A Murder in Time(38)

“Scientist.” The Duke of Aldridge said the word now, and in such a way that he seemed to be testing it on his tongue. “I am not familiar with the term.”

Kendra stared at him in his old-fashioned clothes, and it took her a moment to remember that the word scientist wouldn’t be coined for another twenty-five or so years. Language, she reflected ruefully, was a lot like a living organism: words were born, they thrived, sometimes died or evolved into new words, new meanings. It would, she suspected, be her greatest challenge while she was here. Oh, God, please don’t let me be here long.

“I meant,” she said slowly, even as her stomach twisted, “you’re a man of science.” Aware that he was staring at her—studying her—she moved toward the armillary sphere and telescope. “You’re interested in astronomy?”

He smiled. “Like my father before me, I have an avid interest in natural philosophy and the arts.” He touched the sphere reverently. “I was only a lad of twenty-two when Sir William Herschel discovered the planet Uranus. Such a discovery . . . And only four years ago, the Great Comet was observed streaking through the sky. What else is out there to be discovered, among the stars, eh, Miss Donovan?”

“Those to whom the harmonious doors,/Of Science have unbarred celestial shores,” Kendra quoted unthinkingly, offering a tentative smile. It had seemed apropos, but she instantly regretted it when the Duke stared at her.

Fascinated, Aldridge said carefully, “Are you an admirer of the poet?”

Kendra shrugged uneasily. “He was . . . is . . .” She tried to remember when William Wordsworth had died. Mid-1800s? “Ah, remarkable.”

“He is.” The Duke’s blue-gray eyes twinkled, even as he clearly wondered at the woman’s sudden discomfort. “Like many of my contemporaries, I’ve tried my hand at poetry. But my efforts fall far short of Mr. Wordsworth’s genius. He knows how to explore a man’s soul, eh? I prefer to explore those celestial shores, or divine the secrets of the earth. There is much to be explored, is there not, Miss Donovan? You would, of course, understand. Being an explorer yourself.”

Kendra went pale, her eyes wary as she looked to Aldridge. “What do you mean?”

“You are an American,” he pointed out, deliberately keeping his tone mild, though her reaction had piqued his curiosity. “You were enough of an explorer to sail across the Atlantic.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Her brow cleared. Biting her lip, she rubbed her clammy palms against her arms. Unable to meet the intensity of his gaze, she looked around. The messy sheaves of paper caught her attention. Smoothing out one curling paper, she studied the graphs and notations with interest.

“I chart the night sky,” Aldridge explained. “These are my observations of last evening.”

“There was a full moon?”

“Yes,” he said, giving her a questioning look.

Kendra missed it, too busy considering the implications of a full moon on her own bizarre circumstance. Was there a connection? Not because of the myth that mysterious and magical things happen under a full moon, but for the purely scientific reason that the gravitational pull was strongest during that phase of the lunar cycle. And perhaps a stronger gravitational pull might influence the vortex . . .

Jesus Christ. Would she be marooned in this dimension, this time rift, for a full month?

“Are you quite well, Miss Donovan?”

“Oh . . . yes. I’m fine.” Yet she couldn’t stop shivering. It didn’t make sense. Full moons didn’t occur on the same day every month. Her full moon, in her own time, wouldn’t necessarily be the same as the Duke’s.

She rubbed her arms and paced aimlessly along one worktable, staring at the objects jumbled across it. There was no order or specialty. The Duke of Aldridge’s interests, it appeared, were wide-ranging and eclectic. He was a true Renaissance man. She paused next to four squat jars connected with metal wires and rods.

“That’s a Leyden Jar,” the Duke identified, noting her interest. “Rather primitive electricity toys, but when I was a boy it was quite the thing. Do you have an interest in natural philosophy and astronomy, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra slanted him a look. She was a servant, she reminded herself. Did servants in the nineteenth century have an interest in natural philosophy or astronomy? “I suppose they’re interesting subjects,” she replied carefully.

“They are indeed.” He picked up the pipe he’d left on the table. “How’d you find yourself on these shores, Miss Donovan?”

“What?”

Crossing the room to the fireplace, he lit a long taper and brought it to the clay pipe bowl. “England, Miss Donovan,” he prodded gently as he puffed. His expression was genial but his gaze was sharp as he surveyed her through the smoke. “How’d you come here, pray?”

Kendra thought of the answer she’d glibly given that morning. “By ship,” she said instead.

He smiled. “I didn’t think you came by air balloon. Perhaps a better question would be: What brought you to England?”

“I . . .” Oh, God, what could she say? “I had . . . something to do. Business. And, ah, you might say I got stuck here.” It was the truth.

“Stuck?”

“Unable to leave.”