Chapter 2 The Beginning of Pride and Prejudice

Taking a Victorian noblewoman to a modern New York apartment is not covered in any physics textbook I've ever read. The elevator ride alone was an adventure I wasn't prepared for.

"This is a magical lifting chamber?" Aisling asked, pressing herself against the wall as the elevator began to move. Her eyes widened at the sensation of ascent.

"It's called an elevator," I explained. "Electric motors and cables, no magic involved."

She looked unconvinced. "It moves without horses or steam? Fascinating."

When we reached my apartment on the twenty-third floor, I realized how my living space might appear through nineteenth-century eyes. The open-concept design, minimalist furniture, and technology everywhere probably seemed alien to her.

"This is where you live?" she asked, cautiously stepping inside, her full skirts brushing against my coffee table. "It's so... exposed. Where are the walls separating the rooms? And your servants?"

"No servants," I said, setting down my laptop bag. "And open floor plans are popular now. More efficient use of space."

She walked slowly around my living area, examining everything with careful curiosity. When she reached my bookshelf, I noticed her visibly relax at the sight of something familiar.

"You have Dickens," she observed, running her fingers along the spine of my leather-bound copy of 'Great Expectations.' "Some things endure, it seems."

"Some literature is timeless," I agreed. "Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat."

She turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "You cook? Is that common for gentlemen in this era?"

"Most adults know how to cook now. Gender roles have... evolved considerably since your time."

I showed her to my spare bedroom and found an old T-shirt and sweatpants she could use as nightclothes, though she looked at them as if I'd offered her sackcloth.

"I cannot wear men's attire," she protested.

"They're just clothes," I said. "And no one will see you but me. Your dress looks uncomfortable for sleeping."

She reluctantly accepted them but insisted I leave while she changed. I used the time to make us both sandwiches, realizing halfway through that I had no idea what Victorians ate for late-night snacks.

When she emerged, the sight was both comical and oddly touching. My clothes swallowed her slender frame, and she'd kept her hair meticulously pinned up, as if letting it down would be one modern concession too many.

"These garments are indecent," she announced, tugging at the T-shirt.

"They cover more than some of what women wear in public these days," I replied, offering her a plate. "Turkey sandwich. I figured meat and bread were safe bets."

She sat at my kitchen island with perfect posture, as if dining at Buckingham Palace. "Your kitchen is peculiar. So many metal boxes."

"Refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher," I pointed to each in turn. "They keep food cold, heat food quickly, and clean dishes."

"And this?" she asked, picking up my smartphone that I'd left on the counter.

"Careful with that. It's a telephone, computer, camera, and library all in one."

The screen lit up at her touch, showing a weather app. She dropped it with a gasp.

"It's possessed by spirits!" she exclaimed.

I couldn't help laughing as I retrieved the phone. "It's just technology. Think of it as... a very advanced mechanical device."

She frowned. "You find my ignorance amusing, Dr. Cavill?"

"Not at all," I said, sobering. "I'm just trying to imagine how all this must look to you. And please, call me Ryan."

"That would be improper. We have not been properly introduced by a mutual acquaintance."

I gestured around my apartment. "I don't think Emily Post wrote etiquette rules for time travel. Under the circumstances, first names seem appropriate."

She took a small bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "Very well... Ryan. You may address me as Lady Aisling."

"Just Aisling," I countered.

Her lips pressed together in disapproval, but she didn't argue further. Progress.

After eating, I showed her how to use the bathroom—another cultural minefield—and left her to sleep. I spent the rest of the night in my living room, researching everything I could find about the Howard family and theories of temporal displacement.

Morning came too quickly. I was startled awake by a shriek from the kitchen. I rushed in to find Aisling staring in horror at my refrigerator, where she'd apparently discovered the automatic ice dispenser.

"It attacked me with frozen projectiles!" she accused.

I stifled a laugh. "You must have pressed the lever. It dispenses ice cubes."

"Why would anyone want ice delivered in such a violent manner?"

"For cold drinks. Speaking of which, would you like some coffee?"

She eyed the coffee maker suspiciously. "Is that another of your contraptions that spits or steams?"

"It does steam a bit," I admitted, preparing the machine. "But the result is worth it."

While the coffee brewed, I showed her how to use the television, which she initially called a "demonic mirror" until I turned it on. The news broadcast left her speechless for several minutes.

"Those people are tiny prisoners in your wall?" she finally asked.

"It's like... moving photography with sound," I explained. "They're not actually in there."

She seemed unconvinced but was quickly distracted by the coffee I offered her. After one sip, her face contorted in disgust.

"This is dreadfully bitter! Do people in your time not use sugar?"

I added several spoonfuls to her cup and some cream, which made it palatable enough for her to sip cautiously.

"I need to return to my lab today," I told her. "To figure out what happened and how to get you home."

"I shall accompany you," she declared immediately.

I hesitated. "People will stare at your clothes. Fashion has changed considerably."

She looked down at her Victorian nightwear. "I cannot wear these in public."

"I'll find you something more... contemporary."

An hour later, after a quick shopping trip to a nearby department store, Aisling stood before me in jeans, a simple blouse, and slip-on shoes. She looked deeply uncomfortable.

"These trousers are immodest," she complained. "And where is the corset? How does one maintain proper posture without stays?"

"Women don't wear corsets anymore. They're considered unhealthy."

"Next you'll tell me women show their ankles in public," she muttered.

"Actually..." I began, but her horrified expression made me change course. "Let's get to the lab."

The subway ride was another adventure. Aisling gripped my arm with surprising strength as the crowded train lurched forward.

"So many people of different stations mingling together," she whispered. "And women traveling unescorted! Is there no propriety in this century?"

"It's called equality," I explained. "Women have the same rights as men now. They vote, work in any profession, own property."

She looked genuinely stunned. "Even in Parliament?"

"Congress here, but yes. We've had female Supreme Court justices, CEOs, presidential candidates."

A thoughtful expression crossed her face. "How remarkable. In my time, I fight with Father just for permission to read scientific journals."

When we arrived at my laboratory, Aisling's demeanor changed. She examined my equipment with genuine curiosity, asking surprisingly insightful questions about how things worked.

"You have scientific inclinations," I observed as she studied a diagram of quantum particles I'd left on my desk.

"I've always been fascinated by natural philosophy," she admitted. "Father considers it an unsuitable interest for a woman destined to make an advantageous marriage."

I began running diagnostics on the quantum field generator, trying to recreate the conditions from the previous night. "And what do you think about this 'advantageous marriage'?"

Her face hardened. "It is my duty to my family name. Personal inclinations are irrelevant."

"That sounds lonely."

"It is the way of my world," she said simply. Then she looked around my cluttered laboratory with a critical eye. "Though I must say, your workspace is in desperate need of organization. It's more chaotic than the slums of East London."

I raised an eyebrow. "You've visited slums?"

"I accompany Mother to the charity hospital sometimes," she replied, straightening a stack of research papers on my desk. "Even there, items are cataloged more efficiently than your... what is this?" She held up a half-eaten energy bar wrapped in foil.

"Breakfast, most days," I admitted.

She shook her head disapprovingly. "In my time, gentlemen of science maintained orderly work environments. Mr. Darwin's study was said to be immaculate."

"Darwin was wealthy enough to have assistants," I pointed out. "I'm just a university researcher with grant funding that barely covers the equipment."

She began organizing my desk, sorting papers and aligning instruments at right angles. I was about to stop her when AIDA's voice interrupted.

"Dr. Cavill, I've completed the analysis of last night's anomaly."

Aisling jumped slightly but recovered quickly. "Your wall spirit speaks again."

"AIDA is an artificial intelligence," I explained. "A machine that can think and learn. AIDA, what did you find?"

"The quantum field experienced a localized inversion at 23:42. Analysis suggests a temporary wormhole formed, connecting two points in space-time."

I frowned. "That shouldn't be possible with our current equipment."

"Agreed. Additional factor detected: an unusual energy signature emanating from the subject's person."

We both turned to look at Aisling.

"Me?" she asked. "I'm not carrying any energy... things."

I approached her, scientific curiosity overriding social boundaries. "May I?" I asked, holding up a handheld scanner.

She nodded cautiously, and I moved the scanner around her, watching the readings spike dramatically.

"There's definitely something," I muttered. "AIDA, what's causing this energy pattern?"

"Unknown. Signature does not match any known natural or artificial energy source."

Aisling touched the locket hanging around her neck nervously. "Could it be this? It contains a lock of my late mother's hair."

The scanner immediately beeped when I brought it near the locket. "That's it. Something about that locket is creating a quantum resonance."

"This was my mother's most treasured possession," she said defensively. "It is not some scientific oddity."

"I'm not saying it is," I assured her. "But somehow, it interacted with my experiment and created a bridge through time. Understanding it might be key to getting you home."

She reluctantly removed the locket and handed it to me. As our hands touched, I noticed her hesitate, our fingers connecting for a moment longer than necessary.

"Please be careful with it," she said softly. "It's all I have of her."

The vulnerability in her voice made me look at her more carefully. Beneath the aristocratic hauteur and Victorian propriety was a young woman torn from everything familiar, trying desperately to maintain composure in a world that made no sense to her.

"I promise," I said, carefully placing the locket on a specialized scanner. "We'll figure this out together."

As AIDA began analyzing the locket, Aisling wandered around my lab, stopping at my desk where I'd left my research journal open. I was too focused on the scanner readings to notice her picking it up.

"You're calculating how to send me back," she said suddenly, her voice odd.

I turned to find her reading my notes from the night before. Pages of equations and theories about reversing the quantum displacement, all centered around one goal: returning her to 1895.

"That's my job," I said simply. "To fix what went wrong."

"I thought perhaps you were more interested in studying me as a scientific curiosity," she said, setting the journal down carefully. "Yet here you've spent the night calculating how to undo the accident rather than exploit it."

"You don't belong here," I said, then winced at how that sounded. "I mean, you have a life, a family waiting for you. It would be wrong to keep you here just because you're scientifically interesting."

Something shifted in her expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of her perpetually straight posture.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For seeing me as a person to be helped rather than a phenomenon to be studied."

The moment was broken by AIDA announcing the completion of the locket analysis. As I turned back to the scanner, I caught Aisling watching me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—something between curiosity and something deeper, more complex.

Our arguments about modern technology and Victorian propriety suddenly seemed trivial in the face of the real challenge: sending her back to a time where history said she would die. The weight of that knowledge pressed on me as I examined the locket's scan results, wondering if I was working to save her or seal her fate.