Page 66 of Time for You
“Found something that might belong to you,” George said, and stepped aside. That slight movement allowed the moonlight to fall straight onto Henry, and Shepard nearly dropped his lamp in shock.
“Mr. MacDonald? Is that truly you? We thought you’d drowned,” Shepard said in a voice very unlike his usual stern baritone.
“It’s me, Shepard,” Henry said. “Alive and well.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Is it—may I come in?”
Training finally overcame Shepard’s shock, and he stepped aside hastily. “Of course, of course. What would you like to eat? Wherever you came from, you must be hungry. I’ll wake Cook, and then—”
“I’d like to see my mother first,” Henry said gently.
“Oh, of course, sir, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Lyd—Mrs. MacDonald will of course want to see you right away. I’ll send for a maid and tell her to wake your mother.”
Henry noticed Shepard’s unusual slip of the tongue but filed it away to ask about later, when everyone was a little less flustered. “My sisters too, if you please. But—don’t tell them why, just tell them not to be worried.”
“Of course, sir, right away, sir,” Shepard said, and hurried away, his dressing gown flapping in a slightly undignified manner.
George grabbed a candle on a nearby table and lit it. Henry considered how short a time it had been since he’d left, but how accustomed he’d become to modern conveniences—in the twenty-first century, that light would have been provided by flipping a switch, and while it was a colder, more impersonal light, it was far simpler.
They let themselves into the front parlor, where the fire was banked for the evening. Henry lit the gas lamps on the wall, which had felt like the height of luxury when he had them installed and now felt oddly primitive. It would take some time for him to adjust to the past—present?—that much was clear. George busied himself with the fire, which was soon roaring cheerfully. This far north it was still chilly of an evening, and Henry appreciated the warmth chasing away the damp chill of a June night.
“What’s it like, then? The future?” George asked.
“It’s—different,” Henry started. “They have so much, especially electricity. Everything’s powered by it, and they have carriages that drive themselves. No horses, just an engine, and a wheel that they use to direct it.”
George furrowed his brow. “Sounds fantastical.”
Once again, Daphne’s face flashed before his eyes, and a stab of pain went through his chest. “It is,” he replied with some difficulty.
“What’s wrong—” George started, but then the door swung open and Lydia MacDonald strode in.
“George, I know you’re one of the family, but why on earth are you here at this ungodly—” Lydia stopped, and her jaw dropped as her gaze finally fixed on her oldest child. “No. No. It can’t be,” she whispered in an agonized voice. “We—we lost you.”
“You didn’t, Ma,” Henry said, using a term for her he’d dropped sometime around his father’s death. “I’m here. I’m alive.”
“Oh, Henry,” Lydia said, and burst into uncharacteristic tears. The last time Henry had seen his mother weep was when he was seventeen, when his uncle had gotten the business deep in debt. But those had been tears of frustration, not gladness, and Henry wrapped his mother in his arms, reminding himself that this was why he’d returned. Staying with Daphne would have meant letting his family believe him dead, which would have been unimaginably cruel.
He could give her up, for this. He had, and it was the right thing to do. “Mama, Gwendolyn said we have a visitor, but whoever would call at this time of night?” Maggie asked as she walked in, pausing mid-stride. “Henry?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Anne was close on her heels, and she was the first to come to her senses. “Henry!” she squealed, and ran into his arms, suddenly a precocious eleven-year-old again and not a young woman of nineteen. “I knew you weren’t dead, I knew it,” Anne crowed. “Didn’t I tell you, Mama?”
Lydia wiped her cheeks and sniffled noisily. “You’ll need to forgive me for not believing you, but it just didn’t seem possible.”
“Wherewereyou?” Maggie demanded. “It doesn’t seem like you to just run away, so—kidnapped? By pirates?”
“That was what I said.” Anne pouted.
“No, you saidVikings, which is ridiculous because there haven’t been Vikings in centuries.”
“Girls, girls,” Lydia tried ineffectively.
“No, I said there might be some sort of veil through time, and maybe a Viking slipped through. That’s different.”
“If possible, it’s even more ridiculous when Henry was probably just held for ransom by highwaymen.” Maggie sniffed. “Weren’t you, Henry?”
“Wouldn’t the ransom demand have been sent here?” George interjected.
