Chapter 2 of 2

The Heir Ch. 2

The interior of the house was unlike anything I had ever step foot in that wasn’t a museum. The spacious two story foyer alone put the exterior to shame. The walls were a golden brown wood and covered with paintings of country scenes and welldressed aristocrats. The staircase swooping around from the left to the back of the room had an intricately carved banister and a red carpet runner. Every which way there was something to catch your eye. I was awestruck. My desire to explore the space was mixing with my apprehension to create a rather paradoxical emotional state.

"Welcome to Marston House," said Mr. Cunningham from out of nowhere.

I jumped and turned to see where his voice was coming from. He was in the sitting room to the right of the foyer sitting in a wing backed arm chair. The room looked to be a tad bigger than my efficiency apartment back home. I cautiously moved into the doorway, taking in the grandeur of the room. The walls were covered in a deep green patterned wall fabric and like the foyer there were paintings on the walls. There were also curio cabinets full of knickknacks. On the far wall a fire burned in the grate. Somehow the décor remained welcoming instead of oppressive.

"I can see you are still tightly wound. No need to worry, I understand completely. Have a seat, my dear,” remarked Mr. Cunningham gesturing towards a rich green claw-footed sofa. “Mr. Tanner, your usual seat by the fire is waiting for you."

"Thank you, sir," replied Mr. Tanner moving eagerly towards his chair.

I took my place on the sofa I had been directed to, which was even less comfortable than it looked. I gently placed my school bag under my seat. Mr. Cunningham was enjoying this situation a little too much for my taste. He sat there with an annoying grin on his face, seeming to revel in my total confusion.

"Tea?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

"Huh?"

Would you like some tea?"

"Sure,” I answered automatically.

"Lesson number one: always say 'Yes, please' or 'No, thank you,’” corrected Mr. Cunningham.

I wanted to smack that smug grin off his face. I was in no mood to be played with or criticized at the moment. The small rebel in me decided not to play along anymore, so in my most accented vernacular filled voice I said:

"You listen here Mister, you tell me what's goin' on here and then maybe I'll let you boss me around like I'm five. Cut the crap, wipe that smirk off your face, and start talkin’. Y'all're holding all the cards here, so let's call off the tea party and get down to business.”

Mr. Tanner looked a bit shocked at my language, but gave an uneasy smile nonetheless. I stared Mr. Cunningham unwaveringly. Looking right back at me, he took a deep breath, and broke into a hearty laugh. He seemed almost proud of my boldness.

"As you wish, Miss Walton. The year is 1873. The date is September 23rd. As you know, you are in London. You have gone back in time. How? I do not know. Why? I do not know. All I know is that it happens.” Mr. Cunningham sounded as if he were reciting a shopping list. “Now, I need some information from you before we can proceed. You will need a cover story in order to develop your new persona. Where are you from?"

"Texas,” I answered. That was not the explanation I had been hoping for, but if I was to get any more answers I would have to play along. “San Antonio, Texas, but I'm going to school in Lubbock. Well I was... Before I ended up here."

"Texas, lovely, you will be a novelty and it will excuse any eccentricities you retain,” commented Mr. Cunningham with a clap and grin. “Birth date?”

"March 4th."

"Year, dear."

"1988"

"Wow," exclaimed Mr. Tanner under his breath.

"How old are you?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

"Twenty-two."

"You birth date is now March 4, 1851."

"Don't you want to know when I'm from?"

"Naturally. I'd also like to know a bit about your time. What year is it to you?"

"2012."

"Blimey!" exclaimed Mr. Tanner leaning forward in his chair.

"Boggles the mind does it not?" replied Mr. Cunningham to Mr. Tanner. "Something about the year starting with a two."

"Should have been there for the turn of the millennium. It took about a year to stop writing '19' in front of the year," I replied. I felt like I was at the doctor’s office being asked questions like ‘What medications are currently taking?’ at the beginning of an appointment before actually addressing the medical malady that brought me there in the first place.

"What do you think is important for us to know about your time?"

I arched a brow. "Could you be more specific?"

"Anything that comes to mind,” he replied with a gentle wave of the hand.

"Uh," I stalled trying to think of something. What did he want me to say? I went with the first idea that popped into my head. "Well, we have gender equality. I'm just as capable and valuable as any man. I am fiercely independent and that is normal, if not expected of women from my time."

"Anything else?" prompted Mr. Cunningham.

I shrugged. I still wasn’t completely clear as to what he wanted me to say.

"What do you see as being very challenging for you?” inquired Mr. Cunningham. “Other than antiquated gender expectations, of course."

I took a moment to look around the room, hoping for inspiration. Among the many contents in the room were one wall of books, a gas lantern, lace doilies, and a painting of an 18th century lady. The floodgates opened in my brain. I was in a completely different world, with different behavioral norms, technology, and clothing. I looked down at my clothes made of denim, cotton, and synthetic blends, then out the window to the men and women walking on the street. I did not fit in at all.

"Starting to realize how different this world is, I take it," said Mr. Cunningham. Once again he proved to be oddly perceptive. "Speak up, my dear."

"Technology, for starters. Things that I take for granted every day haven't been invented yet or aren't widely available,” I responded with a nervous laugh. “There are no cars, cell phones, computers, iPods, digital anything, almost universal electricity, advanced medicine, automatic paper towel dispensers, nothing!”

"What? I never heard of nothin' like that," exclaimed Mr. Tanner.

"I believe that you just proved her point," Mr. Cunningham commented politely. "Go on, my dear."

"Ya'll’s clothing is really different. I mean look at me," I said gesturing to my attire. "I'm wearing fabrics that haven't even been invented yet! I own a corset, but by your standards it's loose and it's for a Renaissance fair costume. Where I come from -when, sorry- corsets are barbaric torture devices worn by fetishists and reenactors! We make fun of bustles! The hair is ridiculous,” I continued emphatically and mildly panicked. “Y'all wear a lot more clothing on a daily basis than I ever have. See what I'm wearing? This is considered modest. I could walk around in shorts and a tank top and no one would care!"

"We'll address that later tonight," said Mr. Cunningham with a casual wave of his hand. He didn't seem shocked about my declarations about modesty. Mr. Tanner, on the other hand, was turning red even though he probably had no idea what a tank top was.

"Hold the phone," I demanded coming to my feet. "You're understanding everything I'm saying a bit too well. Who are you? You should be blushing. We're in Victorian England for crying out loud! This time period is prude central! You are upper class on top of that. You should have a very distinct speech pattern, including some really quirky vocabulary. Who are you?"

Mr. Cunningham took a slow breath before responding.

"Very well. My name is Andrew Cunningham,” he explained calmly. “I am a successful business man here in London. I was born in Uxbridge, and am an Oxford man educated in history at St. John's College."

"When?" I insisted now pacing the floor in front of the couch.

"I'm sorry?"

"When?" I demanded emphatically. The truth was coming together rapidly in my head. He would have to tell me the truth eventually. "When are you from?"

"She's a smart one. Not gettin' nothin' past her," smiled Mr. Tanner.

"No, I don't suppose I will," replied Mr. Cunningham. For the first time he did not have a smile in his eyes, or a quizzical grin. He looked pensive, as if formulating the best response. In the end, he opted for blunt honesty. "I was born in 1951. When I was twenty-two in 1973, I was walking down the aisle of a supermarket and found myself standing on the same cobble stone street we just departed from. The year was 1833."

I expected this answer, but hearing it out loud made it so much more real. I stood there in stunned silence waiting for him to continue.

"Mr. Tanner's father found me. Our families are linked somehow. In time, this Mr. Tanner's son will find your heir and his son will come tell you."

I had gone back in time. I was now the heir to a man from the 1970's. I was going to be here forever. This realization was quite shocking. I sat back down mouth slightly open, breathing heavily, eyes wide open. Forever was a very long time.

"You will never go home. I can see you have grasped that concept. A moment that I remember all too well," said Mr. Cunningham looking into my eyes. He then looked off into the distance as if remembering when he sat on this sofa across from a stranger. A young man probably in an ugly polyester leisure suit, and in desperate need of a haircut feeling exactly the same way I felt at that moment. More questions were forming in my brain than were being answered by the current course of the conversation. It was not helping that my emotions were running the gambit from sympathy to fear and a new and increasing emotion: anger.

"Why me?" I asked with a shaking voice. "Why am I your heir? I had a future back home. I had friends, family. I had plans. Now because of some mystical mumbo jumbo I end up on a different continent, in a different time, being interrogated by a policeman, still wearing my jeans!? Why me?"

By the time I had finished speaking I was on my feet again, yelling, shaking with anger, staring down Mr. Cunningham waiting for him to speak, but he didn't. His gaze didn't waver from mine. There was no anger being sent my way, only recognition.

"He doesn’t know," said Mr. Tanner breaking the silence. "No one does. This has been goin' on for centuries. It ain't just you. You don't think Mr. Cunningham 'ad plans? Quit lookin' at 'im like this is ‘is fault. You an Heir just like him, Miss. My family has been lookin’ after the Heirs the whole time and we don't even know why ya come."

"If there ever was a justification or reason it has been lost to the ages,” added Mr. Cunningham returning to staring longingly into the distance. “I have a degree in history from Oxford. I planned to begin my PhD that fall. I had plans, my dear, but I ended up down by the Thames just like you did."

"So there is no reason why it's me and not someone else?" I found that hard to believe. There had to be some pattern to this madness.

"I never said that," Mr. Cunningham turning his gaze back towards me. "Heirs tend to be of high intelligence, students of culture and history, sharp witted, and have strong personalities. There has never been a foreigner though. You're a first in that regard.”

"The strong personalities get in the way let me tell ya!" chimed in Mr. Tanner, smiling. "Mr. Cunningham used to 'ave quite a mouth."

"That I did." A small grin returned to his face. "I can tell Miss Walton is going to carry on that tradition nicely. Not the answer you were looking for, I take it."

"No,” I responded quietly.

"Would you be more comfortable if all this were for some higher purpose?"

"I don't know, maybe." I flopped back on the sofa. With my arms crossed, I asked: "So what do we do now?"

"First we sit up, dear," said Mr. Cunningham returning to his usual smiling self. I didn't move, but instead raised a quizzical brow. "As you stated, you are in a very different time with very different societal norms. I have to teach you how to live in this time period. Lesson number one, sit up straight."

"Two," I said as I sat up. "Lesson number one was don't say 'sure'."

"Too true," he replied with a chuckle. "Follow me."

The three of us rose from our seats.

"Am I needed, sir?" asked Mr. Tanner.

"No, old friend. I know you don't like leaving young Alexander unattended in your shop for extended periods of time."

"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you Miss Walton."

"You too," I replied. I extended my hand, so he could shake it, but he took it and bowed. He turned towards the door and walked out into the street.

"You will get used to the bowing," chuckled Mr. Cunningham.

"I doubt it," I replied skeptically, rubbing my hands together.

"Remind me to tell you about when I shook a hand of a Duchess that I was supposed to kiss. That was embarrassing,” he recalled as he closed the door.

Mr. Cunningham led me up the stairs to the second story of his home. The wide hallway had subtly floral burnt orange wall fabric, and was lined with dark wood cabinets filled with china trinkets and other oddities. I was so distracted that afternoon that I didn’t take the time to admire the beautiful home.

As we walked down the hall he asked, “What was your field of study at University? History?"

"I got a minor in History. My major was Anthropology. I went to a small liberal arts school in San Antonio called Trinity University,” I answered conversationally.

"Fascinating. I always thought Anthropology a noble pursuit, but--"

"--the British education system doesn't allow for much variety?" I concluded knowingly.

"You choose your path and follow it. Precisely, Miss Walton. Very good."

"Call me Rebecca, Mr. Cunningham."

"Thank you. You may call me whatever you are comfortable with,” he said happily. ‘Mr. Cunningham’ is quite a mouthful. In public, others may expect you to call me 'Uncle'."

"Okay," I replied awkwardly.

"No need to worry. You have much to learn before I present you to society," reassured Mr. Cunningham.

"Or even let me out of the house I bet."

"You'll learn faster than you realize. This society is not as different as you think."

The annoying emotional roller coaster I was on seemed to be slowing down at the moment. My new “uncle” was kind, funny, patient, and understanding. He wanted to watch over, teach, and befriend me, so the least I could do was to try not to bite his head off and learn what I needed to. Mr. Cunningham showed me into a large suite at the end of the hall.

The design of the room reflected 18th century architecture of the rest of the house, but the furnishing were classic 19th. The wall fabric was a beautiful powder blue with a Napoleonic border. The furniture was made of rich woods, and blue patterned fabric. The room wasn't crowded. A pair of couches and an arm chair sat in the middle of the room around a coffee table. Cushioned window seats took up the sills of both large windows. A small side table with chairs was placed between them. Bits and bobs were scattered around the room to give it a homey touch.

"These are your rooms. We are currently in your sitting room. Off this room you have a study, bedroom, bathroom, and closet. If you ever need more rooms we can find more along this hall," Mr. Cunningham explained. “You can change to furnishings to fit your needs.”

"This is mine?" I asked. I was awestruck by the beauty of the room.

"Absolutely, Rebecca, you are the heiress to one of the most successful merchant businesses in the country," he replied in an overly dramatic fashion. "What kind of uncle would I be if I gave you any less?"

"This room is bigger than my apartment back home," I replied in a stunned tone.

A man came into the room behind us.

"Mr. Cunningham," said the man with a deep bow.

"Ah good, Mr. Lawson you're here. May I present my niece, Miss Walton from Texas?"

Mr. Lawson was a tall, impeccably dressed man that looked gaunt and kind of creepy. He looked me up and down quizzically.

"Ah, yes, she's run into a spot of bother,” continued Mr. Cunningham. “Someone had the nerve to take all her luggage and even the clothes on her back. That's why I sent for you."

"Yes, sir," he said, still scanning me judgmentally. "Do you desire a complete wardrobe?"

"Naturally. She cannot live in these rags forever, Mr. Lawson,” replied Mr. Cunningham patting the man’s ego. “As the best dress designer and maker in London you are surely up to the challenge."

"Do you know her measurements?" he asked dryly.

"No, she only arrived yesterday."

"Very well. I will take them and have your wardrobe completed in the coming weeks."

"Can you have a dress delivered tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. If you could leave us I will begin."

My eyes bugged out of my head. I was going to be left alone? I looked at Mr. Cunningham begging him not to leave me, but he just grinned.

"I will be in the study," he replied comfortingly with a gracious bow. "Don't worry, Rebecca, Mr. Lawson is a gentleman. I will be but a room away."

With that he stepped into one of the side rooms, leaving Mr. Lawson and me in the sitting room. There was a long silence as Mr. Lawson put down his bag and pulled out his measuring tape and notebook.

"Remove your sweater please," he commanded condescendingly.

I did as I was told. Being measured for custom clothing was a new experience for me. I was used to buying from department stores, so I did not know what the process entailed. Also every moment was an opportunity to say something that would get me into trouble.

I heard Mr. Lawson take a small sharp breath when he saw my completely bear arms. Of course, the day I wear a tank top had to be the day I get sent back to a century where a woman's exposed ankles was a cause for alarm. Mr. Lawson regained his composure and began to measure me. Almost immediately he looked very confused about something regarding the measurement of my mid-section. His head cocked to the right, his body leaned over slightly and his already squinty eyes squeezed even tighter. "Have you never been corseted?"

"Uh..." I didn't know what to say to that, so I told him the first lie that entered into my head. "No, my parents wouldn't allow it."

"Why is that?" asked Mr. Lawson skeptically.

"Uh... My mom almost died in childbirth, and they blamed it on corseting," I said hastily.

It seemed logical to me, but I didn't know how Mr. Lawson would take it. His eyebrows were in imminent danger of disappearing into his hairline, but he seemed to accept it. Either that or he did not want to contradict Mr. Cunningham's niece.

"This will make things more difficult." Mr. Lawson clicked his tongue as he thought.

"I'm not opposed to it!” I added quickly. “Really! Just not as tight as most woman, since I'm not used to it. It's a bit late to start..."

"It is. I will make something custom." Mr. Lawson started scribbling away in his notebook. He occasionally gave me with judgmental glance. I obviously did not fit his expectations of femininity.

"You're a corset maker too?" Trying to stir up civil conversation.

"I employ one," he replied dryly. Mr. Lawson was beginning to rub me the wrong way. "Do you have any favorite styles or colors?"

"I don't know much about styles. London fashion is completely foreign to me but my favorite colors are purple and green. I trust your judgment."

Mr. Lawson made a judgmental noise and crinkled his nose as he jotted down notes. A few minutes and many "hmmms" later Mr. Lawson finally finished and Mr. Cunningham was allowed back in the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Lawson, for coming so quickly. Can you find your way out?"

"Yes, sir. I will have the garments sent over as they are completed," Mr. Lawson replied dryly and walked out of the room.

"I don't think I was what he expected," I said with a grin as I pulled on my sweater jacket.

"Of course not, my dear. I am 1.6 meters tall and you are taller than me. You are taller than a good number of men. Also, you do not look like you are going to blow away if someone sneezes in your general direction. Also, he saw your bare arms. It's a miracle he didn't swoon," chuckled Mr. Cunningham.

"Five foot ten, and proud of every inch!" I replied proudly. “I love being tall.”

"My goodness, you are tall even for a man in these times,” remarked Mr. Cunningham in fake disbelief.

"In my time I'm the average height for a man in my country."

"Apparently heights have increased," replied Mr. Cunningham happily. "By the way, nice improvisation about Mr. Lawson's corset question."

"What were you thinking leaving me alone like that?" I asked at a considerably high pitch. "I could have froze! He could have gotten suspicious!"

"But he did not. You will learn by doing, Rebecca,” explained Mr. Cunningham knowingly. “I can only talk at you for so long."

"You've barely talked to me about anything. Every question I ask is only vaguely explained and then you find a way to turn it back on me." I then flopped on the couch, crossed my arms, and started to pout.

"What do you mean?" he asked looking confused.

I looked up at him. "You only offer questions. I ask what will happen next and you ask me about my past. You have secrets. You have a plan. I'm just along for the ride!"

"This is a very complex situation, Rebecca,” he said wearily. “Not every question has an answer."

"But some do. Am I just supposed to sit here like a good little girl, and wait for you to teach me? Explain to me what is going on!"

"When I arrived here my aunt did the same thing to me. Aunt Patricia said I was not ready. I was angry and confused, much the same as you are. Now that I am in Aunt Patricia's place," said Mr. Cunningham in a soft, sad tone. He stepped over to the couch, sat next to me, and took my hands. "I realize she didn’t know what to say."

"Please try," I said, squeezing his hand.

"It's complicated.

"No duh,” I said with an encouraging smile.

Mr. Cunningham gave a small smile. "Come with me."

We stood up and he led me across the sitting room to my study. The room had warm wood paneling, a desk with small cubbyholes with beveled glass doors at the back, paintings and photos on the walls, trinket covered side tables, an overstuffed sofa next to the window, and three book shelves covering the left wall. My attention was only torn away from the décor by Mr. Cunningham clearing his throat.

"Are you ready?" he said dramatically as he positioned himself next to the book cases.

I nodded even though I had no idea what I was supposedly ready for. Mr. Cunningham pulled on the set of shelves of the left and much to my surprise it opened. Set into the wall was another bookcase half filled with books. He pulled open the right section, revealing another set of shelves. This set contained a series of small portraits on the shelves. Eight faces were now looking back at me. Five of them were men, and three of them were women. All of them were young, wealthy, and looked at you with soul piercing eyes much like Mr. Cunningham's. Using my limited knowledge of art history, I judged the style of the first painting to be late Middle Ages to very early Renaissance. It seemed that people had been up rooted from their time for a while now.

"These are the Heirs," explained Mr. Cunningham gesturing towards the portraits. Then gesturing towards the books said, "and these are their diaries."

Realizing that this many people had shared my fate was a humbling experience. I noticed then that under each portrait was a small brass plaque with their name and two numbers. I read each and every one of their names: Leopold Fitzpatrick, Arthur Gibbons, Genevieve Norris, Louise Abernathy, Malcolm St. Clair, Xavier Hunt, Patricia Marston, and Andrew Cunningham. The plaque under Mr. Cunningham's portrait read:

Andrew Cunningham

1973

1833

"Yours will say Rebecca Walton. 2010. 1873."

"These are all of them?" I asked enthralled by the faces before me.

"We don't know. The first known Heir is Leopold Fitzpatrick who was from 1702 and went back to 1578. Judging by his diary he may or may not have been the first. The Tanner family found him. He was taken in by a well to do man by the name of Cornish, but we know little about Mr. Cornish. We will never know for certain how far our line goes."

"There are only eight?" I asked, trying to find something semi-intelligent to say but failing.

"Eight in less than 300 years is about right. We tend to have long life spans. Aunt Patricia lived to be 87. I'm in my sixties and very healthy."

"Will I keep a diary?"

"I hope so. Reading the experiences of those that came before will be very helpful to you. Your life will help those after you. I took the liberty of providing one for you in the top case of your desk."

"All of these people, and all of these years yet no one knows why this happens?" I asked in disbelief.

"Sadly, no," said Mr. Cunningham turning towards the portraits. "If any of these men and women knew anything their secret has been lost."

We stood in silence for a moment. He stared at the portraits as if hoping they would provide some new insight into why our lives had been so drastically changed. Had one of those sets of penetrating eyes known our purpose for being here or had it always been a mystery? Did they know why we were chosen? Mr. Cunningham had probably come into this room over the years to do the exact same thing over and over again.

"You may read these diaries in this study as much as you want,” he explained, looking away from the portraits. “Just don't take them out of this room. Do not show them to any guest you might have. There is a hidden case for a reason. Also, no one from the outside is allowed in this room. Is that understood?”

I nodded. I understood the seriousness of his request. If anyone ever found out our secret it would pretty messy.

“No one can know who we are outside this family and the Tanners.” He continued in the same businesslike tone. “They wouldn’t understand."

"What if someone figures it out?"

"It has yet to happen," he responded quickly, turning his gaze towards the floor.

I got the feeling that this was a hard subject for Mr. Cunningham so I remained silent as he secured the secret bookshelves, but after a moment a question that had been eating away at me since my arrival at the house became too much to bear.

“Mr. Cunningham, how do you, I mean the Heirs, afford this house?” I clumsily asked.

“The Heirs own one of the most successful import and export businesses in the country,” he replied, politely ignoring my ungraceful stammer. “Currently, I am the owner. I oversee the operations, make important decisions, and the like. Someday, that job will fall to you. All of this will be yours.”

A stone dropped in my stomach. I walked over to the desk and pulled out the chair. Sitting, I took a few deep breaths trying to calm my newly trembling nerves. All of this would be mine? I would own a business? No matter how my brain stretched, it couldn't comprehend that. You would think that time travel would have been the harder concept to grasp than the realization that I was going to be part of Victorian society, and yet it decidedly was not. Tears were threatening to escape from my eyes as I thought of all living a new life meant. I felt like Atlas cursed to carry the weight of the sky upon my shoulders for eternity. Once again, I couldn't help but think that I would be here forever and forever was a very long time.

A hand appeared on my shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “You can do this, Rebecca. I promise, you can,” said Mr. Cunningham.

A single tear ran down my face. I heard my voice waiver as I spoke. “How do you know?”

Mr. Cunningham chuckled softly. “No one has failed yet. You won't be the first.”

A second tear followed the first.

“Don't start crying now.” He held out a hand. “If you start this early, the rest of the day will be horrid and you'll have a headache.”

I chuckle as I wiped away the tear. “Okay. What's next?”

0

The Heir

Chapter 1 of 2

Saharian5

The Heir Ch. 1

Ch.1

I’m so very tired today. Even after the years I have lived here, the dreary London weather still takes it out of me. It’s the time of year when the sun comes out for twenty minutes a day. On the rare partly cloudy day people go outside and marvel at the sun for hours at a time. I long for the days that consisted of a bright sun shining in a blue sky bigger than you can imagine that I enjoyed back home. It was a different world there, or rather will be.

Today is September 23rd of 1876. Presently, I am five and twenty, so it would be logical for you to assume the year of my birth to be 1851, but you would be mistaken. I was born Rebecca Ann Walton in San Antonio, Texas on March 4th, 1988. Confused? So was I.

One-hundred and thirty-four years from now was just another day for me. The alarm clock went off at precisely 6:45 much to my chagrin. I hit the snooze button and proceeded to wrestle my cat, Poseidon, off of his favorite perch: my head. Before the alarm could go off again I was out of bed and getting ready to face another day as a museum science graduate student at Texas Tech University. I threw on some tall jeans, yanked a tank top and sweater jacket out of my closet and slipped on a pair of terribly stylish black flats. After throwing my auburn hair up in a care free bun, I grabbed a breakfast bar, threw it in my school bag and headed out the door just in time to hit Starbucks before my 8:30 class. Large Mocha latte in hand I pulled up to the Museum of Texas Tech University, where my program was housed, blasting the hit music radio station in an effort to stay awake until the caffeine kicked in. Upon entering the museum I said hello to Larry at the security desk and headed to the basement with 15 minutes to spare until class started. Slowly, my classmates trickled in looking about as bright eyed as I felt. Whoever had the bright idea to put Collections Management at 8:30 in the morning, three days a week needed to have their head examined. Dr. Lloyd covered so much material so fast that even if you were awake you would have trouble keeping up. My class started this two year program a month ago and I had already filled one spiral notebook and gone through two pens.

One of the last people to get to class was my friend Alice. She sat in the desk next to me.

She leaned over and muttered, “Did you do the reading?”

I chuckled. “Do I ever do the reading? She covers all the material. I only did the Museum Education reading.”

“Oh good... me too,” she said with a big sigh of relief followed by a hacking cough. “I was up all night coughing up a lung. Damn this Lubbock dust. It’s freaking killing me.”

Alice, the asthmatic, vegetarian, punk rock loving, Californian had spent most of the past month complaining about how Lubbock, TX didn’t measure up to San Diego in any way shape or form. I just laughed at her and took great pleasure in annoying her by telling her how awesome Texas was. Even though we had very different interests, Alice and I were fast friends. She always spoke her mind and we enjoyed debating any topic that came up, always taking opposite sides of the argument just because we wanted to spar.

Dr. Lloyd, a prim and proper woman in her early sixties, entered the room putting an end to our conversation. She put her notes on the podium, announced that a study session for our test would be next Monday evening, and launched into her lecture of the day: the repatriation of Native American grave goods. The students, including myself, launched into taking rapid notes while still trying to keep up with what she was talking about.

The morning of September 23rd, 2010 was about as typical as it got. Nothing exciting happened until class was over. Dr. Lloyd compiled her notes and swept out of the classroom as quickly as she came in leaving her students rubbing our sore hands. Our next class, Museum Education, started in 10 minutes so I packed up my bag, and stood up. Suddenly a strange feeling washed over me that was so strong I had to close my eyes. It felt like a head rush that just wouldn’t end. Then the sound of rushing wind filled my ears. I felt like I was about to pass out. I didn’t know what was going on. The air changed from the freezing dry climate controlled air of the museum to a damp chill mixed with a mild yet unpleasant stench. Through the spinning sensation and sound of gusting wind I could hear the chatter of my classmates growing louder as if more people were in the room. In addition to voices I heard something rolling past in tandem with a clopping noise. As quickly as it came the prolonged head rush stopped. The experience hadn’t lasted more than thirty seconds, but it was intense and the effects lingered in my head as I opened my eyes. What I saw would have made me scream if I had been able too, but I was frozen from head to toe. I wasn’t in the basement classroom of the museum any more. I was standing on a busy street with dirty buildings, cobblestones, horse drawn carriages, and people wearing strange clothes. Where was I? What happened? What was going on? I thought as I took in my surroundings. I hadn’t the faintest idea of where I was until a woman crossed my path wearing a fancy gown with a huge bustle. I thought I had gone nuts because time travel wasn’t possible! There is no way I’m in the 19th century. I had to be hallucinating.

A nagging little voice in the back of my mind piped up ‘but you can smell things.’ That was an excellent point. I had never experience a hallucination, so I hadn’t a clue whether one could smell anything during the experience.

Not knowing what else to do I stood there clutching my messenger bag with a deer in the head lights expression. I was so thankful that I had decided not to wear my capris that day. If this was real, which it wasn’t, my attire was not going to allow me to blend into the background, but at least I might not be arrested for indecent exposure. The people were starting to stare at me. Had I just appeared there suddenly? Was that why they were staring at me? Or was it the clothes? If this was my hallucination, why were they staring at me?

″’Scuse me, Miss. You alright?” asked a man in his late forties who appeared to my right. When he spoke I jumped before turning wide-eyed towards him.“Wha’s wrong?”

Unlike most of the people on the street he wasn’t gaping at me. His warm brown eyes were filled with concern not shock. A young teenage boy appeared next to him, who looked nervously between me and the man.

“Um... Not really sure,” I replied numbly.

“Tell me your name, Miss.”

“Rebecca,” I answered uncertainly.

As soon as my name left my lips, the boy turned tail and ran. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.

“Saw ya from me shop just there. Shankin’ like a leaf, you are. You lost? I can see a Yank like you gettin’ turned ’round down here. Somebody steal your clothes?”

“Yank?” I asked. “Wait, where am I?” Then it hit me. His accent...English? I damned the adrenaline dulling my thought processes! Ever since opening my eyes my heart had been racing at a dangerous pace and my head felt like it was filled with cement. I took another look at where I was. The market street that I was currently standing on was full of shops and stalls. Shoppers and workers from every socio-economic class crowded the sidewalks while carriages and carts rolled in both directions. People were stopping to stare at me: the strangely dressed girl on the verge of a panic attack.

“Down by the Thames, Miss.”

“Thames? No no no. Not possible. This is London?”

I had been to London twice in my life, but as you can imagine it looked slightly different than I recalled. My London was a clean place of majestic sky scrapers, and overpriced historical tourist attractions. This was the dirty London of the Industrial Revolution I had read about in history books. I didn’t know enough about this era to hallucinate about it. It was then I realized I had truly traveled through time. How such an impossibility could come to pass still alluded me.

“Yeah you in jolly ol’London town,” he chuckled. “Now it’ll be alright, I promise. We’ll get you sorted sooner than you can say Bob’s Your Uncle. You looked peeked. You alright?”

I didn’t know what to say to him. What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh you know, sir just a bit of time travel. I have absolutely no idea where, let alone when, I am.’ I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t earn me a one way trip to the insane asylum. Instead I just mumbled pathetically. “I... Um... I don’t know.”

“What you mean ya don’t know?” Though it didn’t strike me at the time, he didn’t ask the question as if he were confused. It was as if he wanted to keep me engaged, keep my calm. “Take a few deep breaths, Miss.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how I got here,” I exclaimed out of frustration.

Though this gentleman was trying to help me, my appearance had not elicited sympathy from everyone because walking quickly up the street was a young upper-class gentleman with a burly policeman. The young man looked highly offended and was talking to the officer with a truly impressive amount of hand gestures aimed in my general direction. Still in shock, I did not realize the significance of their approach. My new friend, however, did.

“Miss, don’t say nothin’ unless you’re spoken to. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

I gave a confused nod. My addled brain struggled to keep up with the new developments all around me. What did I need help with again?

″’Allo Constable Langston. Fine day isn’t it?” he greeted the massive policeman with a grin and wink.

“Morning, Mr. Tanner,” greeted the officer automatically. “Who is your young friend here?”

The well-dressed young man interrupted with an unnecessary amount of indignation: “She’s obviously a harlot. Either that or a drug addict who has lost her mental faculties. Look at her eyes!”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes!” I retorted instinctively, ignoring Mr. Tanner’s advice about keeping silent. My head momentarily cleared making the insult flung at me highly offensive.

“Thank you Mr. Hamm, I can take it from here,” said the constable politely, but making it clear that the young man needed to shut his trap. Mr. Hamm stood there, arms crossed, staring at me with a self-satisfied smirk. I did not like him at all. The officer turned to face Mr. Hamm rephrasing his request, in a firmer tone, “Leave.”

“What?” Mr. Hamm seemed truly offended by the officer’s order.

“Leave, Mr. Hamm,” repeated the Constable Langston with even more emphasis.

“I reported her!?” the man exclaimed in outrage. The expression on his face reminded me of a child when Christmas is canceled.

“Yes, sir, bravo indeed. You reported a lost and mugged foreigner. American judging by the accent. If we arrested every one of them found wondering the streets of London we would have no time for actual criminals,” replied Constable Langston matter-of-factually.

“Really?” I blurted out. I found it hard to believe that there could really be that many mugged foreigners in this city. My mind was clearing rapidly, yet the gravity of talking to a police officer in the 1800′s was still beyond my grasp.

“Quiet, Miss,” Mr. Tanner shushed me. He looked extremely worried.

Mr. Hamm stood there for a moment longer before storming off looking extremely cross. Something told me that he would be talking about this insult for days with anybody who would take the time to listen.

“What is your name, Miss?” asked the officer.

I looked at Mr. Tanner who nodded.

“Rebecca Walton,” I answered quietly. Having him finally address me brought the gravity of the situation crashing down on me like an anvil. I really didn’t want to get arrested.

“She’s just lost and confused officer,” elaborated Mr. Tanner. “I’m trying to help her find her way. Must of hit ’er head and gotten all mixed up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tanner,” spoke up Constable Langston mildly. “but I’m talking to Miss Walton.”

“Of course, sir, just trying to help,” apologized Mr. Tanner.

“How noble, sir, but let her talk.” Constable Langston was quickly losing his patience.

My heart beat quickly and butterflies fluttered madly in my stomach. This man was going to think I was insane! Heck, I thought I was insane.

“Do you know where you are, Miss Walton?” asked the officer.

“Yes, I’m in London down by the Thames,” I replied with a shaky voice. I was now happier than before that I had met Mr. Tanner first and not Officer Langston. A trip to the mental hospital didn’t sound pleasant, and the likelihood of that was still increasing every second.

“Do you know where you are supposed to be?” coaxed the officer gently.

“Um...” The cement that had replaced my mind was unable to come up with a lie quickly to answer him.

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know where you’re supposed to be? Do you know how you got here?” He crossed his arms suspiciously as he spoke. I could see him busting out the handcuffs any second now.

I was so afraid that tears started to form in my eyes. Full-fledged panic was setting in when Mr. Tanner spoke up suddenly. “She just arrived in London, sir. She don’t know the districts, or her way ’round.”

In a moment of clarity I blurted out, “Fresh off the boat. I’m really lost.”

“And these ain’t even her clothes, Officer. She don’t know exactly what happened.”

“Is that right?” he asked skeptically. “Tell you what, we’re going to go down to the station and figure this out.”

His hand started to reach for the handcuffs on his belt.

It felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. Prisons, especially in the 19th century, were not nice places. I felt completely helpless because my fate was now in the hands of a police officer who did not believe me. Panicking, I looked at Mr. Tanner.

“It’s alright, Miss,” he assured me gently. Instead of looking at me or the constable, he was looking anxiously up the street. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, but I could tell Mr. Tanner was waiting for something. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

In my mind all hope was lost. My future was going to be one of filth, guards, and iron bars instead of the bright future in the museum field I had planned. As the officer put his hand around my arm to lead me away, I was on the verge of tears.

“Constable Langston, Mr. Tanner, oh thank the Lord you found her!” Cried a man from up the street. “Rebecca, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“Mr. Cunningham?!” remarked a wide-eyed Constable Langston. He seemed shocked to see this white haired stately looking gentleman, wearing a black suit, top hat, and long black over coat that billowed behind him as he walked. “You know this woman?”

“Of course I do, she’s my niece!” exclaimed the man breathlessly as he approached.

“What?” exclaimed Constable Langston and I in unison. Now I was almost certain that I had gone insane. A psychotic break seemed like the only logical explication for the events of the day. I did not have an uncle in the 19th century, certainly not one in Britain. Both sides of my family had been in the United States since before the French and Indian War.

“Yes!” confirmed the man. He was slightly out of breath like he had run here. “Mr. Tanner knew I was looking for her and when he saw this young woman, he sent his son to my home. Once I heard her description, I knew it had to be my Rebecca.”

“But she’s an American?” Officer Langston offered the sentence as a question more than a statement. He had a look of pure confusion on his face.

“Your point being?” inquired Mr. Cunningham rather casually as he finally came to a stop in front of us. “She is the granddaughter of a business associate of mine who moved to the United States to expand his business. Her mother was like a daughter to me, so when she and her husband passed away I agreed to look after Rebecca. She arrived two days ago but just vanished late yesterday. Thank you for finding her, Constable. I shall surely write a letter to your chief about your good work.” The explanation almost sounded plausible. If I hadn’t known the truth, I would have believed him. Who was this man who lied so easily?

“Thank you, sir!” replied a rather flustered Constable Langston. You could tell he didn’t know what he had done right, but he wasn’t about to pass up a commendation. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Also Mr. Tanner I shall be a more regular patron of your shop,” continued this man who seemed genuinely grateful to have found me.

“Much obliged, sir. It was my pleasure. She had the poise and stature of a lady, and the auburn hair just like you said,” replied Mr. Tanner with much more grace than the Constable.

I, the supposed lost niece, had not been consulted, nor had anyone noticed that I was standing there still clutching by bag with an arched brow and open mouth, clearly completely lost. I wasn’t about to argue, because this course of events might just keep me out of jail.

“Come give your uncle a hug,” requested my new relation with a warm smile. I let the bag fall from my arms to my side. “I’ve been so worried about you my dear,” He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Get you out of this mess in a minute, my dear, simply play along.”

My confusion level had now reached a record high which was impressive considering my day thus far. This man knew that he was not my uncle, but he was helping me evade arrest nonetheless.

“Do you need anything else from us officer?” asked Mr. Cunningham pleasantly. “I’d like to take her home. God only knows what she has been through.”

“Of course, sir. Do you require an escort?” Judging by Constable Langston’s eagerness to please, I gathered that Mr. Cunningham was a man of great importance. Who was this man and why did he say I was his niece? I was starting to hope that we would get to the question and answer portion of the day sooner rather than later.

“That won’t be necessary, my good man. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your other duties. Thank you again. Mr. Tanner, please accompany us. I need to discuss a business matter with you,” said Mr. Cunningham. “Here, my dear, put on my coat. My carriage is around the corner.”

As we walked to his carriage, I pulled on his coat and took Mr. Cunningham’s arm. Mr. Tanner left his son in charge of the shop and followed close behind us. I walked along in a fog. Why was I going with this strange man who lied to police officers with the same ease as one puts on shoes? The simple answer: there was no other viable option. At least Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Tanner were trying to keep me out of jail. Or so I hoped.

Ahead, a beautiful black coach stood waiting for us. The footman hopped down to open the door as we approached. Mr. Cunningham helped me into the carriage and climbed in after me. Having never been in a carriage before, the cramped space was a change from my car, but fairly comfortable nonetheless. There was no light in the carriage except that which came through the windows. A small unlit lantern hung in one corner for night riding. I took in the man before me. He was an older gentleman with silver hair. His face was generally kind and the lines around his eyes gave the impressions that he spent a lot of his time smiling. There was something off putting about his bright blue eyes though. They looked wise, and kind, but he also looked like he had seen far too much in his time. Less than thirty minutes ago I had been a graduate student in Lubbock, TX, and now I rolled down the streets of 19th century London in a horse drawn carriage sitting across from a man pretending to be my uncle. Confusion must have covered my face.

“You know, if you hold that face long enough it will stick. That would not be very pleasant for anyone now would it?” teased Mr. Cunningham with a good natured. “What’s your name, Miss?”

“Huh?”

“Your name, dear. I don’t know it. Mr. Tanner’s son told me your first name, but that is only part of the picture. I didn’t even know you were American until Langston said so. All I know is that you are the young lady that I’ve been waiting to appear for years. I mean that in the least creepy way possible, of course. So how about it? Give us your name.”

“Rebecca Walton.” My name seemed to fall from my mouth as if pulled by a string.

“Lovely. Middle name?”

“Ann.”

The carriage started to drive through the crowded London streets. After only a block or two a huge bump in the road jostled the coach, sending me flying. As I climbed off the floor, Mr. Cunningham gave a chuckle.

“You will get used the carriages. There is a reason it’s called exercise.”

“Well excuse me,” I growled. “We don’t exactly have these where I’m from,”

He looked at me with knowing eyes. “Don’t you mean when you are from?”

“How? Wha-” My heart skipped a beat and fear crept onto my face along with ever present confusion. How could this man know that?

“I know you are from the future,” he explained calmly. “I assure you, all will be explained once we reach my home.”

I leaned back in my seat, at a complete loss. This man didn’t know who I was, or where I was from, but he knew I was the one he’d been waiting for and that I was from the future. Fantastic! I didn’t know anything about him! All would be explained, he said. How do you explain this? Mr. Cunningham just sat there on his side of the carriage looking out the window watching the dirty streets of London roll past as if it was a typical day.

“How do you feel about ‘Rebecca Cunningham’?” He said after a momentary pause in the conversation.

“What?” My over stimulated brain struggled to keep up with everything that was going on.

“For your new name.”

“Why do I need a new name? You told Constable Langston that I wasn’t your real niece,” I said intelligently. “How does that work anyways? Why would a British merchant move to the States? He wouldn’t have been the most popular person after the War of 1812. I assume this is the 1800′s right? I mean when else are you going to see a bustle?”

I smiled internally. It was nice to see that my brain had not completely abandoned me.

He smirked lightly. “So you were paying attention. It was hard to tell, you looked so confused.”

“I was trying to figure out if I had gone insane,” I replied with a snort.

“Your conclusion?”

“Jury’s still out,” I said with a small grin.

“Smart, pretty, and fiery,” he stated with a laugh. “I can see we are going to get along swimmingly.”

“Is that surprising? I’m pretty darn smart,” I retorted heatedly.

“Of this I have no doubt.” He raised his hands defensively. “You are very well equipped to handle the challenge ahead of you. Even under the stresses of today, you are still sharp. I am proud to have you as my heir, and I’ve only know you for 10 minutes.”

“Heir? Wait what?” I asked, remembering that I had no idea what was going on.

“Ah we’re here,” remarked Mr. Cunningham, ignoring my question.

Outside the carriage I saw a large and beautiful four story blue gray brick town home. Home hardly did it justice. Mansion was the more appropriate descriptor as it took up the better part of the block. Each level had tall windows with keystone arches over them. The decoration was more ornate on the lower two levels than the top. A small set of steps led to a dark carved wood doorway with a stain glass window in the center. Through the opposite window I could tell that I was in a nicer part of London. There was still soot, and dirt on all the buildings, but the ladies and gentlemen on the street were richly dressed and the houses were well maintained. Mr. Cunningham stepped down out of the carriage gracefully and started to move towards the house. Mr. Tanner held out a hand to help me down, but I didn’t take it. Instead I jumped down and ran in front of Mr. Cunningham blocking his way.

“What do you mean heir?” I demanded, not letting him pass.

“Like I told you in the carriage,” he said patiently.

“Nice try. You only said I was your heir, not what that means.” Annoyance and anger were quickly becoming my dominant emotion leaving confusion somewhere back around midtown.

“Can’t get anything past you now can I?” he replied amused as he walked around me into the house. I just stood there facing the busy street with my mouth open.

Mr. Tanner came up next to me. “It’s alright, Miss. He’s a good man, Mr. Cunningham. Trust him.”

“Why should I?” I asked in an exasperated tone. For all I knew Mr. Cunningham was an ax murdering sociopath. Fear started to creep in with the other emotions. What was I getting myself into? I wanted answers!

Mr. Tanner offered me his arm and said sympathetically “Don’t got much of a choice.”

I didn’t know why but I trusted Mr. Tanner. Taking his arm, we walked into the house together.