Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Six

“You know Jane Austen?” Lizzy asked.

What made her head swim more, the sudden knowledge of her friend’s fame or Tuck’s intent eyes? How had she overlooked those

lashes? Or the fact that his irises were less brown and more copper, a near shade match to a three-pence coin?

“I guess even the frogs back in that pond know her. Let me guess, you’re a fan too?”

Too? “I—I—I.” She veiled her stammer with a delicate cough. “I’m beyond familiar with Jane; we’re close friends. Very close. She’s

completed one book, under a nom de plume, titled Sense and Sensibility . A London publishing house distributed it in three volumes last autumn, though she bore the printing costs and— Oh!”

Lizzy slipped on a mushroom patch, half concealed by the sodden undergrowth on the forest floor. Arms windmilling, she twisted

to steady herself on a nearby oak trunk, but Tuck moved faster, wrapping one hand around her upper arm while sliding the other

beneath her lower back, ensuring she regained her balance.

“Whoa now, Pocket Rocket.” His unexpected touch vanished as quickly as it had come, but the shock of it, combined with his knowledge of Jane, kept her unstable. Fortunately, he opted not to make a fuss about the physical contact. In her present state of confusion, his lack of acknowledgment regarding the breach of propriety suited her perfectly. She needed a moment to steady her jangled nerves, not be forced to soothe him.

However, as she peered over, he didn’t seem remotely flustered by the contact; rather, he appeared to be pondering something.

“What is it?” She wasn’t miffed that he wasn’t affected by their unexpected embrace. Not at all. In fact, she was feeling

much better herself. It must have been a momentary bout of vertigo brought on by the day’s excitement.

“Sorry.” He clicked his tongue, snapping back to attention. “I know I keep using words that you won’t understand. Describing

a rocket is tricky. I meant—”

“I know what rockets are.” She bristled. He might come from the future, but that hardly meant she was an unsophisticated rustic.

“My stepfather took us to Hyde Park three years ago to watch the fireworks display commemorating King George the Third’s jubilee.

Red, gold, green, and blue rockets shot through the sky as the band played, their colors reflecting off Serpentine Lake.”

“Really? Huh. Fireworks,” he muttered almost to himself. “You have those, good to know.” For a moment he looked exactly like

what he was... a man lost, far from home or friends.

Lizzy drew a full breath, the scents of rain and wet earth steadying her. The weather had ushered in mist; the forest was

ghostly with fog.

“What are all those bumps in the ground over there?” He pointed at low humps of earth set amid gnarled trees, their twisted

branches forming a dense green canopy of dappled light.

She crossed her arms, a conscious effort to resist the impulse to reach out for one of his big-boned hands. There was no rational explanation for her sudden desire.

“Those? I’ve heard them referred to as barrows. I’m uncertain of their origins or purpose, but they are quite ancient,” she

murmured, her attention divided between his scarred knuckle and a strange inclination to run her tongue over the jagged line.

The mad impulse coursed through her, a cold river of shame containing a trickle of something thick and warm with rose-colored

tendrils. She rubbed her forehead as if that could erase the idea. Better to forget he had hands and focus on a subject change.

“How are you feeling?” she asked after clearing her throat. “If I were to emerge from a pond into an entirely different era,

I’d be quite beside myself.”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice. Plus...” He trailed off with a half shrug. “I gotta be honest. I’m half expecting

to wake up any minute. Maybe I knocked myself out on the car wheel. You could be a symptom from one hell of a concussion.”

He’d used that word before. She cocked her head. “What’s a car?”

“Uh.” He opened his mouth and then slammed it closed, lips tight. “Never mind. As wild as it seems, you don’t appear to be

a random electrical zap in my brain. And if you’re real, and this situation is actually happening, then it’s probably not

a good idea to say much.”

“I beg your pardon?” That pullback demanded a response. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“It’s dangerous to tell you too much about the future.” Two deep creases appeared between his brows. “I’ve seen enough movies

and they always—”

“Moo-vies?” There he went with yet another unfamiliar word.

“Shit. I don’t know how to do this.” He snapped a twig underfoot. Somewhere high above, a squirrel scolded them for destroying the peace. “I don’t want to mess up time or say something I shouldn’t and kick off a chain of events that could unmake the universe or whatever. Can we start walking again? And no talking. I need time to think.”

In spite of her intense temptation to resist, challenge, and extract the future from him—glean whatever insights he might

possess—there lingered a chill of unease. He genuinely knew what was to come, not like a fortune teller seeking coins on a

city corner.

“Very well.” As they strode along, Lizzy breathed in the earthy smell of the rain and pondered his peculiar words. Car. Movie. However, his unique insights posed their own peril. If others knew about his knowledge, to what extremes might they resort

in their attempts to extract it from him? A protective instinct surged within her. She was determined to shield this man,

even if he happened to be one of the most imposing individuals she had ever encountered. She’d find a way to keep him safe

here in her world.

Everything about Mr.Taylor was a surprise. And she’d had precious few of those in her life. Most days blended into the next

like a watercolor scene gone muddy, overmixing until it was impossible to discern individual elements. This morning had given

no hint that today would be an exception. She wore her usual purple walking dress and ate her breakfast the same way she always

did—with a honey cake, boiled egg, and souchong tea.

Afterward, she would retreat to her room and her lap desk, confronting the blank pages of her notebook. Paradoxically, the surplus of time in the countryside had left her immobilized. Despite the boundless tranquility and quiet that should have provided her with ample time to devote to what felt like her calling, she found herself stumbling in the execution. How could she persuade her family that she deserved a life free to pursue her craft if she couldn’t muster the necessary motivation to fulfill the task at hand?

No, that wasn’t accurate either.

It wasn’t the lack of words or motivation that was daunting. It was the idea of completing something and discovering it wasn’t

very good.

And now, to discover that her dear friend was crafting stories that would be remembered far into the future? The notion ignited

a spark of envy deep in Lizzy’s heart. She despised it too. If there was anything worse than jealousy, it was feeling that

vile emotion toward a dear friend who deserved every ounce of good fortune and success.

“What’s wrong?”

Tuck’s deep voice tugged her back to the here and now, where she was saturated from the rain and her predictable little life

had just been upended.

“Have you ever measured your own merit against some elusive standard only to be left with a feeling that you are forever falling

short of the mark?”

He made a noncommittal sound, a sort of thoughtful hum that encouraged her to keep going.

“Because I have. Constantly. It’s a stroll through a portrait gallery of perceived shortcomings. Each flaw is framed in gold,

reinforcing the notion that no matter my effort, I will never be enough.”

He shot her a glance that bespoke incredulity and amusement, but not with any mean-spiritedness. “That’s all sitting in your

head waiting to come out?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” She cast him a grim smile. “What do your thoughts tell you?”

“Well, I don’t think in words. Certainly not like you just shared.”

“How?” She frowned. “You must have an occasional thought rattle through that big square head.”

“Square, huh?” He laughed, his eyes never straying from her face. “I think in pictures, and, if I were to try to describe

it, in feelings too. I mean, if I had to force myself, I could do it, but it would get annoying.”

“I’ve never pondered how I think before.”

“It’s not a typical conversation people go around having. But that doesn’t explain what upset you.”

Her head emptied out. No excuses or wit. Just the ugly little truth. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone. Given you’re the only person I know in 1812, the odds are high that I can keep my word.”

Fate had put them together. They were going to have to trust each other. At least enough to share some honesty.

“Very well.” She squared her shoulders. “You recognized my friend’s name. The writer. Jane.”

“Jane Austen.” He made a noise in the back of his throat. “I mean, look. Full disclosure. I haven’t read a single word she’s

written. But my sister... It’s sort of her thing. Jane Austen is one of her favorite authors.”

“Your sister will read our Jane over two hundred years from now.” Imagine having made that sort of impact.

“I do know there are movies—which are like plays, I guess you could say—made of her books. People take trips to see where

she lived, at least according to Nora.”

“And that’s wonderful. Truly. I mean it, even though I am going to sound like one of the worst people possible. It’s...” She squeezed her eyes shut and said as quickly as she could, “I am trying to write a book too. But I haven’t even managed a satisfactory first chapter. No one’s discussing Lizzy Wooddash in your time, are they?” She opened one eye, checking.

He contemplated for a moment. “Can’t say I’ve heard of the name, but don’t let that worry you. I’m not much of a reader either—at

least of old books. But look, you write? That means you’re a player too. Maybe you aren’t signing the eight-year, eighty-million-dollar

contract, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t in the game. That’s what matters.”

“I’m sorry. Who is signing what for when?”

He winced. “I tried to make a hockey analogy, sorry.”

“Hockey?”

“That’s a whole conversation.” He gave a small sigh. “Hockey’s my work. And life too, honestly.”

“Ah, I see.” She let the falsehood fall effortlessly. In truth, it might as well be midnight for how little she saw. However,

she loathed to appear uninformed. “Hockey is a sort of trade?”

“A sport.”

She blinked twice, reviewing the sports she knew: hunting, fishing, racing, shooting. But no gentleman did such things for

money. Maybe boxing—she’d heard vague stories about pugilists who did illegal matches for payment in town. She crossed her

arms, both from annoyance and an attempt to keep warm in this rain. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know—does it matter if I talk about it?” He rubbed the top of his head, his big hand flattening the short locks.

“I can’t see how learning about hockey will have too big of an impact. Okay, let’s do this. In my time, there are plenty of

sports. If you excel at playing one—and I mean truly excel, not just being good—then yeah, you can make a living off it.”

“How is this hockey played?”

“On ice. To make it sound simple, the players try to hit a puck into a net. Whatever team does that the most wins.”

“Puck.” She smoothed her damp skirt. “There’s a Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Shakespeare. But I presume you’re not referring to a fairy?”

He barked out a surprised laugh. “That would be a no. A puck is round, black, and made of rub— Wait, I don’t know if that

material’s been invented yet. It’s designed to glide on ice.”

“And you hit it.”

“My job is to keep it out of the net.”

She kept her chin high, unwilling to admit she was utterly baffled. “Like... bandy?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“When it’s cold enough in winter, sometimes men hit balls on the ice for fun. They call the game bandy.”

“I mean, maybe that’s somewhat close,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

Her curiosity was piqued. “And you can make a living doing this hockey?”

A small smile played on his lips. “I do all right.”

“Because you stop a disc from going in a net. Fascinating.”

“Hey now.” His ears tinged pink. “There’s a lot more to it, all right? The plays, the arenas, the crowd, the lights. It’s

physical. It’s aggressive. It’s a highly structured competition.”

“How positively gladiatorial.” It wasn’t difficult to picture Mr.Taylor in the midst of the Colosseum. Those big corded muscles

slick with sweat. His chest heaving. A wild sort of primitive bloodlust in his eyes. She swallowed nervously.

“Sure. Whatever you say.” A beat passed.

She stared.

He stared back.

She held her breath, wondering if he could hear her wildly pounding heart. Here she was, Elizabeth H. Wooddash, poised to have an adventure. The very notion sent a frisson of excitement through her. She trembled with barely suppressed anticipation. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have the faintest idea what was going to happen next.

A muscle feathered in his jaw, and he abruptly turned away. “There’s something ahead.”

Fortunately, the trees thinned, revealing the outline of a well-appointed two-story home with all the necessary outbuildings

and gardens needed to run a small estate. Five chimneys punctuated the pitched tile roof, and four gabled windows faced the

forest view that bestowed the property with its name.

“There it is! That’s the Woodlands,” she said with a sigh of relief, her legs going weak with a sudden bone-deep weariness.

Uncertainty was equal parts exciting and exhausting. “We made it.”

He gave a low whistle. “Heck of a house.”

“My cousin married a gentleman, Mr.Edward Gardiner, who died of typhoid fever the better part of a decade ago. Before his

demise, he settled a generous jointure on her. He had no debts, so she’s been allowed to enjoy a life of considerable independence

and—”

A long, resounding howl reverberated through the yard, shattering the silence as the echoes bounced off tree trunks.

“Oh, Goliath.” She rolled her eyes. “Do give it a rest.”

“What the hell was that?” Tuck halted. “Your cousin doesn’t raise wolves, does she?”

“Ah.” Lizzy raised a finger. “I forgot to mention. You don’t have an issue with large dogs, do you?” She leaned in, catching his scent—a subtle woody undertone, despite having marinated in the pond. Suppressing the urge to take a second, longer sniff, she added, “‘Large’ doesn’t quite capture his size.”

“I’m fine.” He turned back toward the deep baying. “Your cousin’s a dog person, I take it?”

“That’s a modest description. Georgie is engrossed in the world of breeding mastiffs; it defines her entire persona. If you

happen to mention anything related to the breed, prepare to devote hours to the conversation. And I’m not overstating—I mean

hours.”

“Noted.”

A few servants bustled by in gray dresses and white caps; one used a stick to herd a large pig into its sty while the other

was stooped, carrying two buckets of water.

“Are you sure your cousin is going to be okay having me here?” Mr.Taylor glanced at his clothing. “I must not look like your

usual visitors.”

Lizzy mashed her lips at his understatement. “She’ll be fine. But she won’t act like it. Her bark is far worse than her bite.

Just don’t talk too much. She detests overbearing men.”

Turning the corner around the home to access the inconspicuous back door, they nearly collided with Georgie, who was setting

down a bowl filled with what appeared to be a robust meat stew for two enormous whining dogs. Her frizzy blond waves were

pulled back with a brown ribbon, resembling a horse’s tail.

“Oh, all right,” she crooned. “That’s enough of all that fuss. Here’s your supper, my loves. Keep your petticoats on.” Stepping

back, she affectionately stroked Goliath’s apricot-colored fur. He maintained a single-minded focus on the bowl’s contents,

while his mate, Daisy, gulped some down beside him, ensuring she got her due.

While Mr. Taylor had a gladiator somewhere in his family tree, Georgie clearly descended from the Viking invaders who had once plundered these shores. Everything about her, from her loud laugh to her broad bosom to her iron-forged sense of self, branded her as a local hoyden. The best part was that Georgie never seemed to notice how she bent the world to her will; she accepted it as her due.

Her money gave her independence and a begrudging respect—even from Lizzy’s snobbish mother.

“Elizabeth, my dear, you bear a striking resemblance to a drowned rat,” observed Georgie in her characteristic bluntness,

never one to tiptoe around pleasantries. She cast a swift, assessing glance at Tuck, her good-humored eyes contrasting with

her resolute jaw. “And who’s this big buck? You weren’t found poaching, were you?”

“Cousin.” Lizzy conjured her most charming smile even as her spine wobbled like jelly. They needed to get out of the yard

before the servants got a long look at him and his odd attire. “Best to go indoors for this particular conversation. I suggest

the drawing room. And do you have any more Irish whiskey? We’ll need it.”

“I don’t like that expression one bit, girl,” Georgie said with a grunt. “It hints that peace and quiet aren’t in my future.”

Five minutes later, Georgie was pouring her second glass of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, a servant dispatched to locate

Jane, who was also visiting the Woodlands from Chawton Cottage, some twenty miles due west.

“Fancy that,” Georgie muttered for the third time, dabbing her handkerchief at the sweat pebbling her temple. “I’ve heard

the old stories, of course, from servants back when I was getting settled into these parts as a young bride. I must confess

that I didn’t pay them much heed, but there are things that can’t be explained, like Hamlet was always going on about.”

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” Lizzy rejoined. “That’s the verbatim quote.”

“Oooh, look at the clever one. A pity I don’t have a sweet in my pocket.” Her cousin patted at her dun-colored skirts in mock

bemusement. “I’d give you one as a reward.”

Tuck’s chuckle turned into a hoarse cough when Lizzy shot him a furious glare.

“I’m not showing off,” she said testily. “I simply think if one is going to quote a famous play, one should do it properly.”

“And as you can see, ‘proper’ is my middle name.” Georgie gave Tuck a wink.

“But why not aim for accuracy?” There were moments when Georgie—and even Jane—could irk her. Perhaps they teased her because she was younger

or they were closer friends. Yet, when it occurred, she couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling of being on the outside of the

circle. And she detested it. “I’m sure Shakespeare put effort into those words.”

“Too bad I can’t apologize to old Will. But since his plays are mostly dirty jokes stuck between moments of plot, I suppose

he’s got a good sense of humor about life.” Georgie turned to Tuck, her thin eyebrows raised. “Serious Lizzy here is my second

uncle’s daughter. There are people worse than Uncle Leopold was, but few as boring. How he and my foolish aunt managed to

have a child as dear as Lizzy is one of life’s mysteries.” She put her empty glass on a carved table and gestured to the piano.

“Play something for us.”

Lizzy recoiled. “You can’t be serious. Now is not the time for music.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Georgie gestured at the drawing room door with a knowing look. “The servants will either hear you abusing the ivory or us regaling Jane with how you discovered a man from another time in a cow pond. What’s your choice?”

“A waltz it is.” Lizzy marched to the pianoforte. “Please make allowances, everyone. This will not be pleasant. I’m not falsely

modest. I am not an accomplished player.”

“I’m sure you’re fine,” Tuck said, reaching out to pick up a bronze candle snuffer. He regarded it in bewilderment and inexplicably

sniffed the end.

“You use it to put out candles, Mr.Taylor,” Lizzy snapped, arranging her skirts on the bench. What did he mean with his fine ? Did he mean he was indifferent? Dismissive? And why was he so fidgety? She’d already observed him poking at snuffboxes,

sconces, and even an inkwell, before frowning at the fireplace screen and then the chandelier.

“Ah.” He set it back down. “But why don’t you blow them out?”

“You’d bend the wick if you did that,” she said.

“Dear Lizzy is a cross between a child and a little sister to me,” Georgie continued, as if she’d been the only one speaking.

“I never had children of my own. Indeed, I have no real inclination to be maternal, but I do enjoy companionship.”

“She seems good company,” Mr.Taylor said.

“I’ve been fond of her ever since I met her bald and croupy. A proper banshee, this one was. And scrawny too. Imagine a skinny

baby. No, don’t, you shouldn’t like to think of such a thing.”

“Cousin, thank you,” Lizzy uttered through gritted teeth, hitting a wrong note that made everyone jump. “I am certain Mr. Taylor wishes to occupy his thoughts with far more urgent matters than tales of my infancy.” She wasn’t oversensitive. It was merely that those she held dear seldom took the time to regard her as anything beyond an extension of their own narratives—a supporting character offering occasional amusement or, at worst, an obligation, a burden, a weight.

“Ma’am?” A servant appeared at the door. “MissAusten will join you momentarily.”