The week sped by far too quickly for JB's comfort. It was now May twenty-sixth, Whit Monday, the evening of the Whitsuntide dance. He and Sam were scheduled to leave for Winchester on Wednesday and, while Cira had sent them medication and supplies by now, she still had to come up with a place for them to stay once they arrived. The manor in Gévaudan had been fairly easy to plant without arousing suspicion—start "building" it in the 1660s on land surrounded by trees. By 1767, it would be considered part of the landscape, something that had always been there. In theory, the same thing could be done in Winchester, but it lacked the mountainous terrain and vast forests of the Gévaudan region of France. Cira had made sure to point out that the time agency's budget for that kind of thing was running low—rescuing the missing kids from history had been an expensive series of missions and Cira reminded JB of this every chance she got. For now, JB and Sam would have to make do with the expertly counterfeit money the agency sent along with their other supplies. It would pass for appropriate currency in 1817 England and allow them to secure lodgings and transportation when needed. Still, JB would have preferred the privacy of a soundproof space—not to mention running water and a bottle of InstaPristine to spray everywhere. Even a twenty-first century washing machine would be preferable to boiling multiple pots of water for washing.
These were the thoughts that nibbled at JB's brain while he waited inside Tyburn House for Sarah and Sam to show up. Sarah had a few chores left to finish before she could leave for the dance and Sam stayed behind to help speed the tasks along. They'd insisted that JB go on ahead.
The Tyburn House dance was no formal evening like the balls in Jane Austen novels. The event was held in an annexe of the tavern, which served beer and refreshments upstairs, while the dancing took place down below. JB waited in the upstairs section and observed the partygoers. Most appeared to be local workers of Erdington—farmhands, milkmaids, housekeepers, bricklayers—rather than Birmingham high society. Cheerful music drifted up from the lower floor and groups of people bobbed along to the tune while sipping beer or mingling with friends. The place smelled of grass and earth and firewood, the scents of rural leisure. JB might have eased into the warm and festive atmosphere if he didn't feel like such an outsider; everyone else seemed to know each other and he could tell from the curious stares in his direction that they knew he was not from nearby. He must have been a striking sight in his brand new tailcoat and silk cravat, standing alone in the corner among Erdington's working class. They, of course, were well-dressed and may have even purchased new clothes for the holiday, but knowing the expensive tailor the Daleys went to for his clothes, he couldn't help but feel like he was wrapped in excessive luxury.
A burst of laughter crescendoed from the first floor and soon two young women emerged from the stairs, faces rosy with amusement. A skinny redheaded man followed them up and offered his arm to the shorter of the two women while she recovered from her giggles. She was blonde, and wore a blue gown with ivory ruffles. Her friend had dark ringlets and wore a simple but elegant white muslin dress. She held a full glass of wine in one hand. JB overheard some of their conversations.
"…but won't you come back down with me soon, Hannah? You've danced no longer than fifteen minutes," said the brunette, "and Miss Thistle has plenty more jolly tales to tell!"
"You go on without me," the other woman—Hannah—insisted. "My sister will be here shortly and I've so much to discuss with her about the wedding." She gazed up at the redheaded gentleman, who smiled in return and then addressed the brunette.
"Do not let us keep you from the music, Mary," he said. "We will not leave the premises without you."
Mary looked mildly disappointed, but she shrugged and said, "I shall go back soon, but will wait with you for your sister, Hannah." She turned to face the door and her expression brightened. "Sarah!"
JB followed her glance, and sure enough, Sarah was there in a fine green taffeta. Behind her, Sam glided in. She donned a royal blue gown with silver sequins that cascaded down her back and ended in vine-like embroidery at the hem. It was like she'd harnessed the night sky and draped it around herself for the occasion.
What was she thinking, showing up like this? No one else looked nearly as…distracting. Drawing too much attention could cause damage to time, and here she was strolling in with that far-off gaze of hers, the one that made her eyes gleam like polished ebony. She radiated with joy and enchantment and awe; it was disarming, the amount of passion she encompassed in a single look. He'd seen it amidst dandelion-spotted hills and bustling market squares and by the piano in Dorington's drawing-room. If she could dizzy his senses at an informal family recital, what damage could she do here, when her presence embodied the stars themselves?
Don't be ridiculous, he thought. It's just Sam. At least he didn't have to wait awkwardly in the corner anymore. He took a step forward, but she didn't see him. She'd followed Sarah to the top of the stairs and was now greeting Mary, Hannah and the redheaded man, who JB heard them refer to as Benjamin. JB retreated into his corner and waited while the group continued to mingle. Mary said something and handed her glass of wine to Sam, who laughed and made a gesture of cheers. Finally, a slender woman who resembled Hannah skipped in the front door and the group drifted apart—Hannah and Benjamin met the woman at the door while Mary and Sarah scurried downstairs, and Sam's eyes darted around the room until they at last met JB's. She skipped toward him, almost spilling the glass of wine in her haste.
"There you are!" she said. "Did I miss anything?"
"Not really," said JB. "I haven't been downstairs, but we can go down if you want to dance."
Sam grimaced. "You don't want to see me dance, believe me. Maybe after I have some of this wine." She squinted curiously at the red liquid. "Not that I'm much of a drinker. Most wine tastes pretty gross to me, but Mary insisted I give this one a try. Speaking of Mary," she added, "does the name Mary Ashford ring a bell to you? I met her last week and it just occurred to me that I've heard the name somewhere before. Is she famous for something?"
The name didn't sound terribly uncommon, but JB was sure there was no famous historical figure called Mary Ashford. "Not that I can think of."
"Weird. Oh well." She lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed, then wrinkled her nose and squinted. "Ugh, nope." She offered him the glass, but he declined, remembering Cira. Lord knew if she saw him have so much as a sip of wine on the job he'd never hear the end of it.
Sam abandoned the glass at a small table in the back and returned to him, saying, "I wouldn't mind watching some dances as long as I don't have to participate."
"Sounds good to me." He offered her his arm, which she took without hesitation, then escorted her downstairs to the ever-swelling music. The musicians played in the far left corner of the room: a guitarist sent jovial ripples of sound into the crowd while a violinist trilled a bouncy melody. A line of young ladies stood patiently by the piano, waiting for their turn while a round-faced woman in yellow played a twinkling accompaniment. Bursts of conversations and excited greetings harmonized with the rustle of silk and the patter of dancing feet. The space was a moving tapestry of dancers in soft pastels and rich shades of alike, weaving across the dance floor in sprightly cadence.
JB picked an alcove beside the stair landing and they settled there next to a coat rack to observe the festivities. They couldn't have been watching for more than five minutes when Sam leaped out in front of JB and said, "Wanna dance with me?"
JB was so taken aback, it took him a second to form the sentence, "I thought you didn't like dancing?"
Sam rocked back and forth on her toes, then did what looked like an attempt at a hop, but her landing was far from graceful. She crashed face-first into his chest. Speechless, he instinctively grabbed her forearms to keep her from falling over. His first thought was, She wasn't kidding when she said she was a bad dancer, but it was swiftly apparent that something else was at play when Sam mumbled something into his shirt. He nudged her face off his chest so he could hear her better.
"Why d'you always sssmell like licoricsse?" she slurred.
"Are you sure that was just wine you drank?" he asked.
"Wine. Yuck." She stuck out her tongue and cried sarcastically, "Yummmm, rotten grapes are the beeeeest." Hiccupy giggles erupted out of her.
JB felt his pulse accelerate. She shouldn't be this drunk after one sip. "Sam, I think we should get you back—"
He cut himself off because she was teetering at a dangerous angle. He squatted just in time to catch her. Now they were both on the hardwood floor, and JB thanked the heavens nobody noticed them crash. His days as a time agent had trained him to scout out the most hidden areas in a room, and he had apparently chosen well. To further avoid being seen, he dragged Sam behind the coat rack, which served as a curtain that hid them completely. Of course, this also meant they had to huddle close together to stay out of sight. JB sat back and propped Sam into what was close enough to an upright position on his lap. Her head rolled to the side, and now her cheek was pressing against his. It was like handling someone with slinkies for limbs.
Of course, that didn't stop her from talking. "This's cozy," she remarked, and with their faces touching, he could feel the vibration of her vocal cords.
"Sam, do you know where Mary got that glass of wine?"
Sam shrugged. "Dunno." Her hair smelled like roses with a hint of something sweeter, like wildberries. Berries and roses and honey and cloves and sometimes a hint of almond…those were the smells of Samantha Cretney. How he knew this, he wasn't sure. He supposed they had spent about a month together at this point, he was bound to get used to her presence.
"You look hot in a cravat…ha. That rhymes." Another flurry of drunken giggles.
He most certainly would not be responding to that.
She grazed his temple with her thumb and slid her fingers through his hair. Goosebumps rushed up and down his body.
"Your hair's ssooo soffft," she sighed, and suddenly there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "Tony's hair was soft too…"
"Who's Tony?" Cira hadn't mentioned anyone named Tony from her files. Then again, the files did have limited information.
"He left," Sam murmured. "My fault."
JB wasn't sure why he felt relieved that this Tony was no longer in the picture, but now wasn't the time to reflect. "Let me help you back upstairs."
It was awkward, getting her back to her feet. She flailed and flopped and stumbled every which way. After what felt like a thousand tries, he gave up altogether and just scooped her into his arms to carry her out.
"Pardon me," he said, dodging his way around the astonished onlookers. "My wife has fainted and I must get her home." Hopefully this sounded less dramatic than I think she's been drugged. At least if this story somehow went down in history, it wouldn't cause too many ripples.
Snippets of conversations drifted past them as he advanced.
"…and he returns from London in July…" "…have you heard Lord Byron recite his latest…" "…and I assure you women have no place at a university—"
"Tell that to my PhD, Motherfu—!" JB shoved his hand over Sam's mouth before she could finish her retort. Luckily, the man who'd provoked the outburst seemed too engaged in his tirade to notice.
When they'd miraculously made it upstairs and past the front door, the evening chill was a welcome contrast to the humidity of the tavern. JB stopped to rest for a moment and watched his breath escape in a series of swirling clouds before dissolving. From a few feet away, he noticed another stream of mist roll through the darkness, and when he squinted, he could make out the silhouette of a person leaning against the building.
"I'm just taking my wife…" JB started to explain, but the figure leapt at the sound and bolted across the nearby bridge. In an instant, it had vanished into the night.