the one she knew Quentin would like on her. An old fashioned coverlet was draped over her legs.
"Let me help you upstairs to your room," he said solicitously. "Perhaps it would be best if you cover yourself with this," he said indicating the coverlet, "until we reach your room. Then I'll call the maid to help you find something suitable in your trunks."
In a moment of panic, she said, "No!"
"What's wrong, Kitty? Surely, you'll need someone to assist you."
"Yes, I suppose. But I need to rest. Right now, I need to rest."
"Of course, how insensitive of me—you'll want to keep to your room this evening. Still, I'll send for the doctor and have some broth delivered to your room."
"Thank you, Edward," Maggie said, working to remember that he said his name was Edward, not Roger. "I'd appreciate the broth tonight, but you needn't call the doctor until morning."
"Are you sure, Kitty?" he asked, concern etched on his features.
"I am. I feel stronger now, and things are coming into focus."
Maggie rose and stood on tentative legs, but in a moment she realized that there was nothing amiss physically—only she seemed trapped in one of her vivid dreams. She wrapped the coverlet around her. Then Edward took her by the elbow and led her through the familiar foyer and up the stairs to "Kitty's" room.
Edward had ensconced "Kitty" in a guest room in the main part of the Great House. "Here we are," he said as he opened the door. "It's our finest guest room, and I'm just down the hall, should you need me. The basin is there, should you like to wash up, and the pitcher is full."
"Thank you, Edward. Please don't bother about the broth. I suddenly feel so tired. I think I'll just retire now, if you don't mind," Maggie said.
"Of course. Shall I send someone to help you?" he asked.
"No, thank you. I'm sure I can manage," she said, and somewhat ungraciously turned toward the door, indicating it was time for him to leave.
"Very well, Kitty," he said taking her hand in his. Raising it to his lips, he added, "Goodnight, Kitty. I hope you'll feel better in the morning." Then he was gone.
There were two trunks—one on either side of the wardrobe. An old-fashioned travel case stood on one end of the vanity. She caught sight of herself in the vanity's mirror. She looked the same. Her hair was slightly mussed and her lipstick had worn away. Still, she looked like herself, yet "Edward" kept referring to her as "Kitty."
Maggie went to the travel case and opened it. Inside, an embroidered label sewn into the lid read "Katherine Soames, Lady Hampshire," hence "Kitty." She looked through the case. On a tray on top were Kitty's comb and brush, and small bottle of perfume; lifting off the tray revealed ornate jewelry, and old-fashioned hair clips and combs. She closed the case and turned to the trunks. She sighed.
Maggie had told "Edward" that she was suddenly tired to get rid of him, but now she genuinely felt fatigue overtaking her. She kicked off her shoes, and took off her stockings. Then she climbed into bed in her dress and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered, before the dream began, was the séance. She knew how it would be—she would wake with a start as she always did and find Quentin in bed beside her, in their cozy bedroom … it was her final thought as she drifted off to sleep.
Maggie woke as sunlight flooded into the room. A woman, clad in an old-fashioned black and white uniform, had just pulled open the curtains, and stood with her back to Maggie looking out of the window. Maggie sat up with a start. She was still in the guest room at the Great House. "Oh no," she said aloud. The woman turned back to face her. "Who are you?" Maggie asked in an unintentionally demanding tone.
"I'm Mrs. Dunn, the housekeeper. I'm sorry to wake you, ma'am, but Mr. Collins thought you'd be wanting your coffee by now." As Mrs. Dunn stepped further into the room, Maggie could see that she bore a slight resemblance to Mrs. Johnson, though perhaps it was just her crusty demeanor and expression. Maggie sat up. Mrs. Dunn continued, "Mr. Collins asked me to open your trunks. I've taken the liberty of hanging your black day dress for today. I presumed you'd still be in mourning garb—what with your husband so recently deceased," the housekeeper added pointedly.
"Thank you, Mrs. J … Dunn," Maggie said, recollecting the housekeeper's name.
Maggie stayed in bed watching the housekeeper remove dresses from one of the trunks and hang them in the wardrobe. She felt disconsolate. When she went to bed the previous night, she'd been certain that she'd wake and find herself restored to the Collinwood she knew. Instead, she was here. Something happened during the séance, she thought. Something that brought me here.
She tried to put the few pieces together in her mind. At the séance, they had been trying to reach Evan Hanley, a contemporary of Quentin—and Edward was Quentin's brother—so it stood to reason that she had somehow been transported to the 1890's. Everyone seemed to think she was this Kitty Soames—Lady Hampshire. She needed more information—she needed to know more about Kitty Soames, and what she was doing at Collinwood. And more importantly why she was brought to this time—and how she could get back to her own.
"I'll send our maid up to finish unpacking your trunks, and help you dress, if you like," the housekeeper was saying.
"Thank you. That would be most helpful." As the older woman prepared to leave, Maggie asked, "Did anything else arrive for me?" There must be something else—something that will help me learn more about Kitty Soames, she thought.
"Oh, yes—a small document case arrived as well. Mr. Collins put it in the library. You'll find it—and him—there, when you're ready," the housekeeper told her in an oddly judgmental tone.
When the maid arrived—a pale, unassuming girl named Elsie—Maggie had a bath drawn in the small adjoining dressing room. She sat soaking and thinking. Had it only been a day since she was at home, enjoying a bubble bath, and looking forward to an evening out? There must be a way to return to her own time—to her own Collinwood.
The water was soon tepid, and with no faucet to warm it, Maggie got out of the tub. She put on the dressing gown that Elsie had laid out for her, and rejoined the maid in the bedroom. Elsie was slowly and meticulously unpacking Kitty's trunks. Maggie sat down at the vanity, and began brushing her hair. She knew she would have to go downstairs soon, but she needed to get her bearings first.
"Elsie?" Maggie began.
"Yes ma'am?" the girl replied, stopping her unpacking and giving Maggie her full attention.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your work, but something's troubling me," Maggie said.
"Yes ma'am?"
"Have I done something to upset Mrs. Dunn?" Maggie asked the girl.
Elsie colored and turned back to the trunk. "No ma'am," she said.
"Ah, but I can see from your reaction that I have. Please tell me. How can I fix it if I don't know what I've done?"
Elsie turned to her and began, "Well, it's just that she thinks it was inconsiderate of you to arrive so late and not send word that you were delayed. Mr. Collins was worried sick, and …"
"And?" Maggie prompted.
"And she said it was too soon for you to be visiting, what with your husband's recent …" Elsie colored deeply and returned to hanging Kitty's dresses.
"My husband's death," Maggie finished for her.
"Yes, ma'am," the girl said. "But I think it's natural that you'd want to come back to Maine after what happened," Elsie volunteered with seemingly uncharacteristic boldness.
"Yes," Maggie murmured. By now her hair was well brushed, but she had no idea what to do with it. She took two of the more simple hair combs out of the travel case and looked at them.
Elsie stepped behind her. "Allow me to help, ma'am." Elsie twisted Maggie's hair into a simple chignon and expertly applied the combs to hold it in place.
"Thank you, Elsie. Would you please lay out my clothes for the day?" Maggie watched as Elsie selected undergarments and removed the already hung black dress from the wardrobe door, and laid them on the bed. When she was done, Maggie said, "Perhaps you can finish unpacking the trunks later. I would like my privacy to get dressed." As the girl turned to leave, it suddenly occurred to Maggie to ask, "Oh, and would you please bring me today's newspaper?"
"Newspaper, ma'am?"
From the girl's reaction, Maggie realized that her request was out of the ordinary. "Yes, if Mr. Collins is finished with it."
"Yes ma'am."
"Oh, and Elsie, if we're to be friends, I hope you'll call me Lady Kitty."
"Yes ma'am—I mean Lady Kitty." Then the girl left, leaving Maggie to navigate the array of garments laid out for her.
By the time Maggie felt ready to face the day ahead, it was nearly midday. The Collinsport Star had confirmed that the year was 1897. It was the very year that Quentin had thrown the I Ching wands and been led to 1968—and to her. As Maggie dressed, she decided to approach it like a school play—it was a costume drama, and her role was Lady Kitty. She must think like Lady Kitty—act like Lady Kitty. And anything she didn't know, any missteps she might make, she would attribute to the bump on her head—to some form of temporary amnesia—until she could find the key that would take her home.
As she alighted the stairs, she heard voices through the open drawing room doors. One was definitely Edward. She peeked into the drawing room. The instant he saw her, Edward made a beeline to her. "Kitty," he began, taking her elbow. "You should have sent for me. I would have escorted you downstairs."
"Please don't fuss, Edward. I'm fine," she told him, patting his hand.
"I'll be the judge of that," the other man said. "Dr. Woodard, at your service, Lady Hampshire."
He bore more than a passing resemblance to the doctor who practiced medicine in Collinsport in 1969. "Of course," Maggie said warmly, extending her hand.
Dr. Woodard turned to Edward. "Would you please give me a few minutes alone with Lady Hampshire?"
Edward's face flushed. "Of course. Where are my manners?" Then he turned to Maggie, "Kitty, please join me in the library afterward."
"Yes, Edward," Maggie replied primly. When he was gone, Maggie set about describing her "symptoms" to the doctor, who assured her that all would be well with time and rest. Then he pointed out where she would find the library and took his leave.
Maggie went directly to the library. She was desperate to get a look at the contents of the document case—and ideally an hour or two alone to peruse them. Instead she found the ever-solicitous Edward close at hand.
She sat at the desk and opened the case. On top was a newspaper clipping; the headline read, "Gerald Soames, Lord Hampshire found dead." Maggie quickly read the short article. Kitty's husband, Gerald, had hanged himself at his family estate while his wife, Katherine, was in town, and his son away at school. A member of the household staff had found the lord's body, along with a cryptic farewell note. The lord's first marriage had produced his son and heir, and after his first wife pre-deceased him, he had married the family governess, Katherine, an American.
Maggie set the article aside and scanned the other documents—Gerald and Kitty's marriage certification, two deeds—one for the estate, the other for a house in town, a small leather journal, and his last will and testament. She lingered with it in her hand.
Seeing her hesitation, Edward said, "I fear you'll think me very presumptuous, but I've undertaken inquiries on your behalf, and forwarded the duplicate will you sent me in your last dispatch to our family attorney, Evan Hanley."
Maggie rose and blurted out, "Evan Hanley!"
"I hope I've done the right thing. Do you know him, Kitty?" Edward asked, concerned by her reaction.
Maggie gathered herself. Her hand went to her throat in a nervous gesture. "Only by reputation," she said.
"Yes," Edward went on in a pompous tone. "The man is a scoundrel in many respects, but I've always found him to be fair in his business dealings. Our grandmother trusted no one else."
"I see." Maggie resumed her lady-of-the-manor play-acting. "Thank you, Edward. I should like to meet with Mr. Hanley as soon as possible."
Maggie had no idea that a man of his age could move so quickly, but suddenly Edward was at her side, taking her hand. "I can only imagine how upsetting all of this must be for you, Kitty. Let me take this burden from you. I will deal with Hanley and make sure your affairs are in order," he said gallantly.
Maggie gave his hand a gentle squeeze then extricated hers from his. "Thank you, Edward. You are truly a good friend, but this is something I must do for Gerald. I hope you understand." Maggie fluttered her eyelashes at him, as she imagined Kitty would.
"Of course, Kitty. I do understand, and Gerald deserves nothing less, even under the circumstances." Edward responded in a way that was solicitous, and yet designed to make Kitty mindful of her husband's shortcomings.
Maggie sighed. She returned the documents to the case, save for the small journal. This, she would peruse in private. "I should like to return to my room now, Edward. I find myself quite tired. I should like to rest."
"I'll escort you there myself," he said, offering her his arm. She slipped her arm through his. As they climbed the stairs and then made their way to her room, he said, "I'll have Mrs. Dunn send up a tray, but I do hope you'll feel up to joining me later. I should very much like you to meet Jamison and Nora."
"Your children," Maggie murmured aloud. Quentin had told her something of them.
"Why yes," he said a bit perplexed by her tone and response.
Then Maggie added, "And your sister? Will she be joining us as well?" Maggie remembered the way Quentin spoke of his sister, Judith, in fond and affectionate terms.
"I'm afraid Judith mostly keeps to her room these days. She's in quite low spirits." Turning to his own thoughts, Edward said, "I blame my blackguard of a brother."
"Quentin?" Maggie asked softly.
"Yes, Quentin," Edward said harshly. He went on in an angry tone. "He left without a word to anyone, or a thought for the feelings of others. Why Judith bothers to care is quite beyond me."
"He's her brother and she loves him," Maggie said in defense of her husband. She shot Edward a withering glance.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I've upset you with troublesome family matters. You must forgive my harsh language. I can assure you it's reserved for my ne'er-do-well brother."
By now, they had reached her room, and Maggie was more than ready to be away from her host. "What time am I expected for dinner?" she asked wearily.
"Please come to the drawing room at six o'clock," he bowed formally then kissed her hand a retreated down the hall.
Later after her lunch tray was brought, Maggie opened Gerald Soames's leather journal and began to excavate what she could of Gerald and Kitty Soames's life together.
It was, what her father would have described as, "higgledy-piggledy." It was hardly the narrative-format diary Maggie was hoping for. Instead it served as an engagement diary and notebook, with a few descriptive passages thrown in for good measure. Initially the journal chronicled Gerald and Kitty's country life—the day of the hunt, a house party at a neighbor's estate, and the like. Then they relocated to "town." London, Maggie thought.
Then the entries intensified in number, but diminished in detail. At first, there were social engagements in town. These gave way to "Cards at the club," then "Cards with Count P." Then the daily notations began—"Cards with Count P—up 50" or "Cards with Count P—down 30." Soon there are no "up" notations, only a series of "down" ones.
Maggie flipped to the final notations—a series of ever increasing "down" ones. The final notation was a brief narrative about his family name and worry for his son.
How dreadful for her, Maggie thought, as she set the journal aside. It explained why Lord Hampshire committed suicide. How much of this was Kitty supposed to be privy to? Maggie wondered. She found herself feeling a sense of kinship with Lady Hampshire. She was an American and a governess like her. And she must look very much like her for Edward to be convinced that she was in fact Kitty Soames.
Maggie paced the length of her room. Then she wandered out into the hallway. Turning away from the passage that led to the main stairs and the other bedrooms, she walked down the corridor to where it bent. From there it was nearly dark—no longer lit, for no one inhabited this part of the Great House. At the end of the corridor, she found it—the locked door to the west wing.
She tried the doorknob—it was indeed locked. A few steps away, beyond the locked door, Quentin sat in the I Ching trance—a part of her longed to go to him. Even if she could, he wouldn't know her. She rested her forehead against the door and let the longing take her. She was exhausted from the pretense. She wanted to go home. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Excuse me, ma'am," came a male voice from behind her.
She hadn't heard anyone approach. Hastily wiping away her tears, she put on her Lady Kitty countenance and turned to face him.
"Hello."
"You must be Lady Hampshire," the man said.
"I am. And you are?" Maggie let the question hang in the air.
"Wilkins, ma'am—Dirk Wilkins, the Collins family steward," he answered, removing his cap. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a tone that was more baffled than accusatory.
"I must have taken a wrong turn and lost my way. It's such an unusual house," Maggie said.
"I'll be happy to escort you," he said, offering his arm. She took it, as he added, "Where were you trying to go?"
Maggie drew a deep breath. "I was just stretching my legs."
"I'd be happy to escort you around the grounds," he said with a gleam in his eye that Maggie found unsettling.
"No, thank you. I should rest and prepare for dinner. Perhaps, another time," she said with formal cordiality.
After Wilkins delivered her to her room, Maggie threw herself on the bed, and let loose a flood of frustrated tears.
Maggie had done her best to remedy the damaging effects of her earlier tears with the 1897 resources available to her. A handkerchief and cold water from her washbasin had served to make a cold compress for her eyes.
Lady Hampshire's trunks were tightly packed with beautiful gowns. Maggie's favorite was of deep plum silk. But she knew she must choose the black silk, as mourning attire was part of the pretense. She wondered, even as she donned the black dress, how long she was expected to wear black. Gerald had been dead for some months—surely the period of mourning must soon be at an end.
As the clock struck six that evening, Maggie stood at the top of the main staircase. She could hear voices in the drawing room. She gathered herself once more, and slowly descended the steps, until at last she arrived at the entry to the drawing room. There she found Edward and his two children.
"Good evening," she announced herself from the doorway.
"Ah, Kitty, my dear. Come join us, please," Edward said expansively as he rose to greet her. "Allow me to introduce my son, Jamison."
Jamison bowed formally to her. "Pleased to meet you, Lady Hampshire."
Edward continued, "And my daughter, Nora."
Nora curtsied awkwardly and said in a well-rehearsed turn of phrase, "How do you do, Lady Hampshire?"
"Very well, Nora." And then to Jamison, Maggie said, "I'm pleased to meet you too. But Lady Hampshire is far too formal. I hope you'll both call me Lady Kitty."
Jamison, Maggie found, was the spitting image of David in her own time. The family connection was undeniable. Nora resembled Amy Jennings a bit too, especially the expression in her wounded, suspicious eyes. The resemblance was enough to make Maggie wonder whether there was a familial connection between the Jennings and Collins families.
Then the children peppered her with an unceasing string of questions. Jamison asked mostly about her journey, and Maggie found it necessary to dissemble a great deal. Nora was clearly more interested in Kitty's intentions toward her father.
Maggie had never found dinner with David and Amy to be particularly taxing, but Jamison and Nora had worn her out. By the time they adjourned to the drawing room, and Mrs. Dunn arrived to escort them to bed, Maggie was exhausted. She retired to the armchair and warmed herself by the fire, while Edward poured her a brandy.
"I'm afraid the children were too much for you," he said as he handed her the snifter and took a seat across from her. "I've considered sending them away to school, you know."
"Really?" she was genuinely surprised. "Why don't you employ a governess?"
"It's a long story," Edward said. Then he looked into "Kitty's" eyes and said, "And I'd much rather talk about you tonight, my dear Kitty."
Maggie was prepared to make a hasty retreat to her room, when there was a loud knock at the front door. Edward seemed to recollect himself. "It must be my cousin, and probably his fiancé. They often visit in the late evening."
Edward went to answer the door. "Good evening, Barnabas. Miss Bouchard," Maggie heard him say.
"Edward, how many times must I ask you to call me Angelique?" came a woman's voice.
In a moment, they were in the room. Maggie stood. Barnabas?
Barnabas stood transfixed for a moment—certain that here, at last, was Josette reborn. Josette, his mind called out.
Edward was making introductions—Lady Hampshire, his cousin, Barnabas Collins and his fiancé, Angelique Bouchard. "I'm pleased to meet you both," Lady Hampshire told them.
Several months before, when Barnabas met the family governess, Rachel, she too reminded him of Josette. There had been something in her eyes and coloring that brought his long-dead love to mind. But Rachel was so different from Josette in her bearing and countenance—not so for Lady Hampshire.
"I do hope you'll forgive me," Lady Hampshire said. "My journey here was quite taxing and I've not fully recovered my strength."
"Your journey?" Barnabas asked.
"Yes, I've only recently returned to Maine from England," the lady answered.
"Cousin Barnabas is from the English branch of the Collins family," Edward interjected.
Angelique paced away and stationed herself at the bay window, lost in thought.
Barnabas continued, "And what brings you back to Maine, Lady Hampshire?"
"I'm recently widowed," she answered in prim discretion.
Barnabas bowed his head in a sign of respect for the departed and said in what he hoped was his most sincere tone, "I am sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins"
Now Barnabas smiled and his eyes met the lady's. There was something of a smile in hers too—an invitation perhaps? "I hope we'll be friends, and that as such, you'll call me Barnabas."
Now Angelique swept across the room, and added, "And I hope you'll call me Angelique."
"I should like that," Lady Hampshire said demurely. "My friends call me Kitty. Don't they, Edward?" She bestowed an adoring look on him, or so it seemed to Barnabas. "But now, I am flagging," she appealed to Edward.
"I hope we will see you again soon," Barnabas said.
"Why, of course," Edward said. "You must come for dinner tomorrow—both of you. Perhaps Judith will join us. She always seems to revive when you're here, Barnabas."
"I thank you for the compliment," Barnabas replied formally.
Edward offered Kitty his arm. "I'll escort Kitty upstairs, and rejoin you shortly," he said. "Don't stand on ceremony. Please help yourselves to the brandy."
Barnabas bowed deeply and formally to the lady. "Goodnight Kitty, until tomorrow."
Kitty inclined her head slightly, and then ascended the stairs with Edward on her arm.
Barnabas stood watching Kitty's departing figure, unconscious of Angelique beside him. "And so it begins again," she hissed.
He turned to face her. "What?" he asked with faux innocence.
"Don't trifle with me, Barnabas. I'm not blind, and I know you well enough to recognize that look in your eyes," Angelique fumed. "She is not Josette, and even if she were, you and I are engaged to be married."
"I've not forgotten," he said.
"Then act like it. I'll not have you making eyes at her in that way … or worse," she added.
"Then free me from this curse so that I can go to her as an ordinary man," he pleaded.
"That was not our arrangement," Angelique shot back. "There are months yet to go," she began then softened. "I, at least have been happy, Barnabas. These past months have been the happiest I've ever known. Has it really been so bad?"
"No, Angelique—no, it hasn't been bad. I've known happiness too—such as it is for one who lives as I do."
"Then why, Barnabas? Why do you look at her that way?"
He turned away. "Because, she is Josette. I feel it; I know it to be so. And no matter the time or distance, I am drawn to her—she remains a part of me—a part of my soul. I find I must have her to be whole. I am sorry, Angelique."
"And I am sorry too, Barnabas—for I feel the same … about you. For all of the humiliation of forever being second to Josette DuPres, I still want you. But take heed, Barnabas—do not ruin yet another incarnation of Josette. If you pursue her, I will ruin her, once and for all."
