Page 30 of The Girl Out of Time
She sifted through it. The first dozen pages held drawings of noble family crests, but afterward, pages upon pages of dense text followed. It would be a pain to peruse, but most likely would prove helpful. She ran over a few titles, separated in capital letters, in case she’d find the Greys, when her eye stopped on a familiar name.
Sebastian Winters,viscountHaverstonof Charlingham Hall, co. Somerset; born May 18, 1789; succeeded his father, Thomas, the late viscount, Nov. 23, 1810.
That was her family! Well, her mother’s side of the family. The paragraph went on, recounting how the current viscount was unmarried and had no heirs and listing other relations, but there was no mention of Cousin Reggie and the rest of the family. And besides, why were all the dates a hundred years in the past?
“Will that do, dear?” the duke asked.
She wrangled herself out of her thoughts. “Yes! It’s perfect.”
The duke shook his head, amused. “Never say women only like light reading. You may take it to your room if you wish. Perhaps Louisa will join you with herCattle of the British Islesmanual, and you shall hold discussions entirely inappropriate for the dinner table.”
Emmeline laughed. “Thank you.”
Settled back in her room, she sat on the bed and opened the book in her lap. She read everything about the Winters family—the viscounts who went all the way back to the seventeenth century—and then searched for the rest. The more she read, the stranger it got. She knew many of the noble surnames from Mother mentioning them, but she recognized none of the people themselves, and the most recent date was 1814.
Something strange was going on in her fantasy.
Emmeline slept like a baby that night, despite her many unanswered questions. When she rolled down for breakfast (being kindly pointed toward the breakfast parlor by a footman), only the duchess was there, sitting by a cloth-covered round table, carefully cutting thin slices of bacon on her plate.
“Here you are, dear.” Her tone was more polite than friendly. “Do sit down and help yourself. I hope you’ve settled in well?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Even though it was slightly inconvenient when she’d discovered the house didn’t have bathrooms, and the only two options were a chamber pot or an outhouse. Or when she’d found out she had to light an actualcandleto illuminate the way.
“Mama!” Louisa walked in, munching on a cupcake-looking pastry topped with jam. “You’ll never guess the rumors!”
“Where did you get that?” The duchess narrowed her eyes at her daughter as Louisa sat down next to Emmeline.
“Cook is making them for supper,” Louisa mumbled through her chewing. “But never mind that. Have you heard?”
The duchess sighed. “Have I heard what?”
“Rumor has it they found auniformof aFrench soldieron the beach yesterday,” Louisa said, her eyes wide. “Actually, I don’t know why they call it a rumor when the uniform clearly exists. Mary saw it earlier when she went to the town—”
“Why have you been talking to the kitchen maids?”
Unfazed, Louisa went on, “And if there’s a uniform, there must also be a man. A slightlyundressedman.” Her eyes glittered as she looked at Emmeline. “A Frenchspy!”
“He would be a rather bad spy if he walked around in a uniform, wouldn’t he?” Emmeline said.
“That’s why he took it off, obviously!” Louisa turned her attention back to her mother. “Not that I’m particularly concerned about an invasion. In fact, you wouldn’t believe it—”
“Most likely not, indeed,” the duchess muttered.
“But it’s been in the newspaper this morning that a grand battle had occurred in the Netherlands, near this place called Waterloo, about a weekago, and—and,” Louisa inhaled sharply, “They say Bonaparte is defeated, and his army in shambles, and we have won!”
“Louisa, how many times have I told you to not disturb the servants while they work? If they’re preparing the newspaper, that’s meant for your father …”
Emmeline tuned the duchess out as, with clarity offered only by crisp mornings such as this, the puzzle pieces fell into place.
She’d seen that uniform. She knew to whom it belonged, because she was the one to undress him, toss the uniform onto the sand, and bring the man here. The man who, when he dreamed, spoke in French.
She knew what Louisa was talking about. The Battle of Waterloo, a famous battle of the Napoleonic wars in 1815, which sealed Napoleon’s fate once and for all. She’d read that entire chapter ofLes Miserables, even though her eyes threatened to close halfway through.
The house. The antiquated carriage. The strange outfits, the lack of decent amenities—a rich family like this would surely own a shower bath, a phone, and not illuminate their house with candles—even the accurate but outdated information inDebrett’s Peerage.
This wasn’t Neverland.
She, Emmeline Marshall of the twentieth century, had somehow found herself in Regency England.
