Read The Traveler either for the first time, or to refresh your memory before reading this. Reading the sequel won’t make much sense unless you start there and return here.

✨

Mrs. Grant!” Cole exclaimed, leaping from the carriage just as a rotund blonde woman of about 40 years of age bounded from the huge, wooden double doors of the white stone house. She toddled to the carriage, holding onto her straw bonnet all the way.

“Nicky!” the blonde woman squealed, her voice far more high-pitched than her rotund figure would have indicated. They met on the gravel driveway in a very affectionate embrace. I was disgusted and surprised by my jealousy-tinged gut reaction at the sight. I clucked at my reaction and rolled my eyes.

“Ah, ha!” I yelled loudly from my perch in the carriage. “You said your friends call you Cole!” I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my left eye. “Why did your blonde friend here call you Nicky? Stop this charade right now, Langdon! It’s not funny anymore.”

“Oof, Nicky, you’ve got yourself a wild one there!” Mrs. Grant said with a snort of laughter.

He sighed and whispered something I couldn’t decipher, no matter how far I leaned in their direction. He threw me a look of exasperation. “Yes, and since Mrs. Grant is my aunt, she can call me whatever she wishes. She prefers the name Nicky, sorry to say.” Mrs. Grant swatted at Nick’s shoulder and he ducked out of the way, giggling.

“Oh,” I said quietly to myself, settling back into my seat. His time-travel charade remained intact and my confusion was growing. But that wave of jealousy was gone.

“Miss Reynolds, you may exit the carriage,” Nick waved to me.

“It’s Maisie, and don’t order me around, Langdon,” I snipped.

I hopped down, landing softly in the gravel, my 21st century attire not only looking very out of place, but very soiled from the day’s events. Mrs. Grant tried her best not to stare at my disheveled hair and clothes, nor at my bag. I saw her mouth “Langdon?” to Nick, as if she were questioning my mental state. You’re not the only one who thinks l’m crazy, lady. All three of us here, and the doc back in town, are of that mindset.

We walked through the huge wooden doors into an impressively large yet cozy foyer, under foot was a white marble floor and on the walls, a relaxing robin’s egg blue paint. I hadn’t seen plaster walls for years, and wondered for the third time in about as many minutes if the ability to see detail this richly meant that I was able to dream vividly, or if I was indeed supplanted into 1904. Shaking off the thought as quickly as it came, I looked around. There was not an air of grandiosity of the room, which was a bit odd for such a high ceiling and majestic outward appearance.

The place was comfortable, spacious and had a pleasant, cheerful, almost playful vibe. A spindly, tall man of about fifty came up to me nodded once and bowed ever so slightly, reaching for my carryon and garment bag. I handed them over cautiously, not sure where they would end up, but making a mental note to be sure to have them when I left. Langdon was not going to accuse me of losing his museum’s property! My eye landed on a statue perched on the mahogany side table next to me: a winking elephant. I snorted slightly at the sight, Nick turning his head discreetly in my direction at the sound. I rolled my eyes and looked away, turning my attention to the painted portraits hanging on the far wall leading into a narrower hallway. “Who are all of these children?” I asked as my eyes scanned portrait after portrait. Nick and Mrs. Grant were whispering about me (again), and my voice cutting across the room and echoing off of the floor seemed to startle them. “Are these children yours, Mrs. Grant?” I asked, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of the wall of portraits, bewildered. l turned to stare at her with wide eyes, taking stock of her appearance, wondering how she’d birthed over twenty-five children. She was large and quite sturdy-looking, but not old enough to have produced so many kids.

“Heavens no, my dear!” she exclaimed and hurried over to me. “At least not in the usual sense,” she added, confusing me further. Langdon did his best to try and hide a smirk, but I saw it.

He cleared his throat and sauntered over to us. “Mrs. Grant runs an orphanage here, Miss—”

“Maisie,” I reminded him drolly. “What’s with your short-term memory problem? I’m the one who hit her head, not you.”

“Maisie. Right. Mrs. Grant takes in children whose parents are not able to raise them, due to this reason or that.” He seemed uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one pristine black boot to the other, his sentence cut short when it should have contained more information – more revealing, juicy information. His hair fell into his right eye as he glanced to the floor, inspecting his pristine boots for invisible scuffs or scrapes, perhaps.

“Like, if their mothers are unwed young ladies or if their parents have died, or something equally as scandalous?” I bluntly asked, letting my curious eyes slide from the portraits to his downcast, immeasurably attractive face. I thought I’d test the waters; see if he was really going to conform to proper manners of the day. It was 1904, was it not?

Langdon’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, threatening to smile. He held it in well, though, and before he could speak, Mrs. Grant piped up, “I see you speak your mind, Miss Maisie! Good, good…good indeed! Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly, something secretive in her expression. “The orphans who come to me are special cases…”

“Special cases?” I implored, interested.

“Special cases,” Langdon piped up. “The orphans Mrs. Grant accepts into her home are juvenile delinquents who have been deemed incorrigible by their guardians and, in most cases, the rest of society.” He smiled warmly into my eyes, inviting me in, if I was willing. I wasn’t.

“Oh…” I frowned slightly. “That’s very admirable of you, Mrs. Grant,” I declared, squinting my eyes as I pondered what Langdon was getting at. “So Langdon, you brought me to stay here, in an orphanage filled with juvenile delinquents who have been cast out.”

He shrugged his shoulders casually. “I thought you could teach them a thing or two about behavior.” His dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

“You’re saying I could teach them about good behavior?” I said brightly, playing along.

“Now, I didn’t say that, did I? Milton!” Langdon suddenly bellowed for the servant, causing me to jerk my head back and open my eyes widely.

“Yes, sir?” Milton dutifully appeared from the shadows.

“Good man! Mrs. Grant has told me of the new Egyptian pieces she has acquired for the children’s history lesson. Would you show me to them, please? You know how I fancy history.”

The two men left and I stood staring after them. Damn that wily man. He’s as annoying in 1904 as he is in 2005.

Mrs. Grant stuttered and moved closer to me, frowning slightly at the sight of my clothing, perhaps attempting to distract me from wanting to chase after Langdon and smack him for insulting me. “Perhaps, Miss Maisie, you would care to change your attire? You must be quite uncomfortable following your… long journey.” I had no idea what Langdon had told her regarding my “long journey,” nor was I presently wishing to ask.

I glanced down to my crumb, coffee, dirt and sweat covered ensemble, embarrassed. “Oh…well, yes, that would be lovely.” I half-smiled and accepted Mrs. Grant’s warm grin with ease.

“Milton has placed your belongings in a guest room on the second floor, I believe. Milton!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Milton appeared again, without Langdon.

Poor Milton; he could have really used a pair of roller skates. I smiled to myself imagining the tall man on wheels.

“Have you put Miss Maisie’s belongings in the Pink Room?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Capital!” she exclaimed and clapped. I watched her with fascination. I hadn’t heard that word used in that way since the last time I watched ‘Pride and Prejudice.’ Oooo…maybe I’ll see Colin Firth here! Oh wait… he’s not real…well, he’s real, but he’s not here, he’s in 2005…drats!

Disturbed by the increasing speed by which 2005 seemed to be deserting me, I linked my arm through Mrs. Grant’s and distracted my troubled mind by thinking instead of Langdon in his tight breeches and pristine boots. Insufferable man.

“It’s pink…it’s definitely pink…” I noted, when Mrs. Grant inquired of my opinion. I gnawed at my bottom lip and scanned the room. In fact, the only items in the room that were not pink were my bag and me and Mrs.Grant. Milton had laid the bag on the floor right next to the door, as if he had been in a hurry, or had been frightened of the bag. Or maybe he had been frightened of all of this pink.

I wandered about the room, peeking in drawers, surveying the place, and the view out of my window. My mouth curved into an involuntary smile when I saw Langdon, under a large oak tree, hopping about on his shiny-booted feet, apparently mortally wounded by a very vicious-looking wooden sword a small boy of about eight years old had impaled him with.

Mrs. Grant came to stand beside me, letting out a soft cluck of air. “He’s good with the children. He’ll spend hours playing with them, engaging their minds and their spirits, and ask nothing in return.”

“Is that so?” I asked, a different side to Langdon suddenly revealed, a side that I admitted to myself I’d like to see more of.

But which Langdon was this? What year was I in? Was this all a delusion? I put my hand to the glass of the window and felt it cool to my touch, smelled Mrs. Grant’s lavender perfume alongside me, mixed with the fragrance of the pink roses to my left, on the tall dresser. It all seemed so real…even the way Langdon peered up to the window, startled to see us standing there. Even the way his glossy brown hair flopped into his eye and he smiled a bit bashfully, realizing we had been watching him.

“I am not his aunt, you know,” Mrs. Grant said suddenly, breaking the spell.

“No?” I asked, my heart suddenly pounding within my chest.

I thought for sure she could see it beating.

She shook her head, frowning a bit. “No, I am not his aunt.

I am his nanny. His aunt was a dreadful woman…” Mrs. Grant’s frown spread to all of her features, her eyes clouding over in remembrance.

“Mrs. Grant, Langdon is nearly thirty. He still requires a nanny?” I was being witty, or I was attempting to be witty; Mrs. Grant was still lost in thought, and I doubted she’d heard me.

“Of course not, dear!” she giggled. “I was employed as his nanny until he grew too old to need me any longer. And then his aunt died…” We were both watching Langdon at play. By now, he had been definitively killed, lying prone on the grass, allowing me a fine view of a fine view.

“Does Langdon, erm…Nick have any siblings?” I thought of

Penny and Sam and felt a tug at my heart.

Mrs. Grant chuckled and rapped at the window before flinging it open. “Hey there, Davy Jones, mind your manners with Mr. Langdon! Say you’re appreciative to him for allowing you to murder him so violently, if you please!”

I stifled a chortle and pursed my lips. “Davy Jones?” I asked, trying to remain straight-faced. I could go either way with this; Davy Jones as in the singer from the Monkees, or Davy Jones as in the bizarre euphemism for death: Davy Jones’s locker.

“What? Oh, yes,” she answered, distractedly, keeping close watch on Davy Jones. He did in fact bow to Langdon, who was still lying on the grass, though he had rolled over and was fending off some kind of large, hairy animal. Langdon’s face broke out in a dimpled grin when the dog (?) swiped its long tongue across his forehead. “Yes, that’s our newest charge, David Jones. He’s ten years old, but small for his age.” She sighed with resignation or something like it. “His father died last year leaving him as man of the house, and his mother was ill-fit to care for him; she left him alone most nights to…well, to do what she did to earn money. In the end, it was not enough. Young Davy took to stealing to feed himself.”

“How did he end up here?” I wondered.

“Ahh. Well…one evening, he tried to pickpocket Nicky.”

“Get out! Really?”

“Oh yes…and Nicky, being the generous, forgiving man that he is, instead of having him dealt with by the police, arranged with the boy’s mother that he should come here to live.”

My eyebrow had shot up and stayed there upon hearing Mrs. Grant say generous and forgiving, and have those words be linked to Langdon. I had not thought he was capable of either, whether in 1904 or in 2005.

I frowned as I watched the boy, now practically riding the dog (?), nothing of his past life evident in his play. My eyes shifted to Langdon, who was casually sprawled out under the tree, spinning a blade of grass between his well-shaped thumb and index finger. My eyes traveled from his hands to his face, only to realize he was watching me as intently as I was watching him. And from underneath his brows, as was I. From my vantage point upstairs, far away, brave, and out of immediate danger, I held his sultry brown eyes until the wind and Davy Jones’s laughter diverted them.

“So tell me about these siblings, Mrs. Grant,” I said a few moments later, as I was preparing to undress. “Is there…running water in the house?” I asked meekly, somewhat embarrassed by not only the soiled clothing I wore, but by the question. I didn’t want her to think I was totally fooled by their 1804 ruse, but then again, I was leaning towards thinking there wasn’t a ruse. Either way, I needed a shower.

Mrs. Grant’s blue eyes suddenly expanded widely, appearing very much like marbles about to roll out of her head. “Do you hear rushing water, Miss Maisie? Oh, heavens! Not that leak in the roof again! Mil-ton!” She had run out of the room at breakneck speed, leaving me no chance to call after her and explain. I bit my bottom lip in thought, my dilemma no closer to being solved.

I took a deep, frustrated breath; the action was cleansing but did not set my mind at ease. I hastily undressed, tossing my dirty clothes into a heap on the floor and sat heavily on the bed: comfortable, but lumpy. Not like my mattress at home, that’s for sure. I frowned at the pink covering on the bed. The tiny rosebuds were meticulously hand sewn. I peered closely at my surroundings; not one item in the room was what could be labeled “modern.”

“What’s that movie with Jim Carrey? The one where hes been put into his own world and he doesn’t know it…crap! What is the name of that movie!” I had begun talking to myself as I dropped the gown over my head, Mrs. Grant having disappeared from sight and no running water in my immediate future; desperation and jet lag had set in. I was putting the finishing touches on the day dress ensemble that I had brought along in the bag. The buttonhole was still a mess – you’d think in a hallucination the buttonhole would have been fixed, but no.

“The Truman Show!” I yelled to no one in particular, reaching around to affix the button within the tattered buttonhole.

Out of my immediate field of vision, but very definitely a blur on the outer edge of my sight, a green blob leapt past my doorway, followed by another larger, somewhat fatter green blob that landed directly in front of my doorway. I stood stark still, waiting, watching. “Ribbit!” said the fatter green blob to me as I raised an eyebrow at it. I moved closer to my new guest, wondering how he’d arrived, and who else he’d brought with him besides the guy who’d already taken off before him.

“Hello there,” I said after a few moments of studying the reflection of the crouching small boy in the large mirror hanging in the hallway. “You didn’t know I could see you there, did you? Your frogs went that way,” I pointed down the hall. His stifled, ornery giggles turned to wide-eyed wonderment as he saw me in the mirror. He shuffled to his feet, his large green eyes blinking under his dark brown, shaggy bangs. His head shook slowly.

“I didn’t think so. Hello, my name is Maisie. What’s yours?” extended my hand and he stared at it.

“My name is James, ma’am,” he replied courteously, his attention suddenly diverted.

“My frogs!” he exclaimed.

✨ Apologies for the cliffhanger folks, but this is where the story ends. For now. Please let me know in the comments if you want the story to continue! It was intended to be a novel at the outset. What does everyone think of that idea? Please let me know your thoughts in the comments! ✨

The Traveler is here

The Traveler – Prequel I is here

The Traveler – Prequel II is here

The Traveler – Prequel III is here

The Traveler – Prequel IV is here

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