”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.”