The next morning I woke, stiff backed and sore, when Miss Brown came into the kitchen to start breakfast for the household. Shamefaced, I collected up Margaret's papers - some of which had spilled off of my lap and onto the floor - and tried to put them back in order. Dread pulled at my sternum as I skimmed the notes in the margins.
Son of a fuck, I thought, dazedly trying to stretch out the crick in my neck. So much was happening while you weren't paying attention. When you were being smug in your twenty-first century know-it-all-ness... of course just because she's from a different era doesn't make Margaret any less observant, or clever, or feminist.
It's actually what her work is known for. Dumbass.
Right. Okay. So, how the hell was I going handle this? Was I going to handle this? Did I actually have to do anything?
Miss Brown cleared her throat meaningfully as I stood at the table, woolgathering. Okay, well, yeah, I guess the first thing I had to do was get the hell out of the way of breakfast.
Setting the manuscript aside on the tea trolley to make sure it wouldn't get ruined, I splashed my face with water from bucket by the sink and refilled the kettle for tea. Miss Brown showed me carefully, step by step, how to pound bread dough into submission, then took a bowl of risen batter from a pantry cupboard and pulled and cut it into a small loaf for the morning meal. The dough I continued to knead would be for tomorrow. Miss Brown put the first loaf into the bread oven, then turned to cut the rest up into balls for the rest of the day's bread - little tea cake sized rolls for lunch and dinner. We sliced up bacon and I was put in charge of not letting it burn, and between the two of us we had breakfast out on the ladies' parlor table in quicker time than Miss Brown was used to. She smiled then, the first she had shared with me, appreciating the bit of a sit-down with a cup of tea of her own that she got.
"Up late, Miss?" she asked, eyeing the manuscript.
"Reading," I agreed.
Miss Brown's mouth twisted a little and I wasn't sure if that meant that she was unimpressed with my passtime, or unimpressed that I could read at all. She didn't ask more, I didn't offer more, and soon we were at the bottom of our cups and shutting the meal out to the parlor. Unlike the Gales, the Goodenoughs didn't have a whole room dedicated solely to breakfast; the parlour, a lady's domain for casual entertaining in the household, was repurposed here as a breakfast nook, afternoon parlour for seated pass-times, and Margaret's writing. The rest of the house consisted of the one dining room, the day-use parlor and a more formal one that I assumed was for evening shindigs and was strewn with the detritus of Rose's position as a tutor, the kitchen and pantry, the three bedrooms for the five womenfolk, and a small room for Mr. Edwards where he slept, tended leathers and polished silvers, and did whatever else it was that the only dude in a house full of petticoats bothered himself with.
A little bell was rung in the parlor next to the kitchen and Miss brown popped up to push the trolly we'd pre-loaded with breakfast into the next room. Mrs. Goodenough was already seated at the tea-table, wrapped in another fancy housecoat with one of those flimsy bed-caps, Rose coming in the door dressed similarly. Margaret had clearly already been up for hours, hunched as she was in her own bathrobe over her writing desk at the window overlooking the meagre foliage . This house was on the corner, with only one neighbour abutted against it, so there was a bit of space for what saw was a container-garden of just-sprouting flowers, a sad looking trellis vice, and a weather-worn bench.
Once Miss Brown and I had piled the table with the hot bread, some butter, the bacon and hard boiled eggs and tea, I moved to leave the Goodenoughs and go join Miss Brown to break our own fast. Before I could reach the door, Margaret said, "Miss Jessica. Stay, please. Join us." Only then did she stand up, set her pencil down, and start wiping her hands on a filthy ink-stained handkerchief she pulled from her robe pocket.
Her grey eyes were bright, hopefully, but still assessing.
I stopped and cut a look at Mrs. Goodenough, but she didn't seem to disapprove, so I stripped off my apron and left it hanging on the door handle and took the free seat beside Margaret. I took a slice of bread and was careful about how much butter I loaded on, then folded it around a few bits of bacon. It was much easier to eat one-handed than with a fork and knife, and Margaret watched the entire process with a sort of bemused smile sitting on the corner of her mouth as she sat.
She wanted to ask me something, that much was obvious.
How was the book? I imagine was on the tip of her tongue. Instead she said nothing, pouring herself tea and studying my face - did she see the bruises under my eyes, the way I held my neck still? Was she trying to read what I thought of the book from my appearance - while the other two Goodenoughs filled the room with idle morning chatter.
Rose spoke of going around to drop their card at friends houses, to let them know that they were back in Bath, and calling in on the boys whom they tutored. Mrs. Goodenough expressed an interest in accompanying her daughter, if they could be persuaded to include the Pump Room in their walk.
"I find myself in the need of a refreshing cup of its waters," Mrs. Goodenough said, "I feel quite out of sorts from our long journey."
I tried not to gag too visibly at the thought of drinking unfiltered water straight from a spring where sick people lounged around mostly naked.
Breakfast ended, and Miss Brown appeared again to tidy away the dishes, glancing over her shoulder at me the whole time. I wasn't sure what to do. Help? I stood to do that, but Margaret but her hand on her wrist, bid me to stay where I was. Miss Brown scowled a bit. I couldn't tell by her face whether she was angry or uncomfortable with this strange pseudo servant relationship I had with the Goodenoughs or not. I decided not to care; these were the terms of my agreement with the Goodenoughs, not hers.
Rose and Mrs. Goodenough drifted off to start their day, Margaret called for more hot water - I jumped up to fetch it myself - and when I came back, Margaret was sitting alone in the parlor with just our cups left on the table.
Our cups, and the manuscript.
"I can see that you are desperate to speak, yet reluctant to broach the topic," Margaret said softly once we were both seated, with fresh tea in our hands. "Was it... that terrible?"
"Terrible," I spluttered. "No, Margaret, god no."
"But you are..." she lifted those moonstone eyes from her cup to meet mine. "You are behaving as if-- you hold yourself stiffly--"
"I fell asleep reading it at the table, my neck hurts."
Margaret's expression drooped. "It put you to sleep?" she asked, ever-so-slightly distraught.
"The opposite," I said quickly. "I didn't want to put it down. It was..." Terrifying. "Enthralling."
Margaret set down her tea cup, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. "You're lying to me. Why?"
"I'm not," I protested. God, she could read me better than I thought. What the hell? "I just..."
"What was it? Please." She leaned forward, imploring, hand out as if to touch mine, then withdrawing when I didn't move to take it. "I thought we were friends. I thought we had vowed to be honest with one another, even though I know there are secrets you keep from me--"
"Being honest and protecting my own secrets are not the same thing," I protested.
"If you hated it, I would far rather you--"
"I didn't hate it, Margaret, Jesus, I--"
"Miss Jessica, please, I beg you not to trifle with my heart in this."
"Your heart--" I choked. "Jesus, Margaret, I'm not being coy to be mean, I just don't know how to phrase what I--"
"Just say it," Margaret begged, grabbing my ruined hand and clutching it to her breast. "Jessie, please."
The words vomited out before I could swallow them down: "It's wrong."
There was a few heartbeats of broken, devastated silence before Margaret sucked in a shaky breath. Her eyes grew wet, but she didn't cry.
"I see," she croaked, and let go of my hand, sitting back. With my thumb and forefinger, I pinched the fabric of her sleeve, determined not to let her go. Not to... to have her misunderstand.
I have to tell her, I realized all of a sudden. I can't... I can't just say that and not tell her that I... it would have come to this eventually, wouldn't it?
"This is..." I let out a deep breath, tapped the cover of her folio with my free hand. "Why did you change it? What made you... shit, what prompted this... Margaret," I said, broken and unsure what I was trying to get at.
Margaret just stared at me, face sallow, eyes hardening. "Was it a poor choice?"
"No," I rushed to reassure her, and then wondered if this was somehow against the time-traveller's code of conduct. What was I supposed to say when she asked me a blunt, history-defining question like that? Was I just meant to know the right answer? Wasn't I supposed to get goosebumps or feel time about to break or something like that?
Fuck the time-traveller's code of conduct, I thought. If there was one, surely none of those other assholes would have left me here, alone and hurt.
"I just don't understand what... what made you change the writing. The... the plot? The point of the story? It's good!" I added quickly when she started to scowl. "It's better, it is! But why?"
"Are you offended?" Margaret asked.
"No!" I said quickly, "God, no! I ... I like the new characters. I think it gives it the, uh... the oomph it needs, you know?" She raised an amused eyebrow. "I mean, the conflict. Before it was just chronicling Mary and William's correspondence, but I see a tension in it now, with duty and the opposition in Evangeline and, you know, a fight for Jane. She has to work for her happiness now. It's... it's good."
Margaret tapped her teeth in thought. It was such an urbane, such an un-authorly twitch I was startled. It was just so human. And kinda gross. Margaret Goodenough taps her teeth.
"I do prefer that - that Jane must work to earn her happiness. Yes," she said slowly.
"Well, they both do," I offered. "Her and her sister. It's difficult for them, being shut up in that castle with their father. He's a terrible man. So prideful and stoic, so concerned with propriety. It must have been rough, being his daughters. "
"His daughters," Margaret said, and I felt my face go hot. "The Welshman. Hm." She tapped her teeth again and her eyes skimmed the surfaces in the room, searching, obviously, for her writing desk.
For the second time in twenty four hours I rolled my eyes upwards and thought, What have I done?
Margaret pulled her hand from my grip slowly and this time I let her go.
She stood, meaning to go write, and maybe I was safe, maybe I didn't have to have that conversation, but no. She sat again. She folded her hands over her stomach, face flushing slightly, and oh, this time it was Margaret who was lying. "There is something more. Something that I... must confess. I beg you patience, Jessie, for I think I shall only have the bravery to say this once. Do not interrupt?"
She looked to me, and I nodded, agreeing.
"It was not working. Because it was too... feminine, do you see? Too womanish. It was circuitous and coy and all the things that I thought a woman must be, but you are not." Margaret wrung her hands harder, bit her lip, grunted a bit in frustration, clearly not articulating herself the way she wanted to. I waited her out. "You must understand, epistolary format is all well and good, very traditional, but why may I not be direct in describing the action? Why must letter-novels be the providence of writers of the fair sex, couched in layers of hidden meaning. Why may I not simply and forthrightly relate the actions and emotions and, and, and feelings of my characters," at this she flicked a glance up at me, guilty, eyelashes spiked with the tears she was still refusing to allow to fall. "As men may do?" She bit her bottom lip again, and her ears were pink, and that eye-flick felt more like a punch in the gut.
Shit, I thought. Are we still talking about the book?
Then I said it aloud: "Are we still talking about the book?"
"What else would we be talking of?" Margaret asked, and she really wanted to know. She wasn't playing coy, being sweet for the sake of luring me into outing myself in a lie. "Unless it's those secrets that you claim to be keeping to protect yourself."
"Margaret-"
"Jessie," she replied, without the honorific, using my first name the way I was using hers. On purpose. To make a point. She lay a hand on her folio, fingers flexing, curling, flexing. "We are home now. We are in Bath and my family is out. The servants cannot hear us. We are utterly alone, for once, and we are safe. Do you not think that this is the opportune time? Shall we not be completely open with one another, at last?"
"Why did you change the book, Margaret?" I asked, anguished, unsure why this meant so much to me. Why I needed to know so badly. Anything else I might have added got caught below the burning lump in my throat. My heart was beating like I'd just run a face, my hands shaking, my mouth dry. I was standing on the precipice of something; I didn't know what, though. I was afraid to peer over the edge, to see.
"I put you on the page, Jessie," Margaret said softly. One of the tears that had been collecting on her lashes slipped down, rolling along her cheek.
I wanted to reach out with my good hand, cradle her jaw in my palm, brush it away with the pad of my thumb. So I did. Margaret stilled, the room filled with a silent, anticipatory hush. It wasn't like a spark, or a buzzing, it wasn't a revelation at first touch, because I had touched Margaret before.
But never with intent. Never like this.
She turned her face, slowly, giving me enough time to pull back if I wanted to, needed to. I neither wanted or needed to.
"I put you on the page," Margaret said again, murmuring the words into my skin, smearing them into the fleshy mound at the base of my thumb. "Because I did not understand you."
"What have I done?" I asked, the words strangled, gravelled, raw. Oh, god, what have I done?
"You talk about a place where women may be independent," Margaret said, turning her face to mine, leaning forward. She pressed my palm against her cheek with her own hand, fingers pressing my flesh. "You hint at an education received there that I could never have available to me here, of independences and freedoms, and not relying on a husband's indulgence, or a father's inheritance and a brother's wages to support myself. Of a place where love is the order of the day, and marriages are not a necessity. You speak and walk with such self-assuredly, you know who you are, not in relation to others, in your usefulness to them, but as yourself. And you look at me as if I am meaningful to you. Am I not?"
I swallowed hard. Tread carefully, Jessie, I warned myself. This is important. Be mindful. "You are, Christ, Margaret, you're meaningful."
"But I am a meaningful to you?" She leaned forward more, close enough to... Shit, did she know? Was she doing this on purpose? She licked her lower lips and jesus fucking christ, no, she didn't... she couldn't possibly...
"I... I don't know how to answer that," I admitted, not able to tear my eyes off of that now-slick lip, it's soft pink plumpness. Her breath smelled of tea and jam. Would her mouth taste of it? "I don't know how you want me to--"
Margaret raised those moonstone eyes, almost iridescent now with her tears, but glittering coldly with her determination. "Tell me, Jessica Franklin. Am I at least as meaningful to you as Frank is?"
Oh god. "Yes," I said, strangled, "More."
"More?" she asked, chin jutting out, stubborn now, determined.
"So much more," I babbled. "Margaret, you--"
I didn't have the chance to tell her what I thought of her, how much more admirable I found her, how easy her friendship was, how warm our companionship. How I liked laughing and teasing with her, how I appreciated her glitteringly vicious observations of the people around us. How she had so easily offered me a place in her life, and refused to let it remain one of mere servitude. How Francis had tried to push me into a mold that didn't fit, tried to rectify his confusion about my past, my vocabulary, by making me into what he thought I should be - a simperingly grateful maid. But how Margaret took me at face value and evaluated each new part of me that she didn't understand as it came, redefining her understanding of the whole instead of blindly forcing it into a predetermined space.
I didn't have the time because Margaret Goodenough was kissing me.
And just as I realized it - her pretty little cupid's bow mouth on mine, her hand gripping my wrist, everything pressing just a bit too hard, squeezing a bit too much - she pulled back with a shocky, worried expression scurrying over her features.
"Was that not correct?" Margaret asked. "Did I not do it right? I've never kissed anyone before and I--"
Before she could finish her self recrimination, I had both of my hands on her face, holding her head still, tilting my own to slot our mouths together just right. I sucked her upper lip between my own, darted my tongue out for a little taste, repeated the taste on her lower lip. She gasped a little and I took the opportunity to touch my tongue, very gently, to the tip of hers.
"My goodness!" Margaret said, pulling back all of a sudden, hand over her mouth, cheeks flaming pink. "Is that-- was that...?"
"I won't do it again if you didn't like it," I said, but I could already see the wry curl to her lips, the way she tilted her head, considering.
"I should like to try," Margaret said, and then her palm was pressed against my shoulder, holding me in place as she tilted her head, considered the angle of our noses, and licked my bottom lip like a kitten.
I couldn't help the snort of laughter and she pulled back again, indignant.
"Here," I said. I took the hand on my shoulder, scooted forward on my chair, and placed it on the back of my head. "Go on. Dig in."
I had enough hair now to have a decent little chignon at the back of my head, and she curled her fingers in, pressing against my scalp.
"Tilt, like this, yeah," I said, pressing light fingers to her jaw. "Just do what feels nice, okay? If I do something to you, and you like it, do it back. We won't do anything but kiss. I won't move my hands below your shoulders, but you can move yours all you want. Ready?"
Margaret took a deep breath. "Proceed."
Swallowing down a giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, I kissed her again. First, small light pecks, then longer presses on her lips, in the corners, on her nose and chin and cheeks. She gasped and laughed when I kissed her neck, nipped at the tendon. When she was more relaxed, sagging against me and bold with her own kisses, I opened my mouth and teased and tempted her inside.
Tentative, sweet, I didn't go for anything raunchy like sucking on her tongue or tracing her teeth with my own. Little licks were enough to make her finally pull back, mouth red and wet and swollen, pupils blown and eyes a little glazed.
"My goodness," she murmured again.
"Good?"
"Most definitely. Quite a skill you possess, Miss Franklin."
"I'll take that as a compliment, Miss Goodenough," I replied, cheeky and delighted.
"And this is how... how women love one another, where you are from?" she asked gently, reaching up to push a piece of hair back off my face from where it had fallen out.
"This is how everyone kisses. Even here," I said.
She went quiet for a moment, chafed lip between her teeth and then, with determination, said: "Even... now?"
Oh shit. She does know. I thought. "You... you know."
"I am not a fool, Jessica Franklin," Margaret said softly, and it sound like a confession in a church, low and perhaps a bit shamed. "I doubted at first, but I am a teller of stories and I know when someone is telling one. Had your behaviour or the way you speak not been enough to concern me, to alert me to the fact that I was being deceived, my brother was eager enough to tell me the tale of your rescue in his desperation to endear you to me, to foist you upon us. And the things you told him onboard the Lyre."
"Francis was that desperate to get rid of me?" I asked, feeling my stomach drop.
"Yes, but I reason that it was more to due with his own temptation. You are refreshingly forthright and blunt, for all of your secrecy, Jessie. Qualities along with your kisses that I suspect made my brother doubt his very real and solid love for Miss Elizabeth Gale."
"But he does love her," I pressed. "He really does."
"He really does," Margaret agreed. "And was relieved to be back in her tender graces soon enough. He found you tempting, he confessed as much to me, but knew that he would be in the wrong if he took on with you and threw aside Elizabeth."
"He's a good man," I said, relieved. "And, uh, he told you about us, um... kissing, did he?"
Margaret's smile turned sly. "If that is what you call it."
"Oh, fuck," I groaned and hid my face in her neck. "Do you hate me? Is it weird? He's your brother."
"I will admit it rather intrigued me more than I care to admit," she said into my hair, kissing the shell of my ear. "Not because he was my brother, but because of the self-assured way you took your pleasure, according to him. And gave him his own."
I grinned against her neck and kissed the skin right under my lips. "Competence kink?"
"I do not know what that means," Margaret admitted, and shrugged me back upright so she could meet my eyes. They were a bit sad, though, a bit hurt. "I don't mind you dallying with him, so long as it brought you to me. But, Jessie... Why would you tell him, but not me?" She kissed me again, slow, sweet. "I know we have not had much opportunity to truly have privacy, but all those evenings conversing. You hinted, but you never said. Never explicitly. Have I not earned your trust? Your friendship? Your loyalty? Am I not-- Jessie, am I not your very good friend? Do you not... do you not feel for me as I am beginning to feel for you?"
"I do. Boy howdy, do I, you have no idea."
"I believe I have some," Margaret said, smirking. "Did you fear this? Is this why you hid?"
"No," I said. "No, back home, I don't have to hide it. No one does, not where I live. It's... not just allowed, but legal. Protected under the law. This kind of love is equal to that between a man and a women. There's protection. There's marriage, if you want it."
Margaret's jaw slackened, her eyes wide. "Protection? Marriage?"
"Yeah. What we are, it's okay there."
"And where..." Margaret blinked rapidly, licked her lips, breath heaving in her breast, and for a second I didn't get it. She looked scared. What had she to be scared of? And then I realized it was the question. She didn't know how to ask it. And she didn't know if she wanted an answer to it.
"2019," I said to her. "I crashed on July 16th, 2019."
"And were rescued on October 5th, 1805. You... you are... you have..."
"I travelled through time." There. I'd said it.
"How? How could one possibly--"
"I don't know," I said. Her nose wrinkled, unimpressed. "Honestly, that's the truth. I don't know. One minute I was thirty thousand feet up, soaring over the Atlantic on my way to Paris, the next Francis was fishing me out of the drink."
"Soaring over the Atlantic?" Margaret asked, eyes glittering with wonder and fierce curiosity.
I told her about planes. Then I told her about university, and celebratory graduation trips, and burning oxygen, and yellow lifejackets, and PTSD. I talked until my voice was hoarse and the little clock on the mantle chimed noon and the tea I used to loosen my tongue was stone-cold.
Near the end of my confession, Margaret's attention started straying to the leather folio on the table. One hand tangled up with my good one, she spread the other one out on the manuscript.
"Do you know it?" Margaret asked, voice small and uncertain. "Is it known? Did I ever finish it? For I'll admit some mornings it feels as if I never will. As if the whole of the world conspires against my ability to simply take the time to... do I finish it?"
"Yes," I said, squeezing her fingers. "Yes, you definitely finish it."
"And do I find a publisher? Will someone take it?"
"Yes," I said. "Do you... do you want me to tell you how it goes?"
"No," she said immediately. "No, I pray, tell me nothing of it's reception. I dare not know if it brings me acclaim, or financial comfort, or, God forbid, fame. I just need to know that it is not in vain. That my hard work is rewarded."
"It's rewarded," I reassure her. "Believe me."
"I do. Oh, Jessie, I do."
I didn't tell her that I knew of them because I'd watched the movies instead of reading the books. Margaret didn't need to know that there were going to be adaptations after adaptations. That would intimidate anyone, I thought. Even forceful, steady, Margaret.
"And my life, it is known as well?" she asked. "Only, you have said, more than once, that I had a lover..."
"Yeah," I said. "That's what I don't get. I mean, am I changing history, being here? It's pretty well known that you, ah, you never, um..."
"I never married a man," Margaret says, and how can she sound so confident. So sure of herself? So... okay with it all.
"Yeah."
"I've had no lover but you," Margaret said gently, her posture straightening into confidence. "And I dare say, I have no desire to have another. This historical life's companion that you speak of? It must be none other than you. I could spend my whole life with you and never grow bored, Jane Jessica Franklin."
"Because I'm an unwilling time traveler filled with weird social mores and bizarre juxtapositions and you'll never get sick of winkling out my secrets?" I asked, and I was going for light, but the worry that this might be the only reason Margaret wanted me around - had ever accepted Francies' suggestion I be her companion at all - is because I was a fascinating puzzle.
"Because you are a kind person, and a learned one. Because you wish to make me strive to be better, to be worthy of your attention and your admiration." Here, she glanced meaningfully at the manuscript on the table. "Because you understand and accept my predelicions and judge me not," Margaret corrected with that wry smile I was beginning to really, really love. "And because I find you very handsome," she added with the single most delectable blush I had ever seen.
"Damn," I said, because what else can you do when a great classic literary mind basically comes out to you and proposes marriage in the same breath?
"Okay, Margaret," I whispered, leaning close to press breathe the acceptance across her skin. "Okay, I'm in." And having nothing further to say on the topic, I grasped her chin in my hand and kissed her again.
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