Hello Lovies!
The first couple of chapters will be some familiar content if you read the entry for Eras, however, each chapter has been expanded and reworked so that hopefully, it'll feel somewhat new.
Thank you endlessly to my incredible team of people making this story happen! Mel, Jill, Pamela, you're all the best!
I
BELLA
I knew I'd traveled the moment I woke up.
The air smelled different—thick and pungent with the mixing odor of coal smoke and horse droppings. The electric hum of technology that had always clung to the air had vanished, replaced by the sounds of wooden wheels rolling on cobbled streets, and the shouts of unfamiliar voices.
I was no longer in the twenty-second century.
I blinked, trying to gain an assessment of my surroundings. I'd woken in an actual room this time, which was a rather nice change. Once, I'd woken in a crypt.
The room was small, decorated with soft pastel florals that looked to be hand painted on cream wallpaper. There was white molding at the top of the walls, and despite the thin strip, it had been carved to continue the flower motif.
The bed was uneven, and I could tell from the slight creaking of it as I shifted that it was likely a wooden frame, the mattress possibly stuffed with horsehair. It was a single bed, covered in a simple hand-stitched quilt, with a night stand, a bowl, and pitcher beside it. Across the room, near the windows that were draped with soft yellow and white curtains was a dressing stand and wardrobe.
My mind raced to catalog the information, filing it in my mind until I was certain I knew approximately when I had woken up.
Carefully, I pulled back the blanket, shifting my body so that my feet landed on gleaming wood floors. They were cold, and I shivered slightly.
Planting my feet firmly, I rose from the bed, making my way across the room to look out the window.
Outside, my eyes took in a cobbled street, gas lamps up and down the lane, and tightly packed stone and brick buildings that looked—I presumed—like the one I was in now. Though it was morning, the sunlight filtered through a thick haze that left the sky a muddy brown.
Victorian, then, possibly the mid to late eighteen hundreds.
I let out a sigh and moved back toward the bed, surveying the room. I didn't know where I was, and like a fool I'd forgotten to wear my shoes to bed when I'd fallen asleep. I looked down at my denim jeans and cotton t-shirt and shook my head. I'd cause a riot if I stepped out like this.
My attention shifted to the wardrobe. Curious, I moved toward it, gently pulling the ornately carved doors open.
To my relief, there were three sets of clothes inside.
I pulled out a dress, examining it. It was long, probably made for a woman much taller than me and would likely be too big for me, but it would do until I could get my hands on anything else.
I hunted through the wardrobe, racking my brain to try and remember the process of dressing Victorian.
Remember, Bella. No matter where or when you are, if you move with confidence, it's rare people will stop you. You could be dressed in a zoot suit in the Middle Ages, and they won't care so long as you act like you belong.
My mother's lesson, drilled into me since my childhood, comes racing back to me as I begin shedding my out-of-time clothes.
Mom had taught me as much as she could about the entire history of the world in the short time she had with me. She'd covered the fall of Rome one day, and World War IV the next, explaining that just because I had been born at a certain point in time, didn't mean history was only what had happened up until then. History was everything, every human event that had ever or would ever happen.
To time travelers, no event was in the future, it was all in our past.
Mom had tried to teach me, tried to prepare me for a life of travel, but all her training hadn't been worth anything the first time I woke up in a different time.
I'd been born in the year 2,343, but my mom had been born in 1397, and before her, my grandmother had been born in 2012. No one knew when our family line started, and it was impossible to trace back without the oral stories passed down through each generation. I knew that one day I would pick up the mantle of traveler that had been passed down through the women of my family, but I had no idea what it truly meant until it happened.
The morning of my thirteenth birthday, I woke up in a field outside of a small Japanese village in the year 1982.
I'd been scared, confused, and nauseated with the leftover energy that it took to time travel. I'd cried myself to sleep the first week of traveling, knowing I could never go back, never see my parents again.
Because that was one of time's rules. We couldn't go back. No traveler visited the same place twice, not even to tell our loved ones goodbye.
My life had been all trial and error since. I'd tried to lean on the lessons my mother taught me, the history she'd tried to explain to me, but in the end, nothing taught you like experience.
After dressing myself in a stranger's clothes, I gave myself a once-over. My hair was roughly piled on top of my head, though I knew it was a shoddy imitation of the style here, and the dress was far bigger than I'd expected. I'd had to carefully tuck the waist to bring it in, but I hadn't been able to do anything about the length.
The boots in the wardrobe were too large as well, but having no other option, I slipped them on.
When I was done, I pulled the small purse I kept on me at all times out of my jeans' pocket. The brown leather pouch was the only thing I had left anymore of my mother. She'd given it to me the night before my thirteenth birthday, telling me to keep it with me always.
There wasn't much inside. The gold she'd stashed had only lasted me so long, and I'd had to get crafty over the years. The future I'd come from was too reliant on a digital currency to have much of value lying around, but I'd been able to get my hands on a number of small gemstones.
They tinkled lightly as I slipped the purse into my pocket.
When I was dressed the part, I took a deep breath and left the room to face whatever else might be waiting for me.
The bedroom was on the second floor, and after surveying my surroundings, I headed down the stairs.
I could smell bread coming from somewhere in the house, and I followed my nose toward a kitchen, where a petite woman was bent over a bowl, whipping milk into butter.
She looked up as I entered, her eyes widening. "Oh, ye gave me a fright," she said, a hand flying to her chest. "I dinnae hear you come in. Cannae help ye?"
I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry to burst in on you," I said slowly. "I've only just arrived last night, and…"
"Oh gracious," she said, clapping her hands together. "Are ye Alice's cousin, then?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes," I said slowly, hoping that I wasn't walking myself into a corner.
"Oh, well, ye are a wee bit smaller 'an she described," the woman said, giving me a critical eye. "Still, yer welcome. I'm Mrs. Cope, lovey, an' yer safe here so's long as ye like." She reached out, taking my hand and patting the back of it with a soft touch. "Remind me 'o yer name."
I gave her a small smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Cope," I said. "My name is Bella."
"Yer practically all bones," Mrs. Cope said, tsking at me. "Come eat sommen' an' I'll fix us some tea."
She ushered me toward the end of the table away from her bowl. I sank into a wooden chair as she produced a plate, turning to the stove to pile it with food.
I wondered about the luck of arriving this way. I'd never been able to find accommodation so quickly. Was I taking it away from some girl who might be running away and needing a safe place?
I hoped not.
"Did my cousin say when to expect me?" I asked, wondering how much time I might actually have in this house.
Mrs. Cope glanced at me. "Aye, she said not until the full moon." She nodded her head toward the window. "But ye ken dear Alice. Head in the clouds, tha' one." She wove a hand above her head as she placed a plate in front of me.
The dish was piled with hot sausages and eggs that made my mouth water. Mrs. Cope brought toast on a stand and set it before me, patting my shoulder gently. "There noo, tuck in," she encouraged.
I did as she directed, first buttering the bread and shoving nearly half a slice into my mouth before the butter had even fully melted. As always after time traveling, I was famished.
Mrs. Cope hummed, satisfied to see me eating. She returned to her task of making butter.
"Mrs. Cope," I said, after getting down a sausage and another slice of toast. "Might I ask where exactly we are?"
Mrs. Cope glanced at me. "Travel's gone an' wor' out yer head?" she asked with a chuckle.
I nodded. She had no idea.
"Right, well, we're jus' round' tha corner fra' tha hospital fer women. An' doon tha' rood is the Royalty Theater," she explained. I wracked my brain, trying to recall my knowledge of London. It sounded like we might be in Soho. "Now, I ken this side of London is no decent place fer a young lady, buh I promise, you'll be safe, so long as ye donnae go looking for trouble."
I licked a splash of yolk from my lips. I never went looking for trouble, but it seemed to find me just the same.
"I ha' three tenants beside yerself," Mrs. Cope continued. "Sam and Emily are jus' married, and young Mister Whitlock is a teacher lookin' for a post." She glanced at me. "They're a kin' bunch, an' will treat you proper," she promised.
I gave her a small smile."Thank you," I said, gently wiping my mouth. My plate was empty, and my body was finally starting to settle again. "Mrs. Cope, will you remind me of the date?" I asked, pointing to my head and flinching like I was still exhausted.
She shook her head in a pitying way. "'Course, lovey. It's the thirtieth of June," she provided.
I'd have to source the year another way.
"Thank you for breakfast," I said, standing to clear my plate.
She motioned me to stop and whisked the plate away herself. "It's my pleasure, lovey." She set the plate in the sink and turned to look at me. "Mind, we might wan' to find yer a new dress. This one won' do."
I gazed down at my body, flinching when I realized how rumpled I looked.
"Can you direct me toward a shop?" I asked, looking up at her.
"Aye," she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "But let me send someone wit' ye. At least until ye ken the area."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Mrs. Cope swept out of the kitchen before I could stop her. I scrambled around the table, following her past the swinging door.
"Ah, Mister Whitlock," I heard her say. "I'd like ye ta meet, Miss…" Mrs. Cope stopped and turned to me. "Lovey, wha' is yer family name? Brandon, like young Alice?"
I hesitated. It didn't matter so much if I gave my true name or not, because I rarely stayed anywhere to make any sort of waves, let alone be remembered. It didn't matter what people called me, because one day I'd be a shadow in their memories.
"No," I said, surprising myself. "My last name is Swan." It was more honest than I'd intended to be, but my mind flashed back to my parents, where I'd left them in 2356.
Mrs. Cope didn't miss a beat. "Righ', Miss Swan, this is Mister Jasper Whitlock." She wove a hand between me and the man climbing down the rest of the stairs. He was a little older than me, maybe twenty-four, though he could have been as young as twenty with his wild blond locks and boyish smile. He was quite tall and thin.
He wasn't dressed in any sort of extraordinary fashion; his three-piece suit looked like it was made of a rough cotton, dyed grey, and accompanied by a crisp white starched button down beneath it. He held a bowler hat under one arm, and around his neck was a simple black tie.
"Miss Swan," he said, dipping his head in my direction. I hastened a clumsy curtsy back to him.
"Miss Swan has jus' arrived," Mrs. Cope explained to him. "An' I'm afrai' our Alice got all the measurements wrong." She shook her head, as if this Alice was constantly testing her patience. "I mus' ask if Miss Emily is available to escort Miss Swan today an' assist her in purchasing sommen' decent."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Mr. Whitlock looked at me and smiled. "I'm afraid Sam and Emily are out," he said, turning his attention to Mrs. Cope. "They both left early this morning."
Mrs. Cope scowled. "Well then." She brushed her hands on her apron and turned to the kitchen. "I'll be takin' ye, lovey." She turned her head to look at Mr. Whitlock. "Would you accompany us, Jasper? I'm sure Miss Swan would love ta hear yer tales." It was hard to gauge whether she was being sarcastic or not, but Mr. Whitlock nodded anyway.
"Certainly. I'd be delighted."
I looked at him. His accent was different than Mrs. Cope's—Oxbridge perhaps, instead of Scottish. He didn't sound like he was from London, but my ear for accents wasn't finessed so I couldn't be entirely sure.
He gave me a warm smile as Mrs. Cope reappeared without her apron. She went to a coat rack by the door, pulling a hat onto her head before she turned to me and scowled. She selected a straw hat, pinning it onto me once I'd bent enough for her to reach my hair. "Tha'll ha' ta do." She sighed as I straightened up. She looked me over once before nodding her head. "Righ," she sighed again. "Le's go."
…
I'd been to London many times, though it never looked the same whenever I visited. Sometimes, it was a gleaming city of chrome and glass, polished and refined, sometimes it was little more than a market town, built of wood and stone.
As Mr. Whitlock and Mrs. Cope escorted me through town, I tried to take in as much of it as I could, cataloging bits and pieces away. I couldn't risk writing anything down, lest it be left behind when I inevitably traveled again, so I had to make do with sharpening my memory to take in as many details as I could.
"What's brought you to London, Miss Swan?" Mr. Whitlock asked as we strolled down a rank-smelling street. I glanced up at him, nervously.
"Oy, now," Mrs. Cope admonished. "Dinnae ye remember? Alice tol' us not ta ask," she snapped at him. Her eyes shifted to me. "Sorry, lovey. We won' pry. It's no business o' ours." She shot a withering glance at Mr. Whitlock who looked repentant for bringing it up.
"It's all right," I told Mrs. Cope, clearing my throat. "I…" I turned to Mr. Whitlock. "It was time for me to start a new life," I said slowly, not exactly lying but wanting to remain as vague as possible.
He offered me a sheepish smile and nodded.
Down the road, Mrs. Cope stopped by a storefront. "Here no'." She hummed. "We'll ge' ye sommen' goo' an' proper," she said, taking me by the elbow and guiding me into the shop.
We were in fact in Soho, and though I'd been to the area before, I'd never known it like this. The streets were crammed with tight buildings, the scent of feces never far from my nose. It occurred to me as we walked that there had been a cholera outbreak sometime in London in the eighteen hundreds, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember when or where.
Still, I committed myself to making sure everything I came into contact with was well cleaned.
The dress shop was a narrow brick building with grimy windows and an old, dust covered wood sign over the door.
Despite the dirt outside, inside was surprisingly clean and bright, decorated in pastels to evoke a sunny atmosphere.
A woman of about thirty-five approached us, her eyes landing on me critically as she took in my much too large clothing.
"G'day, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," Mrs. Cope said in greeting.
"Aye," she said, pointing in my direction. "What are this then? She look like bawlk the robber," the woman complained, scowling at me.
I glanced nervously at Mrs. Cope, not understanding at all what the woman was accusing me of.
"Young Bella's ha' a mishap wif her clothin'," Mrs. Cope said, wrapping an arm tight around my shoulders. "Cannae ye help her?"
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's eyes narrowed. "Ta, come wit me, girl," she said, grabbing my arm. I was yanked out of Mrs. Cope's embrace and dragged across the shop where a screen was carefully placed, presumably to allow me to change. Mrs. Fitzpatrick shoved me behind it, ordering me to strip down.
I glanced up to make sure Mr. Whitlock could not see me before I started to disrobe.
The girls in the shop sounded Irish, like Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and their quick speech made me wonder exactly where in Ireland they were from.
I made my way out of the dress, grateful I took the time to at least attempt the appropriate undergarments.
I could only imagine the shock I'd get standing in front of these girls in a thong.
When I was stripped down, someone produced a tape measure, handing it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I watched the woman as she began taking my measurements. She looked young enough, though she had a hardness on her face that made me suspect she'd already lived a difficult life. Her brown hair was pulled into a tight, neat bun that I could see was used more for practicality than style, but her clothes were well tailored, suited to her long body.
I stayed silent while she and the shop girls worked, not wanting to interrupt them. Instead, I took the time to look around, trying to find any clues as to when I might be.
There was a paper tucked into a sewing basket near me, and I tried to lean over to catch a date.
After getting jabbed by pins and scolded by Mrs. Fitzpatrick twice, I finally spotted the year. 1897.
I straightened, letting the girls finish their work.
When they'd taken my measurements, one of the shop girls brought out a dark brown skirt in a rough fabric. It wasn't fancy, but it looked sturdy and about my size.
I dressed in the stiff clothes, trying to listen carefully as the women corrected how I layered each garment. I'd worn a number of corsets over the years, but somehow I still needed reminding of exactly how to fit it each time.
Once I was dressed, Mrs. Fitzpatrick brought me back to Mrs. Cope and Mr. Whitlock.
"Aye, tha's better." Mrs. Cope sighed with a smile.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick nodded. "Yer lucky we had her size," she said with a firm glance at me.
"It's perfec'," Mrs. Cope agreed. "How da ya feel, lass?"
I smiled at her. My shoes were still too large and the blouse and skirt were stiff, but I had to admit I did feel better now that I was blending in more.
"Wonderful," I told her honestly.
"Tha's goo'." She grinned. She moved to settle the bill with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and I turned to take in Mr. Whtilock. He gave me an easy smile, his bowler hat tucked under his arm again.
"You look lovely, Miss Swan," he said.
"Thank you," I said, my hands smoothing down the unfamiliar skirt. I was glad it wasn't hot out, or I'd be dying under these layers. "I'm glad that we were able to find something appropriate," I said, wincing when I thought of the borrowed dress. I glanced at Mr. Whitlock to see him quickly hide his smile.
"Indeed," he agreed.
"So," I said, glancing across the shop to where Mrs. Cope was still working with Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "What do you tutor?"
I turned to Mr. Whitlock who looked surprised by my question. "My specialty is mathematics," he said slowly. "However, I also taught art in my previous post."
My eyebrows rose in surprise. "A Renaissance man," I murmured.
I watched, amused as a flush rose up his neck slightly. He cleared his throat, bashful.
"Do you have many pupils now?" I asked, wanting to ease his awkwardness.
He cleared his throat again and shook his head. "Only three," he admitted. "Twins that live near St. James, and then of course, your cousin."
I swallowed. Right, Young Alice. I wondered how long I'd be able to pretend to be related to her. If she came around the boarding house, I was certain I would be found out sooner rather than later.
Of course, my mind whispered, you could be gone before then.
It was true. I never knew how long I'd stay in one place.
Mrs. Cope joined us, smiling at me as she looked me over. My old dress was carefully folded in her arms, and I held my hands out, offering to carry it back. She shook her head. "You loo' goo' n' proper," she said with a self satisfied smile.
"Thank you, Mrs. Cope. Please let me know how I can work back the debt I owe you." I could have paid in the stones on my purse, but if I could avoid spending them, I would. I didn't mind hard labor in exchange for room and board.
She beamed at me, gently looping her arm through mine. "I'll be gla' a some help," she agreed. "Shall we?"
We exited the shop, thanking Mrs. Fitzpatrick once more before stepping out onto the street. Despite the smog in the air, I could tell it was a lovely day.
Mrs. Cope led us back toward her house, stopping first at the market to help me get familiar with the area. I suspected going to the market for her would be one of the tasks she asked of me.
"Mr. Whitlock, where are you from?" I asked as we left the market corner.
"Please, call me Jasper," he insisted.
Mrs. Cope tutted beside me. "You're too informal," she cautioned.
Jasper sent me a small smile. "I was born in a town called Witney. It's a few miles west of Oxford," he explained when he saw the clear confusion on my face.
"Oh, I've never been that way."
"It's much smaller than London," he said with a chuckle. "But I try to get back every Christmas to visit my family."
"Do you have siblings?"
Jasper nodded. "I do. I am the eldest of five, and coincidently, the only male."
I blinked in surprise and Mrs. Cope snorted. "Tha's wha' makes' ye so kind," she said, patting his arm. "Ye ken a woman's min'," she said, tapping her temple. I smirked, and to my amusement, Jasper flushed slightly.
"Mrs. Cope, where are you from?"
She looked at me in surprise. "Me? Oh, I was bor' in Glasgow, though I wilnae tell ye how long ago." She chuckled. "I moved te London when I was married at seventee'," she explained.
I could picture a young, seventeen-year-old girl with fiery hair and a sharp tongue coming into London and carving a space out for herself. Big cities weren't for everyone, but I suspected Mrs. Cope handled the transition just fine.
It was near noon by the time we got back to Mrs. Cope's building, and I was feeling surprisingly comfortable in their combined company.
Jasper excused himself to do some work when we entered, and I jumped into the kitchen with Mrs. Cope, helping her scrub some pans while she continued preparing ingredients for dinner.
Mrs. Cope was easy to work with. She was clear in her instruction and didn't mind talking while we went at our tasks, making the time fly by. She was an excellent storyteller and seemed delighted that I wanted to hear about her childhood.
By her accounts, she was just as fiery as I had suspected.
We worked most of the day, stopping for teatime where she produced truly delicious biscuits for us to snack on. By suppertime, I was exhausted, but pleased with my day of work. I helped set the table in the dining room while Mrs. Cope finished cooking, and soon I was joined by Jasper and a couple I had to assume were Sam and Emily. The pair were stunning, with hair as dark as midnight and skin the warm rich tones of clay earth. Jasper introduced me to them, and I was surprised to hear American accents from both of them. Walking around London today, I'd seen people of many different ethnicities, but I hadn't seen a single Native American.
"Bella, these are Sam and Emily Uley," Jasper said, waving a hand in their direction. "This is Bella Swan, Alice's cousin."
Emily reached out first, her handshake firm, her smile kind. "Welcome." Her voice was rich and deep, almost mesmerizing as she spoke. She let go of my hand and her husband gave me a shallow, polite bow.
Mrs. Cope came in with a plate of rolls before I could say anything else. "All righ'," she said loudly. "Everyone tuck in!"
We took seats around the table, and I sucked in a deep breath, my mouth watering as I eyed the roasted chicken and vegetables she'd prepared.
"Miss Swan, when did you arrive?" Emily asked as soon as we all had food on our plates.
"Early this morning," I told her, picking up my fork.
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You don't sound like you are from Sheffield," she said, glancing at her husband before looking at Mrs. Cope.
Our hostess scowled but I spoke before she could berate anyone for asking about my background.
"I was born there," I lied quickly. "But I was raised for a time in France and then in Scandinavia. I'm afraid the accent stuck with me." It was as good a lie as any. I knew I didn't sound like anyone in this time period, no matter where I claimed to be from. My accent was predominantly a blend of French, English, and Swedish, an accent that wouldn't be heard anywhere around the world until the late 22nd century.
"You're well traveled, Miss Swan," Emily noted.
"As are you," I pointed out. "What has brought you and your husband to England?"
Emily's smile stiffened slightly and Mrs. Cope cleared her throat. "Noo, we dinnae nee' te talk a such things," she chided softly. "I'll thank ye for mindin' yer business, Miss Swan."
I swallowed hard, properly chastised, and nodded to her. There was clearly a story there, but whatever it was, it was apparently not a topic suitable for conversation.
The implications of that made my stomach twist.
Thankfully, Jasper was ready to pick up the conversation again, and he steered it back toward safer waters. Once we'd gotten past the awkwardness, the rest of the night flowed easily, and I felt surprisingly connected to these new people.
It was one of the only times in my life I felt like I actually had the possibility of making real friends. I just hoped I got to be around long enough for that to really be true.
