know and the piano was in mint condition. It could have been recently purchased or simply lightly used. Flipping up the piano seat, she found the insides bare. Nothing but a coating of light dust and a dead silverfish.
“Nothing of use here,” she said ruefully, shutting the lid with a creak. Walking around the room, she picked up and fingered the cups, plates and drinking glasses. Peering into them, she hoped to see something, anything. There was nothing but the dregs of alcohol, coffee and some loose tea leaves.
Checking the ashtrays, she found cigar stubs and abandoned pipes. Truthfully, it didn’t look much different to the remnants of a cocktail party in Cicero or Skokie. The cigar bands offered no information.
“Huh, some things never change.”
She found a four-wheeled serving cart next to the wall, filled with liquor bottles. She checked the labels and found the brewery or distillery names on labels, but that was all. Moving now to the side of the room, she investigated the beautiful leather-bound books lining the shelves. She plucked three out and took them over to the window. Opening the first, Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery, she was thrilled to see a print date on the inside of 1848.
“Now I’m getting somewhere!” She placed Thackery’s novel on the couch and opened the second book, Jayne Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. At first she was disappointed to see the first page printed, First edition, eighteen-forty-seven. This one apparently had been a gift, since it was inscribed in a thick black penmanship. To Elizabeth, on your wedding day. Aunt Marcelle, 1865.
“Fantastic! Elizabeth was my great-great-great-great-grandmother Bradenton!” Donna wasn’t exactly certain of the day and month of the wedding, but it seems from the family tree her Gran maintained, it was in the mid-eighteen hundreds, eighteen-fifty perhaps. She placed that book on the couch next to Ivanhoe . The third book was of no help to her, being published in England in 1810.
She took them back to their shelf and replaced them. Then she sat on a cushion in the window seat. She sighed and felt a little relieved, but still scared. How would she explain her presence when the Bradentons finally got up? She could improvise it with the staff for a while, and she figured they would be too polite or scared to say anything to their employer about her odd appearance and actions. Perhaps for a while that would work, but how long? How would she get back to her time? Once again, her head started to ache with worry. She gazed outside at October’s dying grass and semi-naked trees. There was really no front lawn; it was more or less just an overgrown field that came up to the front of the house. Weeds and grass that were too high had probably been cut down by the help with a scythe, judging by large clumps of cuttings. What you would have called the lawn was packed dirt, with stone pathways leading to each of the entrance doors. She figured landscaping had not quite caught on yet from the looks of things.
Then she heard the maids coming down the hall. She had been so engrossed in her thoughts she had forgotten their cleaning mission.
Annabelle and Rose glanced her way and said nothing, but began bustling around the room, cleaning and wiping. They had brought a cart which helped with the glass and bottle removal. Annabelle had a small bucket and rag, which she carefully wrung the water out of and began wiping down the wooden furniture. Rose skirted around the outskirts of the room with a broom and dustpan, shooing dust and tobacco crumbs into it. They both smiled at Donna but made no attempt at conversation. Soon they were on their way back to the kitchen to wash and dry the glassware.
Donna wished she had something to occupy herself, but there was nothing except mind games and time riddles. She thought it best to deal with the here and now and figure out the passage through time later.
“Just as well, I need to have my story straight when
“Nothing of use here,” she said ruefully, shutting the lid with a creak. Walking around the room, she picked up and fingered the cups, plates and drinking glasses. Peering into them, she hoped to see something, anything. There was nothing but the dregs of alcohol, coffee and some loose tea leaves.
Checking the ashtrays, she found cigar stubs and abandoned pipes. Truthfully, it didn’t look much different to the remnants of a cocktail party in Cicero or Skokie. The cigar bands offered no information.
“Huh, some things never change.”
She found a four-wheeled serving cart next to the wall, filled with liquor bottles. She checked the labels and found the brewery or distillery names on labels, but that was all. Moving now to the side of the room, she investigated the beautiful leather-bound books lining the shelves. She plucked three out and took them over to the window. Opening the first, Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery, she was thrilled to see a print date on the inside of 1848.
“Now I’m getting somewhere!” She placed Thackery’s novel on the couch and opened the second book, Jayne Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. At first she was disappointed to see the first page printed, First edition, eighteen-forty-seven. This one apparently had been a gift, since it was inscribed in a thick black penmanship. To Elizabeth, on your wedding day. Aunt Marcelle, 1865.
“Fantastic! Elizabeth was my great-great-great-great-grandmother Bradenton!” Donna wasn’t exactly certain of the day and month of the wedding, but it seems from the family tree her Gran maintained, it was in the mid-eighteen hundreds, eighteen-fifty perhaps. She placed that book on the couch next to Ivanhoe . The third book was of no help to her, being published in England in 1810.
She took them back to their shelf and replaced them. Then she sat on a cushion in the window seat. She sighed and felt a little relieved, but still scared. How would she explain her presence when the Bradentons finally got up? She could improvise it with the staff for a while, and she figured they would be too polite or scared to say anything to their employer about her odd appearance and actions. Perhaps for a while that would work, but how long? How would she get back to her time? Once again, her head started to ache with worry. She gazed outside at October’s dying grass and semi-naked trees. There was really no front lawn; it was more or less just an overgrown field that came up to the front of the house. Weeds and grass that were too high had probably been cut down by the help with a scythe, judging by large clumps of cuttings. What you would have called the lawn was packed dirt, with stone pathways leading to each of the entrance doors. She figured landscaping had not quite caught on yet from the looks of things.
Then she heard the maids coming down the hall. She had been so engrossed in her thoughts she had forgotten their cleaning mission.
Annabelle and Rose glanced her way and said nothing, but began bustling around the room, cleaning and wiping. They had brought a cart which helped with the glass and bottle removal. Annabelle had a small bucket and rag, which she carefully wrung the water out of and began wiping down the wooden furniture. Rose skirted around the outskirts of the room with a broom and dustpan, shooing dust and tobacco crumbs into it. They both smiled at Donna but made no attempt at conversation. Soon they were on their way back to the kitchen to wash and dry the glassware.
Donna wished she had something to occupy herself, but there was nothing except mind games and time riddles. She thought it best to deal with the here and now and figure out the passage through time later.
“Just as well, I need to have my story straight when
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