Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set Page 2

  “Oh, really? Who?”

  “She wanted it to be a surprise, but—Oh, here she is already!” she exclaimed as a short, dark-haired girl in her early twenties peeked into the dining room.

  “I just wanted to let you know I'm here. I'll wait in the living room until you're finished eating. Oh, Kathy, you look great!”

  “Annette!” cried Kathryn joyfully, nearly overturning her chair in her haste to greet her friend. The two girls hugged, then Kathryn turned to her mother. “I think I'll skip dessert. Annette and I will be in the living room if you need us.” Her mother nodded understanding and Kathryn hurried out, pulling Annette with her.

  “What are you doing in South Carolina?” Kathryn demanded at once. She and Annette had been roommates their last two years of college, and even though Annette had married two weeks after graduation, they'd kept in touch by Facebook and phone.

  “I live here!” She laughed. “David is stationed at Fort Jackson, right here in Columbia.”

  “He didn't come tonight? Why didn't you write to tell me?”

  “We only got orders a month ago and had to move two weeks later. Everything was so crazy, I decided to wait until we had an address to write to you—and then your mother convinced me to make it a surprise. And no, David's not here. He's TDY in Kansas for two months, as of last Thursday. A great way for me to get settled in, huh?”

  “TDY?” asked Kathryn.

  “Oh, sorry. I'm so used to the Army jargon I forget everyone else doesn't know it. It means temporary duty. It also means extra money, though, which will come in handy right now.”

  “What do you—Annette! Is that a maternity dress?” Her friend nodded happily. “Now don't tell me you've only known about that for a month.”

  “Well, no,” Annette admitted. “My mother didn't want me to tell anyone until after the first trimester, so I went along with her. But I'm five months along now and ready to tell the world!”

  “It doesn't look like you can keep it a secret much longer, anyway.” Annette was tiny, which made her pregnancy that much more obvious.

  “Can you imagine how big I'll be in a couple of months?” She laughed. “Will you be here long, Kathy? I hardly know anyone on post yet.”

  “I haven't decided,” Kathryn replied honestly, “but now that I know you're here, I won't be in such a hurry to get back to D.C. Not that I really was, anyway.”

  “Things aren't going so hot?” asked Annette with ready sympathy.

  There had never been secrets between Annette and Kathryn, even during their wild college days. “It's not things, so much. It's me,” she confessed. “I was going to make such a difference there you know, set the world on fire. All the social training Mother subjected me to in my teens—the modeling and charm schooling—was going to help me to influence people, get funding for the causes I care about. And it has. But so much of it is politics, knowing the right people, which charity is fashionable this month . . . the actual issues seem to get lost in the shuffle. To tell you the truth, it's all starting to seem pretty shallow—and making me feel shallow by association.”

  “What about the theater?”

  “No luck there, either—and I've gone up to New York to audition six times in the past year. But I'm not sure that's really the life for me, either. What I need is a rest, a chance to sort things out.”

  Annette blinked. “A rest? You? You were always dragging me around to everything, trying to get me involved. Women's rights one week, saving the whales the next . . .” She sighed enviously. “And you're still so thin!”

  “Aerobics.” Kathryn grimaced. “It's boring and time-consuming, but pleasantly plump actresses don't get cast as leading ladies—or make for good photo ops. I took some dance and voice lessons, too, so I wouldn't get rusty. You never know when a musical might be auditioning. But enough about me. Like I said, I came here to get away from it all.”

  “Well, here comes some diversion,” whispered Annette, gesturing toward the door, where they could hear voices approaching. “Isn't that the same guy who came to visit you once or twice at school? What was his name?”

  In answer, Kathryn stood to make introductions. “Annette, you remember Logan Thorne, a business associate of my father's and an old family friend. Logan, my very dear friend, Annette Kent.”

  Annette promptly seated herself next to Logan, obviously determined to find out all she could about him. Forthright and bubbly, she had a way of getting people to spill their secrets that Kathryn could only envy. Though articulate and persuasive with a roomful of potential donors, on a more personal level Kathryn had always had a difficult time making friends.

  Mrs. Sykes-Monroe was quick to comer Kathryn with her plans for the following evening, giving her no chance to learn what kind of headway Annette might be making with Logan. She heard Annette's frequent laughter, though, and was surprised. She hadn't thought Logan had much of a sense of humor, at least not in recent years.

  “Come on, Kathy, let me show you what I mean.”

  Kathryn reluctantly followed her mother to a long, narrow room where more than a dozen family portraits were hanging on the walls.

  “They used this room as a dining hall when this house was a girls' dormitory sixty years ago,” remarked her mother, “but now I've restored it to its intended purpose. Ah! Here's the portrait I wanted you to see.” She stopped in front of a painting two-thirds of the way down the room, and Kathryn saw that it did indeed bear a striking resemblance to her mother.

  “This was Catherine Sykes-Prescott,” said Mrs. Sykes-Monroe. “It was her mother who began the tradition of hyphenating 'Sykes' before her married name, so we wouldn't forget our fine English heritage, no matter what nationalities later generations married into. The tradition of naming the first daughter Catherine dates from nearly a century earlier.”

  Kathryn nodded. She'd heard it all many times before, and it had been impressed on her since childhood what her duty was in this regard, when—if—she married. She'd gone by plain Kathryn Monroe when she was younger, only recently copying her mother's hyphenation to give her name more distinction for the stage and social scene.

  “I plan to have my hair styled just like this,” her mother was saying, “and my dress will look almost the same as the one in the painting. I took a photo of it to show the seamstress.”

  Kathryn duly admired the portrait and several other paintings of note in the gallery, and then returned with her mother to the living room. Only Annette and her father were there.

  “Logan's gone upstairs to get some drawings he wants me to see,” said Mr. Monroe. “Some upscale town homes he's designed.” He then launched into the business plans he and Logan had been discussing, while Annette accosted her friend.

  “Logan's looking pretty good, don't you think?” she asked as soon as they were seated on the white linen couch in the far comer. “But he seems a little too settled into his carefree bachelor lifestyle, if you ask me.”

  “Annette!” Kathryn had to laugh. “I'm sure he didn't tell you that.”

  “He didn't need to,” replied Annette, tossing her short dark curls. “He's got that lazy way of talking some men have when there's not enough going on in their lives. He needs an interest.” She waggled her eyebrows at Kathryn suggestively, making her laugh again.

  “You're probably right. If anyone needs shaking up, it's Logan . . . but I'm not going to be the one to do it. Mother tried some matchmaking along those lines once, too, but I've known him too long to even think of him that way. And it's mutual. He's practically a brother to me. A tyrannical, overbearing big brother, who tried to run my life once too often.”

  Annette wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I seem to remember something about that, now that you mention it. Still—I've got a funny feeling about you and Logan.”

  Kathryn's chuckle held a hint of alarm—she knew from experience that Annette's predictions often had an uncanny way of coming true. “You and your feelings. Don't start. By the way, I'm not sure things here will be
so different from Washington. Mother's got the next two weeks scheduled right down to the minute with luncheons, fundraisers, the works.” She sighed. “I was looking forward to a change of pace, but it doesn't look like I'm going to get it.”

  ***

  Kathryn twirled, delighted, before the antique pier glass in her room. It reflected a young lady from a bygone age, in a blue-and-silver gown that looked exactly like the one in the 1822 ladies' fashion magazine downstairs. Of course, they hadn't used a polyester blend back then, but it made the dress both comfortable and washable, if not absolutely authentic. Her rich brown-black hair was piled high on her head, adorned with royal blue ribbons that matched both the dress and her eyes.

  Turning from the mirror, Kathryn wandered around the room, trying to get into the part as she would for an audition. This party was important to her mother, and she was determined to do her best. She'd never studied the particular time period being reenacted, but maybe this room could help her. Much of the furniture was original, her mother had told her, bought back when the house was restored. Gently, Kathryn touched the needlepoint on the chair cushions, the damask of the draperies and the intricately carved woodwork of the antique desk.

  Peering into the various recesses of the desk, she opened tiny drawers and fingered the carvings. One of the wooden rose petals along the edge of the desktop seemed to move beneath her fingers and she looked more closely, worried that the valuable piece of furniture might have been damaged. No, the carved piece wasn't broken—it seemed to turn on a sort of pivot. As she played with it, she heard a tiny click and another piece of carving on the front of the desk sprang forward.

  Kathryn gasped and snatched her hand away, sure now that she'd broken something, but then saw that instead of falling off, the section of carving had opened downward on a hinge. Intrigued, she felt inside the secret recess and carefully drew out a small leather-bound book. Could it be as old as the desk? Curious, she opened it. On the flyleaf she read “Personal Diary of Catherine Prescott—Private.”

  Smiling, she wondered if her long-dead ancestor would curse her from the grave for reading her girlish secrets nearly two hundred years after the fact. Never superstitious, she turned to the first page, dated June 22, 1823. That young Catherine had written of her excitement at an impending trip to London to stay for a Season or two with her Aunt Sykes.

  The next several pages Kathryn was forced to skim as the writing was faded and difficult to decipher, the Ss looking like Fs. Catherine described travel preparations and farewells to local friends, but with little mention of the dresses she was packing, which Kathryn would rather have read about.

  I shall write absolutely everything that I see and hear, she had penned on the seventh of July, the eve of her departure. I must close now, to be well rested for the drive to the coast.

  Kathryn turned the page, interested to read her ancestor's impressions of London as a young girl, but apparently Catherine had neglected to take her diary along on the trip. The next entry was dated March 13, 1825—today's date, except for the year. Kathryn shivered involuntarily at the coincidence.

  I have just remembered this old diary. Perhaps if I set down my thoughts in writing, I will be less prone to voice them aloud tonight and ruin my mother's plans. Truly, I would as lief ruin them, however, for I have no wish in the world to wed Ryan James. It is apparent that the man cares nothing for me, only for Papa's lands, which I stand to inherit someday. This ball tonight is most important to my mother, however, so I shall create no scandal for the present. Also, I should like to see, and perhaps to dance with, the Marquis de Lafayette. A true hero in our home!

  Mother hopes to outshine the ball given at the State House yesterday night—and well she may. The slaves, poor things, have been working inside and out for days to produce her idea of perfection. The result is lovely, but I fear my stay in England has made me intolerant of slavery, though I dare not mention it again to my father. Of course, he is nowhere near so harsh a master as Mr. James, but he thinks a lady should have no opinion on such matters, which is most vexing.

  In England, the gentlemen are vastly more polite, nor do they pressure a lady to do what she knows to be wrong, as R.J. has done in his efforts to force my hand. If I doubted the gossip about him before, I do so no longer! Had I known what fate awaited me this side of the Atlantic I would have accepted Sir Mark Fenton after all, I think.

  It grows late, so I must stop. Perhaps Mr. James will not attend. I hope not, for I vow the man frightens me and I would not wish him to discover it.

  Mention of the time made Kathryn think to check her phone. Nearly eight o'clock. Leaving the phone on her night stand, she bent over to slip into the authentic but comfortable silk-ribboned dancing slippers that matched her dress, thinking over what she'd read so far.

  Imagine living in a time when a girl could be forced by her parents to marry a man of their choice! She wished she could have a few moments to advise that young Catherine of what she would do in her position. Then she chuckled. This was her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother she was talking about—a woman who had lived out her life nearly two centuries ago.

  There were several more pages of writing and she looked forward to reading more, to find out what had happened. She glanced back at the diary, vaguely bothered by something about the handwriting on the next page. As soon as the party was over she would read the rest. There was no time now. Rising hurriedly, she took one last look at herself in the mirror and left the room.

  Descending the graceful, curving staircase, Kathryn found it easy to pretend that it was two centuries earlier. Her mother had chosen every furnishing, drapery and knick-knack to reflect the early 1800s. She was so caught up in the history around her that, on reaching the second-floor landing, she suddenly felt a strange sense of disorientation, even dizziness. As she put a hand on the banister to steady herself, the antique grandfather clock that stood on the landing began to strike the hour.

  Kathryn remembered the clock from her childhood and knew it had been in her mother's family for generations. But she could never remember the clock working. Had it been repaired for this evening? It struck four times and hummed to silence, though the hands pointed to eight o'clock. Her head clearing, she made a mental note to tell her mother that the clock was still not working perfectly and continued down the stairs.

  Several guests had already arrived, all historically garbed. She supposed that period costume balls must be commonplace among this crowd. If the majority of these ladies were like her mother, they probably liked nothing better than emulating their notable ancestors. To her surprise, though, even the gentlemen had gotten into the spirit of things, wearing realistic Early American outfits. Kathryn rather doubted her own father—or Logan—would be in costume, but she didn't see either of them yet.

  In fact, she didn't recognize anyone—but then, she admitted, she hadn't expected to. She smiled politely at a few people, scanning the large hall for her mother. Annette would be here, too, but probably not this early. Annette had never been on time for anything.

  “Good evening, Miss Kathryn. You are looking exceptionally lovely this evening,” came a masculine voice at her elbow. Turning, she saw a tall, ruggedly handsome man with shoulder-length dark hair—probably a wig—and compelling, deep brown eyes.

  She was certain she'd never seen him before, but his gaze implied otherwise. In fact, he was regarding her with an intimate intensity that would have made most women either tremble or melt. Kathryn did neither. She'd met his type before, though they were usually less magnetically handsome than this obvious pick-up artist.

  She couldn't help noticing his build was as provocative as his face, his powerful shoulders and thighs nicely displayed by the tight-fitting jacket and knee-breeches he wore. The snowy lace at his throat, rather than looking girlish, only emphasized the tanned strength of his face and jawline. No doubt he was used to impressionable young women falling hook, line and sinker for his flattery and hypnotic leer.

>   “Excuse me, sir, but I don't believe we've been properly introduced,” she said coolly, opting to play the part of a prim 1820s miss rather than shoot down one of her mother's guests.

  His broad smile made Kathryn steel herself against his palpable charm, but he followed her lead. “I can well understand such a sought-after young lady as yourself forgetting the least of your numerous admirers,” he drawled with an elegant, sweeping bow. “Allow me to refresh your memory. I am Ryan James.”

  Kathryn frowned. She'd heard that name before, and recently—but where? The diary, she suddenly realized. But how could this man possibly have known? Remembering again that the guests tonight were from Columbia's oldest families, she wondered if he might be a descendent of the very Ryan James that Catherine Prescott had been all but engaged to. Had they married? If so, this man would be some sort of relation, which accounted for his boldness.

  “You obviously know me already,” she said, thawing slightly. “My mother didn't tell me exactly who was going to be here tonight, so you must forgive me if I seemed rude.”

  “Perhaps she feared you would remain in hiding in your room had you known I was to attend,” Ryan returned mockingly, his eyes caressing her face and figure in a way that revived her original suspicions about him.

  Kathryn narrowed her eyes, ready to cut him down to size. But before she could speak, she saw her mother bearing down on them, regal in her antique gown and upswept hairstyle.

  “Kathryn! Mr. James! I see you two have mended your quarrel. I am so pleased.”

  “Quarrel? We only just met.” Even as Kathryn spoke, she noticed something jarringly wrong with her mother's voice—and face, now that she looked closely. Were those pockmarks on her cheeks? Surely, even she wouldn't go that far in her zeal for authenticity. The slight British accent she could more readily believe, though she wouldn't have thought her mother could so easily disguise her New Jersey twang.