You're just an extra picture, something added to the scenery that wasn't there before. History will not remember you. You'll still be Isabel when you come home.
Isabel remembered the words of the man who had sent her here yet again as she woke up.
It had been a little over a month since the little escapade which she called her arrival, and she was sick of laying in a bedroom waiting for something to happen.
Isabel remembered watching a part of Sense and Sensibility, one of her mom's favorite movies, where Marianne Dashwood had grown ill and they sent for a doctor. The doctors in such a time would take some blood for their patients, thinking that such a procedure would help solve a problem.
From what she could tell (the fact that there was a long, thin scar on her arm now, and the fact that she had felt totally weakened upon waking), that might have been the case since she was unconscious for a week. But now, she was actually feeling a lot better. Maybe time travel didn't have as much of an effect as she had thought.
(Though it was too bad they didn't have her time's medical help. 1873 would have to do for now.)
But even if she stayed here in Saint-Claire's house after she was better, how would she find this man's secret? It had to be somewhere in the house.
The man who had sent her there, who called himself Christopher, had documents which proved he had a direct line to the gentleman. He was rich, or a thug. Either way, he had gotten a hold of everything necessary to send her back here. But he didn't act like much of a thug. . .
Whatever. Here was the story he had told Isabel:
She was there on a mission to find secret papers and precious heirlooms that were lost around this time. Stolen, so the reports went, by a vagabond called Andrew.
Not only was Isabel to find and identify this Andrew, she was to beat him to the punch. Take the documents and items for herself. If anything could be given up, it was the heirlooms. The papers were the most important thing.
Christopher also, from what she knew, worked for the English government. Saint-Claire had as well, which was why the papers were so important. Contracts. Deeds. Orders. Yet he was also an eccentric gentleman who lived on Highbury Street. How did a person manage that?
Does this Christopher guy lead a double life as well? Isabel wondered. I mean, will he, when it's really 2011? When he told me I'm perfect for this job, I didn't really think he'd actually go and kidnap me.
It was unfortunate, yes, but Christopher had kidnapped her. He had "looked her up" and had her observed and all sorts of things, and he had warned her that he would if she said no, he would force her to come. She had tried to evade him nonetheless. Her parents had taken extra precautions, involved the police, everything.
Yet Christopher had still succeeded, still insisted that it had to be her. But why? What was so special about her?
Isabel had to admit that she was different from the other kids. She always had been (would be!).
She had an emotional and mental balance that didn't seem to make up it's mind (which wasn't that abnormal, really). It was always hard to identify with the other kids, who didn't seem to focus on what was really important.
All Isabel wanted was to get out of high school and into college, and into the real world. She was one of those kids who really wanted to get a decent job and keep all of her brain cells. When her friends complained that she was always busy, she found it hard to answer them. She wasn't neglectful of them. She was just. . . .preparing.
Not that she didn't do normal teenage things (before the time travel thing, of course). There were the years of music classes, books and book clubs, making jewellery, attending youth group. . .Isabel sighed at the memory of her youth group, all of her friends. . . .she was invited in 2009, and had never stopped going. It was a great place.
She loved it there, and had even went to church every week or two weeks when she had Sundays off of work (having almost blown it with the Good Samaritan reference, Isabel had finally discovered the literal meaning of the phrase "hold your tongue").
Still, it was weird how easy it was to lie so blatantly. It felt horrible. Isabel didn't want to grow used to it, but at the same time she hoped to numb the guilt she felt at lying to such nice people.
I hope that this ends quickly so that I can go home and finish growing up. Isabel thought. I'm already sick of doing this.
As she was brooding, someone knocked on the door (which was open) to see James Saint-Claire enter, one hand behind his back (Saint-Claire would often pop in to see how she was doing, occaisionally with a little gift).
"How is our paitent doing today?" he asked with a grin as he entered.
"Tired of being sick, sir." Isabel said, feeling herself brighten. Saint-Claire was a great man, and she liked him a lot already.
"I've a present for you today." he said.
"What kind of present?" Isabel asked, trying to sit up. Ellen, one of their maids, helped her and put a pillow behind her for support.
Saint-Claire held a small book in his hands. "I found this novel on a street-corner shop." he explained. "It's a Shakespeare story, The Twelfth Night. I thought you might enjoy it." He stepped forward to place the book in her hands.
Isabel looked at the book in wonder. Twelfth Night was one of her favourites. This was gold to her.