"I'll leave you now to rest and see you at breakfast, dearie. Pull the bell if you need anything."

And that Margo gaped as the landlady left in a rustle of petticoats and firmly closed the door-was that.

And she died more than a hundred years ago ....

Margo shivered, momentarily overcome by the unreality of it. It wasn't at all like watching an old film or even like participating in a stage play. It was like stepping into someone else's life, complete with sounds and smells and the sensation that if she blinked it would all vanish like a soap bubble. But it didn't. She sank down slowly on the edge of a feather tick. Bed ropes creaked. The room smelled musty. Gaslight burned softly behind a frosted globe on the wall. Margo wondered how in the world to turn it off. She untied her hat and took it off then removed the cap and the heavy woolen cape. The once-white cap was grey from coal smoke. She shivered absently. The room was freezing and damp. No central heat.

"Now what?" she wondered aloud.

A soft tap on the door brought her to her feet. Margo, clutched the cap in knotted fingers. "Who is it?" Her voice came out shaky and thin.

"It's Mr. Moore, Miss Smythe. Might I speak with you for a moment?"

Margo all but flew across the room. She snatched the door open.

He smiled widely at her expression, then nodded toward the gas light. "See that little chain on the side?"

Margo peered toward the light. "Yes."

"Pull it once to turn off the lamp. Don't blow out the flame or your room will fill up with gas and we'll all die rather messily."

Oh. "Thank you. I-I was wondering about that."

"Very good. Any other questions before I retire for the evening?"

Margo had about a million of them, but the only thin that popped into her head was, "How do I get warm. It's freezing in here."

Malcolm glanced around the room. "No fireplace. No stove, either. The landlady is doubtless afraid of fires and rightly so. But there should be plenty of quilts in that linen press." He pointed to a heavy piece of furniture across the room. "Pile them on and snuggle in. Anything else?"

Margo didn't dare admit that she wanted -- desperately to say "I'm scared." So she shook her head gave him a bright smile.

"Very good, then. I shall see you at breakfast." He bent and kissed her forehead "Good night, my dear. Lock your door."

Then he stepped down the hall and entered his room. His door clicked softly shut. A key turned in the lock. Margo stood gazing down the dimly lit corridor for several moments while her brow tingled under the remembered feel of Malcolm Moore's lips.

Oh, don't be ridiculous! All you need is to pull some stupid schoolgirl stunt like falling for a poverty-stricken time guide. He's too old for you, anyway, and thinks you're silly into the bargain. Besides, you had enough heartache from Billy Pandropolous to swear off men for all time.

She closed her door and locked it, experiencing a swift prickle of tears behind her eyelids. She didn't want Malcolm Moore to think she was silly. She wanted to prove to him-and everyone else-that she could do this job. Do it and be good at it.

She lay awake far into the night, listening to the rumble of carriages and wagons through London's filthy streets and wincing at the shriek of steam locomotives. And the whole time she lay there, Margo wondered miserably what that kiss would have felt like against her lips.

Workaday London enthralled.

Malcolm made arrangements for a small flat in western London, sever streets east of Grosvenor Square, which was itself just east of the ultrafashionable Hyde Park in Mayfair. The West End was where, according to Malcolm-Britain's ten thousand or so members of "Society' (some fifteen hundred families) made their London homes. The houses were splendid, but their construction surprised Margo. Most of them were more like condos than individual houses. Immensely long stone and brick facades took up entire city blocks, subdivided into individual "houses" that each wealthy family owned.

"Its a law," Malcolm explained, "passed after the Great Fire of 1666. Not only fewer combustible materials, but this construction plan was adopted to help combat the spread of another disastrous fire."

"How bad was it?"

Malcolm said quietly, "Most of London burned. Only a tiny corner of the city was spared. One of its blessings , of course, was that the fire evidently destroyed the plague, since there haven't been any outbreaks since then. Cholera, on the other hand, remains a serious difficulty."

Margo gazed in rapt fascination at the long, mellow facades, the immaculately clean walks, the ladies being assisted by liveried footmen into carriages for their round of "morning calls." They were gorgeous in heavy silks, furs, and luxuriant feathered hats. Margo sighed, acutely conscious of her charity-school costume and short, dyed hair; but she didn't let that spoil the fun of watching the "quality" pass by.

"We're far enough from the heart of Mayfair," Malcolm told her once they had settled into the six room flat, "to go unnoticed in our seedier disguises, but close enough to avoid the filth and crime of the East End and allow me to continue my persona as independent gentleman."

"Have you been here before?"

"Not this particular flat, no; but this general area, yes. I bring my tourists here rather than to a hotel, unless they insist otherwise. Living in a flat and buying vegetables and fish from the markets gives one rather a better feel for life here. Unpack your things, Miss Smythe, and we'll begin our work."

He had John hire a carriage and horses for the week while they unpacked. Malcolm arranged with the landlady for deliveries to be made from a reputable chandler to victual them with staples. Once the food arrived, he showed Margo how to prepare a British style luncheon for a country outing.

"A country outing?" Margo asked excitedly. "Really?"

Malcolm smiled. "I doubt it's what you have in mind. Pack that set of tweeds for me, would you? That's a dear. And bring along that loose shirt, those trousers, and that pair of boots for yourself. Yes, those. As a scout, one of the most important things you'll need to know is how to handle horses. I'm going to teach you to ride."

The closest thing to a horse Margo had ever ridden was a carousel at the state fair. And only then because her neighbors had taken her with their kids, pitying a child whose father spent most of what he had on liquor and, eventually, worse.

"I don't know anything about horses," she said dubiously.

"You will." Malcolms cheerful smile removed the hint of threat.

The horses John hired-four altogether-came in two distinct pairs. As John shook out the reins over the carriage horses, Malcolm explained

"Those are cobs, sturdy draft horses used for pulling loads. This isn't the fanciest carriage available, although it's smart and very up-to-date in keeping with my persona here."

"What's it called?"

"It's a four-wheeled brougham, with a hard top," he rapped the ceiling with his knuckles, "which will make it easier for you to change your attire without being noticed. This is the family vehicle of the 1880's, very respectable."

"And the horses tied behind?" They were much sleeker than the stocky carriage horses.

"Hacks. General riding animals, not nearly as expensive or handsome as hunters, but much easier to manage and cheaper to rent for those who don't care to feed a horse year-round, pay for its stabling, a groomsman, a blacksmith..."

"Expensive, huh?"

"Very. That's why livery stables do such a brisk business hiring animals and carriages."

Margo thought about what Connie had said on the subject of class distinction and decided to risk a question. "What do the really rich people think about people who hire carriages and horses?"