Chapter 1 of 2

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.