Page 34 of I Know You

“Someone else has come through a passage,” Ben says. “Arriving in New York sometime yesterday. We don’t know his purpose, so we need to make contact. Perhaps to rescue him, perhaps … to thwart him. I’d appreciate your help in accessing funds or even helping us to find him.” He pulls out a picture of Simon Gibbons from his pocket and hands it to William. “Recognize him? Or heard any strange news lately?”

William shakes his head and hands the picture back. “Sorry, but I will certainly help in any way I can.” He stands. “You’ve told me nothing that would deter me from having you stay here.” He chews on his bottom lip as I stand with Ben. “I’ve spoken of Ben often to my wife and son. I see no way of keeping the truth from them.”

Ben nods. “I trust your opinion of their ability to be discreet about us.”

“Of course.” He holds out a hand toward the closed library door and then leads the way toward it. “I’ll ring for the housekeeper and let her know you’ll be staying.”

Ben reaches out to shake William’s hand vigorously. “I don’t deserve a friend like you, Will.”

“I’m grateful that after so many years I may begin to repay you for the help you gave me,” William says. He rings a bell and we sit again, waiting for the housekeeper to arrive and instructions to be given. The housekeeper beams at us when William explains we’re the children of old friends. He casts me a mischievous look and a shrug when he introduces me as Ben’s sister, Miss Mitchell.

“Forgive me, Clara,” he says in a low voice when the housekeeper has left. “The note Ben left was that you two had eloped, and this was the first explanation that came to mind. It makes the most sense that you are Ben and Clara’s children.” He nods to Ben, who had introduced the explanation.

“A bit self-centered to name our children after ourselves…” Ben mulls with a laugh. I can only catch my breath from the whirlwind our relationship has been through the last several minutes—arriving here as something more than friends that we haven’t named yet, to William expecting us to be married, and now we’re siblings.

We wait in the library, chatting, and then the housekeeper returns and escorts us to rooms upstairs. She takes us up a grand staircase that splits in the middle, leading to the right and the east wing of the house, where we walk past a set of stairs leading to a third floor and then through a hallway filled with portraits of the ancestors of the Allens, I assume, before coming to a row of doors. She stops and pushes open a door, declaring it as my room.

It has a private bath, which looks like a new addition to the home. I wash my face and refix the bun in my hair. I’ve added mastering historical hairdos to my repertoire of possibly useless historical knowledge since returning from 1901. Ben had teased me about the YouTube videos I took to watching in place of my usual historical drama TV show staples, but the history nerd side of him couldn’t help but watch along with me. Finger waves require I start with wet hair and let it dry, something I don’t have time to do before dinner. I’ll have to make do with the bun I styled my hair into before we left the future.

As if by a summons, a knock comes to the door, and a thin, middle-aged woman stands there in a plain black skirt and white button-up shirt. “I’m White, Mrs. Allen’s maid. I’ve been sent up to see if you require help dressing for dinner.”

I grin. After leaving 1901, a part of me had missed the gentility of having a maid do magic on my hair. I could study the elegant styles all I liked, but I could never quite get the effect that Martha, Mrs. Halloway’s maid, or Annabelle had done for me. I had felt far more sophisticated after having my hair done, more natural even, than with my hair styled in a modern ponytail or messy bun.

“Yes, that would be very helpful. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

White smiles and comes into the room. Once I’m seated at the vanity, she undoes the pins and lets my hair fall. Though I’d like to watch her work, the gentle movement of her fingers through my scalp soothes me and urges me to close my eyes and enjoy the moment.

When my hair is finished, and I gasp in wonder at the pretty knots of hair twisted this way and that at the base of my scalp, White steps back. I wave off her offer to change, claiming that William’s invitation was spur of the moment and that we left our things in the city and will have to retrieve them in the morning. White nods and leaves as quietly as she came.

When Ben researched William’s life, he’d come across a wedding portrait of William and his wife Isabelle. She had pretty, aristocratic features—a straight, thin nose, high cheekbones, and wide doe eyes. When I meet her, I notice right off that Mrs. Allen has aged well, remaining exceptionally pretty, and her welcoming, kind attitude doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s well matched with William.

She barely has time to declare her disbelief over what her husband told her when Quint comes into the room and takes my hand. Once again, it feels as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to occur, and I struggle against such a strange connection.

“It is a great relief, Miss Mitchell,” he says as he holds on to my hand, “that I am told you are not Mr. Mitchell’s wife after all and only his sister.” His tone holds the teasing that indicates William told him everything.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ben scowling. I can’t think of a reply to such a forward flirtation, and Mrs. Allen saves me.

“Quinten,” she reprimands in a soft but stern tone. “You’re being impertinent.”

“Forgive me,” Quint says. He backs away, but the impish smile still on his lips suggests he doesn’t feel any regret at his cheek.

Despite Quint’s flirting, which embarrasses but also entertains me, dinner is uneventful. Even when he isn’t trying to charm me, I feel Quint’s eyes on me, and when I catch him staring, he tilts his head to the side and smiles in a way that reminds me of evenings together with his arm lying over my shoulders while he reads.

Which is crazy, since I don’t know him. I hastily turn away, wondering if traveling through time so much is wearing on me mentally. It’s one of those things Dr. Cooper couldn’t have really tested with only one subject.

We study the picture of Gibbons in the city, Quint and William helping us pinpoint the location, and then make plans for shopping the next morning before investigating our only lead on his whereabouts.

“Should we try something like an ad in the newspaper?” I ask.

Ben shrugs. “If Gibbons is looking for a way home, that’s a great idea, but I can’t help but think of how little Dr. Cooper and Burke trusted him. I’m not sure we should let him know we’re looking for him quite yet—in case his plans are less than honorable.”

I agree. Gibbons was trained to spend weeks in the past. His abilities mean that his missions were dragged out over lengthy periods of time. He can take care of himself until we find him, and hopefully it’s a misunderstanding.

The group moves into a drawing room after dinner, and I beg William to play his violin for me, if only to take my mind off the strangeness of my instant connection to Quint Allen.

“The Waltz?” he asks, when the violin has been fetched and delivered to him.

“Oh, do,” Mrs. Allen says with a sigh, clasping her hands together.