I had flown out of New York at 8 p.m., when the sun was setting but the air was still quite humid; it was humid enough that my hair never fully dried, and therefore ended up as a flaxen curtain framing my face. I arrived in London (with same curtain pulled back in a hair clip) at 8 a.m., with sunny skies and exactly the same 75 degree temperature, minus the humidity. The winds were cool and succeeded in waking me enough to manage the drive to Bath without falling asleep at the wheel. I usually got a roaring case of jet lag each and every time I flew across more than one time zone, which caused me to stumble around for days as if I were drunk or had an undiagnosed case of narcolepsy. I did once fall asleep while in a very important meeting in Madrid, but luckily, my head jerked up as it hit my chest and no one noticed. Even luckier was the opportunity for a siesta an hour later.

But now I wouldn’t have that chance; in fact, I barely had time to pee before I left the airport. I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and headed for the car rental counter. I began to mentally prepare my speech for the morning meeting at the museum with Mr. Langdon, proprietor and big wig aristocrat.

“Julie. Hi, it’s Maisie. I’m here. Yeah. I’m getting a car and I should be there by ten, so all is on schedule. Be sure to tell Mr. Irwin.” I juggled the phone as I handed my insurance card and driver’s license to the clerk in front of me. I smiled sweetly at him, remembering what happened with the last clerk, Sunshine, and how I ended up in this predicament in the first place.

“Well, I’m on my way right now, thank goodness. My flight was late, I drooled on my ivory silk cami while sleeping on the plane, and I have to pee like a mo-fo. I don’t have my little intro speech prepared yet and now I have to drive for hours to get to Baaath. Other than that, I’m peachy keen. So, I’ll see you in two days? Three. Right, right. See you then. Bye.”

Chad the Clerk at Swift Car Rentals made fourteen photocopies each of my license and insurance card as I stood watching, stunned. “Shall you be taking finger prints, as well?” I winked and he turned red.

“It’s all according to the rules, ma’am, you understand.”

“Of course,” I mumbled. I really, really don’t like to be “ma’am-ed,” and especially not by someone three years younger than myself; he was definitely at “Sir” age himself. My only comfort was the English accent. It sounded more like “Mahm,” which was cool – a different word altogether and not nearly as loaded with the sound of old age.

I stopped by the loo (“when in Rome” as the saying goes…) and while in there I stood at the sinks and dabbed fervently at my spit-stained top. The water caused the top to become transparent directly in the middle of my chest, and I quickly threw on my wrinkled blazer to maintain some sense of dignity. I refreshed my make-up and fluffed my hair before I took one last look in the mirror. I mumbled under my breath my displeasure. “I could scare away scarecrows.”

Unfortunately for my silk camisole, the scone and the coffee I had brought along with me in the car also ended up down the front of me, creating a lovely menagerie of browns and tans with crumbs glued on for texture. If it weren’t the only top I had access to in that moment, I would have framed it as original art.

However, I had to work with what had, and what I had underneath this one of a kind creation was a second-degree burn. I rubbed some lip gloss on it (the burn, not the camisole), blew cold air down my chest and hoped for minimal scarring. Oh, if the Aristocrats could see me now.

I headed southwest, following the map given to me by helpful Chad at Swift Car Rentals. I reached down for the notes on the seat beside me very, very quickly, keeping one eye on the road, one eye on the car in front of me, and my right hand on the wheel as I tried not to swerve into oncoming traffic. I wished that I had written the bits about the Langdon family more legibly as I was to meet Mr. William Langdon, proprietor and from all preliminary accounts, some special kind of crusty Brit— in just under an hour. A guy like that required prep time, no doubt. I cursed myself for sleeping my entire flight away when I could have been studying.

Here’s what I gathered by skimming my scribble-scrabble:

The Langdon family can date their ancestry in Britain to the year 1210, where they settled in Bath, apparently desiring to experience the curing qualities of the sulfur waters that bubble from the earth there. The current installment of the Langdons laid claim to some kind of royalty way back when —an earldom or some such title —and William Langdon (aforementioned crusty Brit, who incidentally is never without his Ascot tie, or so I’d heard) was the Earl of Summertime-oops, I meant Somerset-presently speaking.

Following the extensive family tree made my already weary eyes cross in confusion; I couldn’t remember my granddad’s first name half of the time, and now I had to keep track of a bunch of Brits.

OK. So let’s continue: William Langdon and his wife Priscilla (a blue blood in her own right) were the proud parents of three baby crusty Brits. There was Nicholas, the oldest at thirty or so, and successor to this Earl gig when old Bill died; unfortunately I hadn’t written much at all about this Nick guy. It was a shame really, because he had “potential,” at least on paper. I flipped my pages over and back again but l only found a sentence for him: Heir apparent, apparently, so clear the air. “Why do I persist in writing cryptic, smart alecky notes for myself?” Two months prior that phrase must have meant something or at least sounded humorous.

Now it was annoying.

Nick had two younger sisters, Samantha and Penelope, aged twenty and fifteen, respectively, and according to my notes, they were beyond ecstatic over this museum opening. The entire family had an appreciation for the history found in garments and had quite a fine collection of their own to contribute. Mr. Langdon had the idea to open a private museum initially, twenty or so years beforehand, but my notes said the rest of the family was enthused about the project, and that was all I needed to know. It was important for me to have full cooperation of the family if they were all going to be hands-on; I would need each one of them to help set up the costumes for photo shoots and cataloguing, plus it was going to be a dreadfully long two weeks if we didn’t get along.

That said, I hoped to make a connection with all of them but thought of Nick in particular. He was to inherit it all, including the costume museum. I hoped he would have a vested interest in the vests and all of the other objects, as well. And excuse me, but he was close to my age, he was single, he was in line for an Earldom and he most likely would have an alluring accent—how could my interest not be piqued?

Forty minutes later I found myself entering Bath city limits and dying for a shower. No rest for the weary and all that, so I ventured onward to the Langdon Costume Museum of Bath—stinking of coffee and scones and stale airplane air and hoping the Earl in Waiting wouldn’t mind my unique brand of cologne.

I rounded the circular drive to park in the lot directly behind the medium-sized square building, admiring its light stone façade as I did. The building resembled many of the others in the city that must have been built around the same time, in the late 1700’s, l guessed. It was a bit dirty – from pollution, I gathered—but other than that it projected a quiet strength quite fitting for an Earl’s museum. There was a wrought iron gate just in front of the entrance that gave me a bit of trouble as I tried to open it. I jiggled it as best I could with one arm loaded down by my notebook and necessary equipment, and the other awkwardly grasping as if my hand were numb. My attempts weren’t good enough; it wouldn’t budge, not even with a forced grunt and a soft pleading followed by a louder threat to commit bodily harm against it.

“Dammit!” I growled one last time and, as if by magic, the stubborn lock allowed me through. I guess it only understood curse word requests.

“May I help you or shall I leave you to burglarize this establishment?” a crisp male voice came from the step about ten feet away, shocking me off the ground a few inches. “Ahh! Don’t do that. I’m still winding down from my fight with the gate.” I shot my iron nemesis a glare. “The last thing I need now is a heart attack. Oh, and you’re really funny, by the way.” I squinted up at Smart Ass Mystery British Man from the bottom step; I hadn’t brought my sunglasses, figuring the sun never shone in England.

Hmph.

Stay tuned for The Traveler – Prequel / III!

Catch The Traveler – Prequel I here !

The Traveler – is here .

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