by Linda McLaughlin
“What am I doing on this odd conveyance?
Lady Jane Austen-Thackeray looked around at the long rectangular coach on which she found herself. Where were the horses? The coach lurched forward, seemingly self-propelled, and noxious fumes assaulted her nostrils. If that was the result of the new steam engines everyone in London was talking about, she’d happily stick to four-legged transportation. She ran her hand over the seat covering, which appeared to be leather, but of such an inferior quality as she’d never seen. All in all, it was a poor excuse for a coach.
She sniffed as she glanced around at the other passengers. A peculiar looking boy with, of all things, a ring through his nose sat toward the back holding a large black box in his lap out of which blared the most atrocious sound. Well, she would hardly dignify such cacophony by calling it music. It certainly had not been composed by Mr. Handel or Mr. Beethoven. Toward the front sat an elderly man with a stubbly beard carrying on an animated conversation with the window. An escaped Bedlamite, no doubt of it. If only her darling Max were here to protect her.
The coach stopped again and the door opened as if by an unseen hand. She shook her head. She must be dreaming. If she weren’t careful, she’d end up in Bedlam with the talkative gentleman. A woman and two small children boarded the bus, speaking rapidly in a language Jane did not recognize. French émigrés, or worse Irish peasants, she thought, observing that the children had no manners. They ran up and down the aisle chasing after each other and shrieking like banshees. The dirty-faced boy bumped into her, knocking her reticule onto the sticky floor.
She clutched her aching head and moaned. What had happened? The last thing she remembered was traveling to London in the family coach with her darling Max. If he were here, those noisy urchins wouldn’t dare bother her! If he were still alive, that is. With a pang, she remembered a loud crack and the coach listing to one side, and then turning upside down. She’d blacked out and awoken in this odd conveyance filled with even odder people.
When the urchin bumped her again, she lost her temper and shrieked at him like the veriest fish wife. “Stop that this instant, you misbegotten brat!”
The boy stopped and uttered a word Lady Jane had only heard once from a furious teamster whose cartload of potatoes had been overturned in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Merciful heavens, it was enough to give any Lady of Quality the vapors.
She frowned at the insolent child, for once ignoring her mother’s admonition always to keep a pleasant expression on her face lest she develop wrinkles. It wasn’t as if she were still husband-hunting. No, she had her darling Max and that was enough. And where was he? She’d never find him if she stayed on this strange coach. She stood and moved toward the front, weaving to the motion of the vehicle. When it suddenly stopped, she fell forward striking her head again before passing out.
When Jane awakened, she found herself lying on the cold ground breathing fresh country air and listening to blessed silence. Then a horse neighed. A shiver of joy went through her. England! Then her darling Max came into view and she called his name. He ran to her, his brown eyes lit with delight. She gathered him to her bosom. “Oh, my darling Max, you have no idea how glad I am to see you. I’ve had the most ghastly nightmare.”
Max licked her cheek and snuggled closer, his tail wagging comfortingly against her side. All was right with her world again.
© 2004 by Linda McLaughlin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED