Thorne. I do not have experience as a maid, but I’m a quick learner.”
“I know you are,” I murmur.
“And I do have experience with babes. I can provide references for that.”
“I thought you liked being a seamstress, Mary.”
“Yes, but it’s only part-time. Piecemeal work. Father says I need a full-time position. He’s found one for me in Whitby, working on a farm. It’s either that or I marry George Wilcox, who’s widowed with five little ones.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t know which is worse.”
I stifle a smile. “No doubt.”
The answer here is obvious. Hire her. I know Mary, perhaps better than I know anyone in the village. She’s been at the manor many times. She accepts our eccentricities without question. To her I am simply a formerly widowed American, and any oddities of my speech and behavior can be chalked up to that.
I trust Mary. There’s no one I’d rather have in the house, even if I’d still want it to be a live-out position. I don’t need a maid—or a nursemaid—but this isn’t about me. She needs a job, and I could find enough work to justify a wage that we can very easily afford. So why am I not jumping in to offer her a position?
Butterflies.
What holds me back is a little thing called the butterfly effect, which gets its name from the idea that the mere flap of a butterfly’s wings could set about a chain of reactions that cause a tornado.
For the average person, the “butterfly effect” is usually heard in terms of time travel. What if we could go back in time? What effect would our actions have on the future? Even if we actively strove to do good, couldn’t we unknowingly cause future harm? What if we traveled back in time to stop a killer, only to discover that one of his later crimes had launched a revolution in forensic science or victims’ rights, so we’ve save a few lives only to ruin thousands?
This is the dilemma I struggle with as a bona-fide time traveler. I didn’t, at first. As a child, one hardly considers such things. As a teen, quite frankly, I didn’t care. As an adult, though, I am keenly aware that I am tampering with history. Even my existence in this world could have unforeseen effects, and I cannot add to that by meddling.
I’m not a monster, though. I won’t let Mary be married to a middle-aged man who only wants free childcare and housekeeping. Nor will I let her be shipped off to Whitby, away from her family, her seamstress talents wasted doing backbreaking physical labor. I will find another solution to this problem, and so I tell her I’ll think on it, and she tries not to let me see her disappointment at that.
By the time William bundles me into the sleigh, I’m ready to fall asleep against his shoulder. I’m stuffed with plum pudding and pie, and my brain is buzzing with all the things I saw and heard, cataloguing them for Freya. I’m also making mental notes of names and occupations and the spiderweb of relationships that is at the heart of an English village. I want to be like William, able to put names to faces and ask people how their sheep are faring or whether their newly wed daughter is settling in well.
Of course, thoughts of married daughters remind me of Mary. The obvious answer is to discuss this with William. He at least needs to know she asked about employment. But when it comes to my butterfly-effect concerns, he has decided not to interfere. I must work this out for myself. His opinion would be that I shouldn’t worry about it, and he realizes that could sound as if he’s belittling my concerns. So he’s keeping mum on the subject, and I agree that’s best in general. Still, I would like to know whether I’m overreacting here.
“I spoke to Mary,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the swish of snow beneath the runners.
“I thought I saw you two together,” he says. “Did she say when she’ll be up tomorrow for the fitting?”
I pause. “She asked about speaking to me when she came to the house, presumably for a fitting, but we didn’t set a time. Had she already arranged an appointment with you?”
“I discussed it with her yesterday, when I knew you were on your way home early. The Festival of the Penitent Rapscallions isn’t the only thing that