Page 16 of I Know You

“If we have to stay here,” he goes on, his voice careful. He wraps his hand around mine in a way that makes me feel protected, and it softens my fears about him and us. “I think being with you would make it bearable.”

“Agreed.” I nod quickly.

“We should consider a more permanent relationship … while we’re here.” He eyes me meaningfully, and I realize what he’s alluding to.

“Like marriage?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “We definitely shouldn’t make any hasty decisions.” I get what he’s saying. It wouldn’t have to mean anything more than allowing us to date naturally. Yes, it’s an insane idea, but he’s right. It makes sense. We don’t know how long it might take to get home, and if we’re here for years more—Ben’s already been stuck for two—neither one of us can encourage a deeper relationship with someone from the past and then abandon them.

“No,” he agrees. He lets go of my hand and stands, and I think my answer might have disappointed him. “Think about it.”

“Of course,” I promise, hoping to assuage his hurt.

He takes a few more steps away, smiling now, but it might be his mask-smile. “I’ll let you rest now. You’ve got to be exhausted. Good night, Clara.”

“Night, Ben.”

And as he shuts the door, I can only stare at it, trying not to let fear about never going home spread through me. Something will happen. We’ll make the mirror work. I’ll wake up.

Something.

Chapter Six

I don’t get to sleep in the next morning. One of Mrs. Guthrie’s maids wakes me up far too early, and I’m hurried into a dressing gown before Ben comes in with what seems like a crowd of people trailing behind him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I forgot to warn you last night,” he says as he comes forward with a pleading expression. “This is the seamstress making your corset. I paid a lot of money and did a lot of begging for her to clear her schedule to have one done by the end of the day, so she insists they start now.” He gives me a please-see-the-silver-lining smile. “The good news is you’ll be able to wear one specifically made for you…”

“It’s not even six a.m., Ben.”

He beckons to someone behind him, and a maid steps forward with a tray. On it is a plate with two pastries, a cup of steaming coffee, a bowl of sugar, and a small pitcher of cream. “Please forgive me.”

He pulls off the adorable pleading face so well, and he did bring a peace offering. I melt after mere seconds. Heavens, I’m going to fall way too fast and way too hard for this man. “This is a good start,” I say, biting my lip and probably giving away that he’s already forgiven.

He leans in quickly, kissing my cheek and then pulling back and grinning at me. Maybe it’s the sliver of hope that this is a dream that makes me want to take his too-perfect-for-six-a.m. tie and yank him closer to me—to rush right into the relationship I was cautioning we take our time with last night.

Either that or I’m simply exhausted.

I eat my pastry and sip at my coffee with far too much cream and sugar while I’m measured in every possible way. When the seamstress leaves a little over an hour later to work in a room that Ben had specifically set up for her at the house, I’m allowed to go back to bed.

I wake up the second time late that morning, finding myself left to my own devices for the first time since I’ve come through the mirror. Ben’s with Mrs. Guthrie, and I’m tempted to go eavesdrop, since I suspect he confides in her more than anyone. But that’s not the relationship I want with Ben, having to squirrel out secrets however I can, so instead I wander the exquisite house, poking my head into rooms and wondering about Ben’s worry that we might not ever get home. Would I marry him? Marry and then date in some backwards way like in a movie?

Which is exactly what this whole situation feels like. A marriage of convenience?

I’d devour that book.

How would I feel about living the kind of life I’ve seen dozens of times on the TV and movie screen? In the future, I’m all alone anyway. At least I have Ben here.

The idea flashes through my head: me directing a housekeeper and maid as they set the table for a dinner party, my hair done in a sophisticated updo, but not the poufy concoction Annabelle did that morning. Sleek and set close to my face. And as I analyze the thought, the dress that comes to mind is a silver-and-lavender silk with a fringe. Sleeveless and with a drop waist. Definitely Roaring Twenties, not Edwardian or Gilded Age. I picture greeting guests on the arm of my sophisticated husband in his tails, white waistcoat, and black bow tie. It’s Ben who leans close in my daydream and kisses my cheek, but the image is wrong in more ways than the time period. Our age? In twenty years, I’ll direct that kind of dinner party as a middle-aged matron. That must be it.

I shove the thoughts away. Sure, I can daydream about it and believe it’s all balls and parties, but I honestly can’t picture my future without my phone. Instagram. The internet. Diet Coke.

As I come down another hallway, I’m surprised to hear the familiar strains of violin music wafting toward me. I follow them to a door of the room they’re coming from and stand outside as the muffled notes come through the door to me. The violinist—it can only be Mr. Allen, considering Mrs. Guthrie and Ben are both busy—plays with such sweet tones and a gentle touch to the violin, making the music magical.

I press my fingers to my lips as I recognize the song, the waltz from the first act of The Sleeping Beauty, by Tchaikovsky. Tears well and then stream down my face as I hum along and even sing the lyrics Disney added in their version of the story.

“I know you,” I whisper, my tone trembling. I had loved the Disney movie as a child, but my father, a violinist himself, insisted on educating me in Tchaikovsky’s ballet. He made me sit through either his playing or other recorded performances of the whole thing on multiple occasions, but more often than not, he played this waltz for me while I twirled around the room. The memories are so thick I can’t breathe for a moment, and the words can only trickle through my head as I miss my dad with a longing so poignant it makes my knees weak.

I’m so caught up in it that I don’t notice the music has stopped and the door has opened until Mr. Allen stands in front of me, his expression filled with concern.

“Miss Granville? Are you alright? How can I help you?” He fishes out a handkerchief and hands it to me, making me laugh in spite of myself. What a classic, historical romance hero thing to do. I wipe at my eyes and try to dab daintily at my nose, which does no good.