She didn't know how this whole process worked, but she knew she had to find a way back to Hugh before she forgot who she really was and where she'd come from.
More than anything, she wanted to go home.
"There's additional hot water coming," Jonathan told her. "I'll be going downstairs shortly. You may take a bath, if you wish."
"Thank you." The man was extraordinarily generous.
"I have to settle things with my father," Jonathan said quietly, his eyes on Jane in his huge bed. She'd fallen asleep as soon as she'd laid her head on the lace-edged pillow. Amelia sensed Jonathan didn't look at Jane as a conquest to be taken to his bed but more as a frightened woman who needed time to adjust to what had happened to her.
"I understand."
"You will not speak of what happened with him this evening."
She smiled up at him. "We will protect her, sir."
Some of the worry was starting to leave his eyes.
"Yes, Emma, we will."
It pleased her that he knew her name. How she wished she could have heard that voice, so like Hugh's, say her name.
Amelia.
But it wasn't to be. She might never hear her name spoken again. It was a sobering thought, to feel that a major part of her identity might only survive within her own mind.
Two maids came back with more buckets of steaming hot water, which they added to the tub. Taking the sliver of French soap and a few of the linen towels, Amelia prepared for her first bath in the eighteenth century.
It was rather like camping. Roughing it. The hot water felt so heavenly, she didn't even care that it had already been used by Jane.
She'd felt fat and clumsy while running from the house earlier this evening, but now Amelia realized she wasn't fat, simply built differently. Stocky and short. Compact. Curvy. Quite a neat little package, if she did say so herself. And breasts! She finally had breasts!
/ had to travel back in time to get cleavage.
The thought made her laugh, and it relaxed her. She continued the physical inventory as she bathed. Tiny waist, flaring hips, strong thighs. No saddlebags on this woman. Short legs and small feet. All in all, very nice.
She scrubbed herself until her freckled skin glowed, then stepped out of the tub, close to the fire. She'd taken her hair out of its severe bun, and the straight brown length of it reached to her waist. Amelia wrapped it in one of the linen strips, turban style, then dried her body and slipped on a nightgown and wrapper.
Thick hand-knitted socks and warm slippers completed the outfit. One of the maids must have gone to her quarters and brought a few of her things to Jonathan's bedroom.
She knew he expected her to stay with Jane and look after her until he returned. As she didn't quite know what her regular duties entailed, she was relieved by this particular turn of events. Soon enough, she would have to make sure no one realized she was a twentieth-century woman inside an eighteenth-century body.
She sat by the fire as she dried her long hair, wondering for the first time where Emma's consciousness had gone. Where was the woman? Had she just awakened one morning and realized she had no body? Was her soul flitting around, waiting for Amelia's own consciousness to leave?
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the silence of the room. The only sound was the snapping and hissing of the fire. She couldn't hear Jane breathing, could only see the barely discernible rise and fall of her chest. "I'm sorry, Emma, for what you had to go through because of me."
She wondered what Emma had to learn from this whole experience. What she had to learn.
/ do believe we're here for a specific reason.
She could almost hear Hugh's voice as he said the words. It was one of her favorite memories, the day they'd met by the garden. That long first talk. John laughing in the tower window. Later that evening, she and Hugh had walked the dogs, and though he hadn't taken her hand, hadn't even touched her, she knew she'd met her destiny that day.
Only to have it taken away.
No. I can't believe that. For if I believe that, I have nothing left to live for.
She thought of Jane, taking her own life. They seemed to be past the worst of it. Much could be repaired by a good night's sleep. She was nodding off herself, almost hypnotized by the dancing flames.
We're here for a specific reason…
If only she could figure out her own. Why had she been sent back in time? Her mind refused to believe it was a symptom of random chaos, with no reason or structure behind the entire event.
There had to be a reason. She'd find it, and in doing so, she'd find a way home. Her spirits lifted, and feeling much more awake, Amelia checked Jane, then turned, catching sight of another person in the room.
Not a person. Her reflection.
The large mirror was not a good one by twentieth-century standards. The glass wavered slightly; it was a bit pitted. But it was certainly enough to enable her to see the face she'd been given for this trip back in time.
Emma-what was her last name?-stared back at her.
Long, straight brown hair. A round face. Irish, if she had to put a nationality to it. Smooth, clear skin, except for the scattering of freckles.
She looked at her reflection more closely, moving toward the mirror. What she saw caused her to take in a sharp breath and hold it tightly.
Her eyes. Emma had her eyes. Or she had Emma's. The eyes were the same. Large, gray, flecked with the smallest amount of green. Darker around the edge of the iris.
Surrounded by thick lashes. She'd always been proud of her eyes, considering them her best feature. Now it was disconcerting to see them staring back at her from a different face.
More than anything else, that small physical resemblance convinced her that she and Emma were linked in a way she couldn't yet figure out.
"I'll bet you want your body back, too."
No answer.
It could get extraordinarily lonely, talking to oneself.
She thought about the body she'd left, the shoulder-length blonde hair, the slender shape, the tall stature. She'd liked her hands. They hadn't been square like Emma's, but they'd been strong and capable.
Her palms tingled, and she remembered what it had felt like, a sense memory, touching Hugh's sleeping face with her finger one day, then flicking a rose petal off his cheek. They'd been lying together in the gazebo, enjoying the late afternoon. One of the scarlet petals from the climbing rosebush had fallen, he'd wrinkled his nose in sleep, and she'd gently brushed it off, waking him…
The memory made her unbearably lonely.
"Sleep," she said to herself quietly. "You need to sleep, just like Jane." She didn't think Jonathan would be angry with her if she slept for a little while. Jane wasn't likely to wake soon, and Amelia knew he would have his hands full with his father.
She curled up on the foot of the massive four-poster bed, opened the bed curtains slightly to catch some of the heat from the fire, and closed her eyes.
As Amelia drifted off to sleep, her last conscious thought was that she might not ever be able to tell Hugh how much she loved him, for he wouldn't be born for almost two hundred years.
It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life that no man can sincerely try to help another, without helping himself.
– John P. Webster
Later, she couldn't remember what woke her.
The fire had burned low; the bedchamber was filled with deep shadows. Someone had tucked a warm wool blanket around her, and as Amelia sat up in bed she wondered why Jonathan's return hadn't wakened her. Funny-now she was waking up in the eighteenth century and that seemed perfectly normal.