“We’re fucked,” said Oxford.
“Oh, thanks for reminding me.” Monterey activated his opal, pulled out his postcard from the satchel that still hung across his chest, and wrote the words:
We’re Fucked.
The words glowed for a moment, and then disappeared. “Where are we?” asked Monterey, not really expecting an answer.
Oxford stood up, and didn’t bump his head on the ceiling despite basically being a giant. “Secret passage?”
“Be sensible.”
There was a squeaking, creaking sound. A whole length of wood panelling slid to one side. Light streamed into the space where they were standing, proving that it was indeed a secret passage.
“Lucky guess,” muttered Monterey. He should not resent Oxford for being here instead of Lovelace, but he did. He wanted his cat. Two humans and no cat was the worst possible time travelling combination.
Oxford strode out ahead of him into a Victorian gentleman’s study, or possibly a smoking room given the thick, tobacco-heavy air. Every inch of wall that was not covered in more wood panelling was covered in well-appointed book shelves. Nicotine fumes aside, this was kind of decor Monterey had always hoped to set up in his own digs at the college, if it wasn’t for the criminal costs of leather-bound books in the twenty-fourth century.
“Never mind Cramberleigh,” Monterey said, strolling to the window to peer down at the formal gardens. Pretty as a picture. “They should have filmed Sherlock Holmes here. Maybe a touch of Evelyn Waugh.”
“Um,” said Oxford, who had been fidgeting more than usual since this whole rescue mission began. Monterey suspected he was in the middle of an emotional crisis, and rather hoped to not be around when it came to a head.
Luckily, Oxford was a master at repressing his emotions, so they should have a few hours or even days left before anything exploded.
Still, he was looking rather wild about the eyes, and was pointing at something through the window… oh.
Monterey looked. And then he swore a few times. That was a horse drawn carriage sweeping up the driveway, wasn’t it? Even whacking great poshos wouldn’t have a horse-drawn carriage on hand in 1964, unless it was a wedding or a coronation.
“Are we even in the right stately manor?” he demanded.
“Think so,” said Oxford, leaning half out the window. “Never seen it from this angle before. But it’s got to be the right house. Doesn’t it?”
“Doesn’t got to be anything,” said Monterey. “If it’s the wrong year, it could as easily be the wrong spot. Could be bloody Scotland for all we know. Poland. Japan. Prague! Do you know how many fancy old houses there are in Prague?”
“It’s England, at least,” said Oxford, pulling his head back in from the window.
“How can you tell?”
“It’s raining.”
“Something that never happens in Prague.”
“Then, there’s that,” said Oxford, pointing back across the library.
Ah, yes. Well. That portrait with Lord George Hepple neatly engraved across the frame was a bit of a giveaway. The Hepple family had owned Fenthorp for centuries. Didn’t narrow down when this was, exactly.
“Red brick or cream tile?” Monterey asked, remembering a whole Cressida rant he had sat through once, about the history of the house where Cramberleigh was filmed. He’d always been good at remembering dates. “Hang on a minute. 1688 for red brick, that’s when they built the big house. 1788 for mathematical tile. They started the Long Library wing… is this the Long Library?”
“It’s not very long,” Oxford said dubiously.
“Right. It’s not the Round Library. So this is just an everyday cigar-smoke-themed tiny library. How many libraries would one family need?”
“The internet hasn’t been invented yet, so all of them?”
Monterey leaned out the window to examine what he could of the house exterior. “I see marble columns! That puts us some time after 1788.”
“After 1810,” corrected Oxford, examining the portrait of Lord George Hepple. “That’s when this one died, apparently. But also there’s a copy of The Old Curiosity Shop on that shelf, so I think we’re well into mid-Victorian.”
Victorian times. That was promising. Monterey had always liked Victorian times, theoretically. He’d never got to stay very long, which was why ‘kiss a butler’ and ‘taste kedgeree’ were still on his bucket list.2
Still, he’d read a lot of Dickens and that counted as deep research. Enough to know this was a tea-drinking era of history, at least.
Monterey did not enjoy the feeling of not knowing exactly when he was. He usually had Lovelace to rely on, with her excellent nose for history.3 “What year was The Old Curiosity Shop written?” he asked.
Oxford reached out and took hold of a small green volume off the shelf. He consulted the early pages. “1841,” he said. “But this edition was published in 1854.”
“Right,” said Monterey. “So that means we’re in…”
“1899, you turnips,” said a voice behind them.
Both men spun around.
A secret door had opened out from one of the many bookcases. A woman stood before them wearing a most extraordinary outfit — it featured leg-of-mutton sleeves, corsetry, and a bustle that could go head to head with an aggressive hippopotamus. It was entirely constructed from tie-dyed pink, yellow and orange poly-cotton, with a matching bonnet of embroidered denim.
Monterey had taken the Intro to Costume elective.4 He knew that nineteenth century tie-dye wasn’t a thing. Not in England, anyway. Come to think of it, if this was 1899, that bustle was nearly ten years out of fashion.
“What the hellfire are you wearing?” he blurted.
That was easier. Easier by far to freak out about the dress than to wrap his head around the presence of Cressida. He hadn’t set eyes on his friend in seven years. But it was her. Sharp eyes, bright blonde hair, and turning up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Who else could it be?