CHAPTER FIVE
The giddy newness of her situation was starting to wear off. Gillian was now beginning to wonder how she, with a twenty-first century mindset, was going to survive in the eighteenth century.
After the terse, strained discourse with Taylor Ashworth’s father, Gillian had quickly finished her toast and chocolate by herself. Still hungry, yet not so that she would take even a tiny bite of the vile meat growing cold on her plate, Gillian rose, determined to locate the kitchen. It took some stealthy searching, but she simply followed her nose, carefully avoiding any servants along the way. After all, she didn’t want the help to think she had suddenly forgotten the floor plan of a home she’d lived in all of her life.
Gillian made her way past the library (which she promised herself she’d check out later), a dressing room, a water closet and powder room, finally down an L-shaped hallway, which ended in the kitchen. As she entered the large room, pots and pans of various sizes hanging from hooks in the walls, a tall heavy-set woman looked up suddenly at Gillian’s arrival. The cook’s small eyes narrowed a little as she watched Taylor/Gillian move into the kitchen. It was as if, Gillian thought, the woman was guarding her domain from any and all interlopers.
“I was wondering,” Gillian began, her hands clasped innocently behind her back, “if I could have you whip up some scrambled eggs for me. I’m still a tad hungry after breakfasting with Papa.” She smiled prettily at the woman.
The cook frowned, cocked and shook her head slightly. “ ‘Scrambled’ eggs you say? I don’t understand what ye mean for me to do...exactly.”
Gillian frowned in sudden embarrassment at her possible faux pas. Jeez, she thought, didn’t they scramble eggs in the eighteenth century, or did they only poach or boil them? I guess asking for fried, over-easy eggs wouldn’t work either. “Umm...it’s a new way of making eggs...uh...I believe it’s all the rage in Paris these days. Can I show you how?”
The cook’s head reared back in horror at Gillian’s suggestion. “Oh no, Miss – Mister Ashworth has forbidden me to allow ye to cook anything ever again after...well...that bit of fire business when you were fifteen.”
Gillian pretended to remember the incident in question. “Oh yes,” she said, widening her eyes and nodding her head. “Of course – that! I’d nearly forgotten. Well, we certainly can't have that ever happening again, can we?” Gillian had no idea what “that” had been, but somehow, she thought, the incident must have involved a rather frightening conflagration that may have not only nearly overcome the kitchen, but the entire townhouse as well.
The cook’s face relaxed a little; probably relieved that she would not have to suffer a mercurial tantrum from a spoiled brat, Gillian surmised. “Well, miss, if ye like ye can...guide...me through the process of preparing the, er, scrambled eggs.”
Gillian curved her lips in what she hoped would be a sweetly sincere smile. “It’s really quite simple: you crack a couple of eggs into a bowl and beat them until they’re nothing more than a yellow liquid, adding a bit of milk to the mix. Then, after pouring them into a hot and buttered pan, you stir them until they become...fluffy.” At the cook’s dubious expression, Gillian added, “They’re really quite good; you might want to whip up a batch for yourself later. I predict everyone in London will be eating scrambled eggs before the year is done.” And I will have altered British culinary history in the process.
The cook closed her small eyes for a moment and shook her head slightly. In a swift, deft movement the woman efficiently cracked two eggs into a bowl with one hand. Wiping her thick hands in her apron, frowning at Taylor/Gillian, said, “We’re out of fresh milk until tomorrow morning. But we have some clotted cream. Will that do?”
Gillian had tried clotted cream on her last trip to the UK, and enjoyed its taste; the consistency was a little thick, like Greek yogurt, but it would work. “Yes, please,” she said, nodding.
“Okay, then,” the cook said as she rolled her eyes. The woman scooped up a heaping spoonful of the cream and dropped it into the egg mix. In frenzy, perhaps impatient to have the girl on her way, the cook beat the eggs and cream with a spoon, the metal making sharp scraping sounds in its wake. With a single, irritated sidelong glance at Gillian, the cook poured the liquefied eggs into a heated pan and began to stir them with a fork.
When the eggs were pale and sufficiently fluffy, Gillian nodded her approval to the cook. The cook shrugged as she scraped the scrambled eggs onto a china plate. Gillian lifted the plate to her nose, closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma of the cooked eggs as warm, moist steam traced her jaw and cheek. Gracelessly, she speared a sizeable chunk of egg with her fork and shoved it into her mouth; making contented murmuring sounds as she chewed. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to top the eggs with some fresh avocado slices.
Gillian turned her back on the cook and rolled her eyes heavenward as she chewed another mouthful. Next time, she thought to herself, I’ll teach her how to make salsa. Surely they have tomatoes and onions in eighteenth century England. Cilantro might be problem, though…
###
Gillian sat in her large bedroom staring out the window at Grosvenor Street. She had spent most of the morning gazing at the colorful passerby below. She had absolutely nothing to do, nowhere to go. It was depressing her.
How, she wondered, did eighteenth century women amuse themselves, save for going to parties, that is? She’d read about places where one could look at all manner of oddities, and of course, there were the bear and bull baiting shows. If this were 2014, she could hop into her Jeep 4 x 4 and head for the Anza-Borrego desert or Palomar Mountain. Or, she if she were in the mood for a long drive up the California coast, she’d charge up her brand-new royal-blue Tesla S and drive up Highway 101 past Carlsbad to see how far it would actually go on one charge. But what if she wanted to go for a drive now? Could she poke her head into the livery and order a footman to have a carriage ready, and where the heck would she go? Even clothes shopping in the eighteenth century entailed looking through reams of fabric, then dropping off the chosen bolt off at a seamstress shop to fashion a dress. Shoe shopping? She was pretty sure the shoe shops were not exactly DSW Warehouse, either.
Frustration was beginning to prick an irritating swath up her spine and neck.
And these clothes were beginning to annoy her to no end! Especially the undergarments, mostly notably the damned corset underneath her bodice. She was fairly certain it had rearranged some vital organs.
When Fiona had wrapped the stiff, boning-laced corset around her waist, the girl had instructed Gillian to “take a breath.” When Gillian had complied, the abigail began to tighten the lacings from behind by degrees. Gillian felt her bosom lift slightly from below as her ribs were molded painfully against the hard boning fitted into the corset. From that moment on, Gillian took only small breaths. She’d asked Fiona if the maid could loosen the lacings just a bit.
The abigail had laughed. “Oh, my no, miss. Ye surely don’t want a flabby waist do ye now. I’ll do nothing of the kind, for once ye see yerself in the mirror after, ye’ll be beggin’ for me to tighten ‘em up again.”
Gillian felt a swell of tears begin and she blinked them away. “Oh, please Fiona, just a little. I promise I won’t have you tighten them later.”
“Oh all right then,” the maid had said, cautious. Gillian felt the abigail’s expert fingers pluck at the lacings and she was able to breathe.
Now, sitting at the window, Gillian looked down at the dark blue gown she wore. It was beautiful of course, but uncomfortable beyond belief. The mounds at her hips, panniers they were called, made it difficult for her to sit in chairs with arms, in some doorways she was forced to enter sideways like a crab. What she wouldn’t give to slip into a tee shirt and a pair of worn Levis right now.
She had to remind herself that she was alive and healthy and that she had chosen to take this risk. Although, in her zeal to escape from her dire situation, she had not pondered the difficulty she would have in adjusting to a different century.
But then, she had never expected to remain in this century. Somehow she would have to find a way to return to her own time and taking the body she now inhabited with her. She knew that it was imperative for her to locate Glastonbury, wherever that was. Gillian had no idea where to begin, save to ask the footman to take her there (and she wasn’t sure that he was allowed to take her anywhere other than around London). How would she explain her desire to travel there? And once she’d arrived at Glastonbury she had no clue whom to approach for help. They’ll probably shuttle me off to Bedlam before I’ve even closed my mouth.
In the meantime, here she sat, surrounded by eighteenth century opulence and with a maid to do her every bidding – and yet she wasn’t sure if she could leave the townhouse unescorted.
Suddenly Gillian rose from the wide cane-back chair she’d been sitting in and planted her hands on her padded hips. “Well,” she declared to the room, “I guess I’ll just have to walk out the door and see if anyone chases after me.”
###
She hadn’t gone far down Grosvenor Street when she heard heavy footsteps pounding quickly behind her.
Gillian turned to find their portly butler, Mr. Cowles, skidding to a quick, breathless stop. Bent over a little, the man said, “Miss Ashworth, may I ask where you...oh dear,” pausing, the man mopped his face with a handkerchief, “...where you were off to?”
Gillian blinked innocently. “I was just taking...a stroll. Must I ask permission to leave the house?”
Mr. Cowles’s small mouth became a fine line as he pursed his lips. “Why, no. But it would be courteous if you would let us know where you were going. It isn’t safe for a young woman to be walking about the streets of London...alone.”
“Oh, and I should inform you of my itinerary and not my father?”
Now the butler’s eyes narrowed a degree, no doubt wishing sincerely that he could return Gillian’s sarcasm in kind. “You may, and so that I should inform your father, in case he is unavailable to you. Miss Ashworth, you must realize that it is your welfare of which we are concerned.”
Gillian glanced around, and then pointed at a young girl selling strawberries from a basket. “She’s all by herself. Oh, but then, she’s of a poorer caste and therefore no one would care if she were assaulted on the street. I, on the other hand, am of the upper class which means I am worth considerably more than a girl in the threadbare dress. And yet, although I seem to be ‘worth’ more, I have less freedom. Clear as mud.”
Mr. Cowles closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them slowly. He made a quick, furtive movement as if he wanted to scratch beneath his powdered wig. “Well, I certainly would not have put it as bluntly, but yes, that girl is a common street urchin and is accustomed to spending her days on the street alone. But you are young lady of fine birth and breeding and you must be protected. Now,” extending his hand to touch Gillian’s elbow, “come along home.”
Gillian abruptly moved her elbow away from the butler’s fingers. “And what if I do not wish to return home? You know where I am. Where am I going? Well, I’m going down the street to peer into a few shop windows, and then people-watch. I’m bored sitting at home and I need some fresh air and something to look at!”
The butler shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t know what has come over you, Miss, for you are not yourself at all. Perhaps I should call a physician...?”
A part of Gillian ordered herself to tamp down the twenty-first century rant, but another part of her didn’t care. She was sick and tired of pretending to be someone else and it was time that she asserted herself. “Oh, so now that I’m being honest, I must be ill,” she said as she tapped a forefinger against her temple. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with me at all. Let’s just say that I see things with a new...clarity. I’m a different Taylor Ashworth and you’d all better get used to it.” Then, turning on her heel, Gillian began to walk in the opposite direction. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “And I’m still having my stroll. Alone.”
She heard Mr. Cowles’s hurried footsteps behind her. “I must insist on following you,” he called out to her.
“Oh yeah?” Gillian yelled over her shoulder. “Well, let’s see if you can keep up with me, then.” Gillian kicked off her powder blue mules, scooped them up and began a light sprint down the street. Despite the snugness of the corset beneath her bodice, Gillian managed to breathe evenly enough. She turned to watch as Mr. Cowles tried to keep up with her without staggering, his plump cheeks billowed as he huffed air.
Gillian stopped and began to laugh at the sight. The man was no athlete and she wondered if anyone in the eighteenth century bothered to keep fit with regular exercise. Suddenly she felt a wave of guilt rise in her as she watched the older man trip over a slightly raised cobblestone. She decided to let the butler catch up with her.
Mr. Cowles’s face was now red and blotchy from his exertion. He seemed to be using every ounce of inner discipline to keep from exploding a curse at her. “Miss Ashworth,” he said between deep breaths, “I must ask you to please reconsider this mad escapade of yours.” Pausing to breathe and swallow, added, “You cannot run hither and thither through the streets of London – it simply isn’t done. You are neither hoyden nor street urchin and if your father were to hear of this...adventure...I’m not certain if he would ever allow you out of the house again.”
Gillian narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
Mr. Cowles shook his head vigorously. “Oh no, Miss. I am only warning you that it would not be difficult for Mr. Ashworth to discover this bit of foolishness.”
Gillian sensed the tightly reined sarcasm in the butler’s voice. She wondered how long he had suffered Taylor Ashworth’s ongoing insolence, and not been able to scold her in the manner in which he’d liked. “Well,” she sighed, “I was bored. I wanted to get out of the house and do something.”
The butler smiled and touched her elbow tentatively as if to lead her back home. “Perhaps when we return to the house, Fiona can offer some ideas and perhaps the two of you can do a spot of shopping.”
“More than anything,” Gillian said as she let the butler escort her back to the townhouse, “I need information.”
###
“Glastonbury?” Mr. Cowles raised a thick eyebrow as he poured some tea for the both of them. “Why on earth would you be interested in Glastonbury?”
They sat together in a small anteroom off the main hall. Gillian picked up her cup and sipped the hot tea. “I’ve taken...a sudden...interest in the abbey there. I hear it’s a mystical place. But where exactly is it...Glastonbury, I mean?”
The butler cocked his head a little, puzzled. “Why,” he said, smiling slightly, “it is in Somerset, near Cheddar Wells. You and your father were there just this past summer.”
Gillian felt a hot blush creep up her neck and jaw. “Oh,” she laughed a little, putting her fingertips to her bottom lip. “Oh, of course! How could I have forgotten so soon? But since I wasn’t the one to drive the coach, how would I know where I was? It was all just passing scenery to me.”
Gillian mentally rapped knuckles against temples. It was frustrating: she had no way of knowing where Taylor Ashworth had traveled, or what she’d ever done. She didn’t know if the girl had hobbies, had no idea of her likes and dislikes. She would be forever guessing and often guessing incorrectly. It would have helped immensely if the girl had kept a diary but, alas, Taylor Ashworth was not a young woman of letters.
Mr. Cowles stood up, favoring Gillian with a suddenly kind smile. “You are very likely quite tired after your spirited jaunt, Miss Ashworth. I quite understand and, after all, it was nearly a year ago. As I recall, you weren’t especially enamored of the place. In fact, you counted Cheddar Wells as dull and insufferably bucolic. This is why I was surprised that you had any interest in Glastonbury.”
“It’s the Abbey I’m most interested in,” Gillian said earnestly. “Perhaps there are books I can read about it?”
The butler bent to pick up his cup and saucer. “I believe there may be a book or two in the library on Glastonbury Abbey. I shall have Fiona bring them up to you later if you wish.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cowles,” Gillian said as she stood up from the settee she’d been sitting in. “I would very much appreciate it. And,” patting the butler lightly on his shoulder, “I’m really sorry that I caused you to chase after me earlier.”
Mr. Cowles favored her with a smile, which seemed both puzzled and delighted. Then, shaking his head, “No apology necessary, Miss. Everyone is entitled to at least one instance of impetuous behavior. Would you like me to bring in more tea, Miss?”
“Thank you,” Gillian said as she sat down upon the settee and jiggled the teapot a little, “but I think I have quite enough left.”
The butler ducked his head and bowed slightly. “I shall search for the Glastonbury books and have them brought to your rooms once I have found them.” And, with another quick bow, Mr. Cowles left the room, closing the double doors after him.
Gillian poured herself another cup of tea and settled against the settee. As she sipped the fragrant tea, Gillian watched as a brightly dressed couple walked past the anteroom’s dormer windows. She smiled as the moist steam from the tea touched her eyelids, warming them.
She knew where Glastonbury Abbey was; she just needed a way to get there and a plausible reason why.