“I would never have let the doctor apply them; have no fear, Aunt.”
“Besides,” the patient continued pragmatically, “there is no need to bleed me when I shan’t be here for very long anyway.” Lady Dalrymple reached for C.J.’s hands and pulled her “niece” toward her. “I am dreadfully sorry, child, that our time together turned out to be so brief. I had wanted to do so much more for you.”
C.J.’s anguish tumbled out in a series of sobs that wracked her body. No matter that the stoic Saunders stood by the door like a sentinel. Maybe a show of emotion would encourage the servant to plumb the humanity in her own soul. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I should not let you see me like this,” she said, trying to restrain the flood of tears. She looked up from the bedside and gazed through the window. The sky was unusually bright—a deep French blue illuminated by a full moon and so dotted with stars, it seemed as though the heavens had been sprinkled with glitter in a sort of celestial arts-and-crafts project.
And then, as they both regarded the pale disk suspended in the sky like a silver medallion right outside their window, C.J. experienced an epiphany. If she could return to the twenty-first century as soon as possible, she might be able to obtain a remedy for Lady Dalrymple’s condition. She tried to curb her anxiety so as not to alarm the countess.
“I am going to say good night to you now, your ladyship, but I refuse to say good-bye,” C.J. murmured as she smoothed the invalid’s lace cap and rearranged her pillows so that she could rest more comfortably. Then she blew out the candle.
As she tiptoed out of the room, dismissing Saunders, C.J. heard Lady Dalrymple’s faint voice calling to the portrait opposite the bed: “I’ll be with you shortly, Portly.” C.J. left the door slightly ajar and waited just outside the bedchamber until she heard Lady Dalrymple’s irregular breathing, a sign that the dowager was asleep.
She watched while Saunders retreated downstairs to the servants’ quarters, then slipped into her bedroom and bolted the door behind her. Intuition told her the eagle-eyed lady’s maid was not to be trusted. C.J. changed into her costume from By a Lady, grabbed her bonnet, and descended the staircase holding her breath every step of the way.
Saunders hung back in the shadows and watched Miss Welles leave. Surely the girl was up to no good. Her wardrobe was proof enough. Gently bred ladies, especially titled ones, no matter what names they went by, changed clothes several times a day. There were morning frocks and walking frocks and afternoon frocks, tea gowns, dinner dresses, and ball gowns. Yet for all her new finery, the “niece” had a love affair with that dreadful yellow muslin frock and the equally shabby shawl and straw bonnet. The lady’s maid was unsure if such odd behavior was worthy of report to Lady Oliver, but she duly noted the time of night that Miss Welles departed the residence and slipped the note back into the deep pocket of her apron. Perhaps she might merit an even more substantial reward if she could find out for certain what the young miss was up to.
IT WAS C.J.’S INITIAL NOTION to try the front door of the Theatre Royal in Orchard Street before sneaking into the alleyway. After all, she reasoned, as she tugged at the long elaborate handles to no avail, it would be rather ludicrous to go to all the bother of sneaking about when it might be quite possible to just walk right into the building the way everyone else did: through the front door.
I have just obeyed my first instincts, C.J. thought to herself, admitting defeat. Now she would assay a more familiar route. She glanced about to see if any garrulous stagehands were lurking in her favorite byway in Bath, but there was no one in the alley alongside the theatre. C.J. approached the stage door and gripped the handle. Nothing happened. She pulled it toward her with greater force. The door would not budge. Time for a little modern urban ingenuity. C.J. slid her bonnet off her head and allowed it to hang down behind her while she pulled a hairpin from her coiffure. When all else fails . . .
She tried to work the heavy iron lock with the slim tortoiseshell ornament. For some reason, the configuration made her think of the carnal union between an underendowed old man and an ancient madam. Momentarily distracted by her bawdy thought, she urged the delicate accessory too far. It snapped in half, both ends now rendered useless for their intended purposes.
C.J. stifled an agonized cry of helplessness. She had no more ammunition at the moment and no further thoughts on how to get into the theatre. Her grand plan would have to be put off ’til the morning. She could only pray to anyone willing to listen that Lady Dalrymple could hold out that long.
Chapter Seventeen
In which our heroine slyly cheats danger not once, but thrice, and ends up getting an education—and an eyeful—at the notorious Mrs. Lindsey’s house.
A DEFEATED C.J. had begun to return to the Royal Crescent when she heard footsteps behind her. Being a native New Yorker, she felt her reflexes quicken, and she flattened herself against a stone façade and waited to see if the person belonging to the footsteps passed by. But she was greeted with silence. Too apprehensive to look back, she elected to test whoever was following her in an effort to ascertain whether it was simply someone taking a similar route or one who might, in fact, be stalking her. To her horror, her
