Finding Her Time

Mr. Marshall cursed the rain. He cursed every drop that fell on him and his horse. If only he made it home before the rain started. Bad luck was attached to him it seemed, or at least it was tonight. The storm was worsening, he realized as a bolt of lightning reached the ground only a mile up the road. It scared his horse. The horse lashed around dangerously as it neighed. It was nearly petrified.

“Whoa, boy,” Mr. Marshall patted the horse’s neck, “Be calm. The sooner you get the two of us home, the sooner we’ll both be out of this treacherous storm.”

Carefully, they treaded the ground toward where the lightning had been. In the shadows of the night, Mr. Marshall could sense a creature lying in the road. Sympathetically he thought, the poor animal must have been taken out by the shock.

He soon realized that it was no animal. Neither bear nor dear nor large bird could have this form. “My lord,” his eyes widened, “it is a woman.”

Quickly he jumped of the horse and rushed to the lady’s side. Turning her over, he noticed that her clothes were not scorched (but it was not the usual outfit of a lady), she was drenched and shivering (but why wouldn’t she be with this typical November weather), and luckily she was still breathing.

Throwing his coat off himself, he wrapped it around the girl’s form. Then he tenderly lifted her small body off the ground and carried her to his horse. Careful not to jostle the girl, Mr. Marshall mounted his horse with the girl still in his arms. He’d take her to his home in Kent to be tended by his sisters and their nurses.

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He was right in believing his sisters’ shock to see him carry a young girl over their threshold. He ignored their comments until he had set the girl down in one of the guest rooms and called Mrs. Tibbets to attend her. He then returned to the drawing room to answer his sisters’ inquests.

“Is she to be your betrothed?” asked Eliza, the younger of the two who tended to be very forth-coming.

“Do not act so,” Helen directed at her sister, “It is unbecoming of a lady to ask such questions, even if it is one’s own brother to whom she speaks.” To her brother, Helen politely asked, “How did you find her?”

“In the rain,” he answered curtly. He then further explained, “She must have been caught in the storm. She was faint when I found her so I neither know her name nor her reasoning as to being unconscious in the middle of nowhere.”

“And where was it that you found her?” inquired Eliza.

“By the old oak tree at the outskirts of the Robinson property,” answered her brother, “lightning struck that same spot a few minutes before I had crossed it.”

“The poor dear,” sympathized Helen, “We must pray that she was not struck.”

The youngest sister of all who was ten years Marshall’s junior, came running into the room.

There was no doubt that she had been spying through the keyhole in the door of the guest room to see their new guest.

Sophia bounced to her brother’s side by the fire, “Brother James,” said she excitedly, “the new girl woke for a few moments. She asked Mrs. Tibbets where she was, but she did not remain awake long enough for Tibbets to answer her. She’s dressed so oddly. She wore men’s white trousers and a funny looking blouse in the shade of a bright purple. Is she allowed to do that, brother?”

“Sophia, do not bother James so,” ordered Helen, “He has just returned from his business in London. He hasn’t been home in several weeks and must be quite tired. Allow him time to recollect himself.”

“And dress in dry clothes,” included Eliza who decided to act more mature to influence her eight year old sister, “Brother; you will surely catch a cold if you do not change.”

“I shall,” he answered as he got up and crossed the room. He passed the guest room on his way to his chambers. The door was closed. He turned around to see Eliza follow him
down the hall.

She crossed to her room and said, “I must find an old nightgown for our guest. She shall not stay in her strange wet clothes much longer.”

“Thank you, Eliza,” Mr. Marshall turned to his room to change.

On the way back to the drawing room, he was stopped by Mrs. Tibbets who curtsied politely and said, “Sir, she is well and is being attended by the young mistresses.”

Knowing his sisters only too well, Mr. Marshall decided it was best detract them from the room. He entered it quietly to see Eliza and Helen standing by the bedside, whispering comments about the girl’s appearance.

Said Eliza, “She’s rather short, but she has a fine face. Not altogether handsome, but she is very pretty. I wonder what color her eyes might be. If they were to be blue, then she’d be a prize with her blonde locks.”

“I can check for you,” Sophia leaned over the bed and made an attempt to force open the girl’s eyelids.

“You will do no such thing,” scolded Helen disproving her sister’s foolish, child-like behavior even though she knew she was being critical of a child. Helen continued to make her own observations of the girl which were a tad less shallow then Eliza’s observations. “She seems to be a well-brought up girl for her skin appears smooth and not blistered. There’s something rather kind-looking about in her face, so she must be a sweet-tempered, amiable girl. Her face is still that of a young lady not completely matured. She cannot be quite as old as I or as young as Eliza, so I assume her to be around brother’s age.”

“And you can infer that all from a sleeping form of a girl that has not uttered one word to any of you,” noted Mr. Marshall, “that is quite impressive. Now if you’ll all be so kind as to let our guest rest without you spying on her. We must let her be. Mrs. Tibbets will inform us if there is any news about the girl. So off with all of you. Eliza and Helen, you must have some embroidery that you can do, surely. And it is time that you, little Sophia, should be off to bed.”

The girls quietly left the room as their brother ordered. Helen looked at him grudgingly. She was the oldest sibling in the family, and yet after their parents died, the brother became the master of the house and family. He really didn’t mean to order her around.

As he was about to follow his sisters out of the room, he noticed that the fire had gone low.

Finding a piece of wood that would feed the fire well, James heard a sigh from the bed followed by a confused, “Where am I?”

Decidedly, he did not turn around until the fire was large enough again. When he did turn around he only took a few steps closer to the bed so he could see the girl and judge how she was doing. He answered softly and slowly, “You are at the Marshall’s house in Kent.”

“Kent,” she muttered, “How did I end up in Kent?”

When the man said Kent, did he mean Kentucky? Claire wondered. Slowly her vision improved so that she could see by the firelight. Fire light? Looking around she noticed there was not a light switch in sight. There was only the light produced by the fire and some candles. She then noticed the man she was talking to. He stood a good yard away from the bed as propriety allowed. With his hands held behind his back, he was leaning forward slightly, probably to get a glimpse of her. From the fire’s soft glow, Claire noticed that he was maybe a year or two older than herself. He dressed oddly, like one of her heroes from her favorite novels.

He sported typical tan trousers that were worn usually around one’s house. He also wore a white, billowy shirt that had no buttons. He tucked in his shirt so that the shirt did not reveal his chest. He was also wearing a house robe untied. His outfit would be quite a normal one, thought Claire, if he was living in the 19th century.

Finished checking his apparel, Claire examined his face. It was hard to tell exactly what kind of face he had since it was shadowed by the glow of the fire. She could make out prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, and a pair of lips. His eyes were half-hidden by his dark hair. It was a disarray of tiny curls. There were clean cut side-burns going down the sides of his face, such as the style of 19th century men.

It was at this point that Claire’s mind clicked. “Sir,” she said politely, “What month and day are we in?”

“November of 1858, miss,” he replied helpfully. Claire must have looked shocked for he instantly asked, “Are you alright? You must have been without proper care for some time? I can fetch my housekeeper to attend to you? Or I could call on the doctor if you need him?”

“No,” Claire held up her hands, “Please don’t do anything quite yet. I just need some answers.” She barely knew where to start. There were such questions that even the man could not answer like how she got here and how she can get back. Is it possible that she traveled through time or is this all a dream? Lightly, Claire pressed her fingers to the side of her face which was tender with a bruise. It stung when she touched it. Nope, it’s not a dream, she concluded. So she continued on to her other, answerable questions. The first was…

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am James Marshall, the master of this house,” Mr. Marshall introduced himself to the girl, “and your name is?”

“My name is Claire Silver,” Claire answered.

“Well, Miss Silver,” Mr. Marshall bowed, “I have three sisters. They’ll be glad to finally know your identity. Now may I fetch Mrs. Tibbets?”

“If you’ll please not. I still have questions that need to be asked of you,” she smoothed out the blankets around herself and held her knees to her chest.

“Alright, what would you like to know?”

Claire began another question. “How did I end up in this house, Mr. Marshall?”

Taking the stool from the writing table, James moved it closer to the bed and sat down. “On my way back home from London, I found you lying in the road in the middle of a storm. I brought you back here to my house.”

“I see,” Claire nodded slowly, “Have you any questions for me?”

“Where are you from?” Mr. Marshall asked, “Where is your family and shall I write to them to let them know you are safe?”

“You won’t be able to,” a glimmer of tears appeared in Miss Silver’s eyes, “It’s confusing; I can hardly comprehend what has happened myself, but I’m not from here. I have no family here.”

Mr. Marshall’s mouth dropped slightly, “You are traveling then? You seem a bit young to be traveling by yourself. Pray, what is your age?”

A small smile pulled at Claire’s lips. Except for when Mitch mocked her, Claire did not know anyone else who talked in this old English. Of course, here it wasn’t old English; this is how
they talk here. This correct and artful speech made her stomach flutter.

“I am seventeen, sir. Soon to be eighteen in March of the year next,” she responded trying to fit the context of her grammar to his.

“You need not call me ‘sir’,” James smiled, “It seems I am only two years your senior. Well,
Miss Silver, it is nice to become acquainted with you, but I feel that you should get more rest. I will send Mrs. Tibbets up to attend you and tomorrow if you are feeling well, I will make known to you my sisters.”

“Goodnight and thank you, Mr. Marshall, for everything you have done for me,” Claire settled herself in the bed and was asleep again before Mrs. Tibbets came up to her room.