When she awoke again, she was lying on a duvet in a lavishly decorated living room. There were paintings propped everywhere. Against the davenport there was a lifesize drawing of a curly haired woman who looked a little like Claudet Colbert. Her chin was resting on her palm as she stared off dreamily into the distance. On the window sills, stacked against eachother were several small paintings of flora and fruit that reminded Jane of highschool art class. Across from her on the floor was a half-finished portrait of young girl in regal attire.
The female servant who had roused her with smelling salts, was now calling out to an unseen individual in an adjoining room. The individual's name was Mr. George Dunworth and when he entered the room Jane recognized him as the man from the street.
"Oh thank God." He uttered coming forward and perching on a chair at her bedside.
"I'm so glad that you have recovered Miss. Now may I ask your name? Or whom I might call for you?"
"I don't know my name." Jane answered after a slight pause, feigning as much weakness and uncertainty as she could muster.
"You don't know your own name?"
"No. I can't remember anything at all. It's as if I've woken from a dream..."
How many times had she heard that old stand-by during head-trauma interviews? The dream line was a surefire give-away to malingering, but the crooks didn't know that. Apparently, that month-long forensic psychology internship hadn't gone to total waste after all.
"Oh my," said the young man with a grim, faintly twisted expression, "perhaps I should call Dr. Futherstien. Ruth, will you ring for the Doctor immediately please?
The maid, Ruth, scuttled off hurriedly toward the kitchen with an uncharacteristic panic she had contracted from continual exposure to her master.
George Dunworth was clearly not a man who dealt with such precautious situations on a regular basis. His constant fidgeting and inability to make eye contact gave him away as a worrier. Jane had always excelled at interpreting body language.
The hospital had paid for her to attend a seminar with the leading experts in the field, because at the time there was some new research that suggested body language mindfulness could help clinician's diagnose patients suffering from complex partial seizures. That was 13 months ago, when she first started working at the hospital. So much had changed since then, since she started traveling.
The gentleman cleared his throat lightly, and Jane's attention was drawn back to him from the deep recesses of her mind. She observed that his slight build, downturned eyes and deep brow furrows added considerably to his appearance of timidity. Despite his facial flaws, she thought him to be reasonably good-looking.
She estimated that he was older than her by several years, perhaps in his early to mid thirties. He was still dressed in his finery, an egg shell white dress shirt, black knickerbockers and a light blue clip on tie.
She had guessed earlier from the car she had seen in the street that it was probably sometime in the 1920s, anything more specific than that was beyond her calculating abilities. 20's made sense though. She'd been reading an article on the history of neuropsychological assessment and the 20's mental hygiene movement right before she had traveled here. She was beginning to notice there was a connection between her reading materials and the place and time she ended up at.
When the doctor finally arrived, the gentleman retired to parlor in order to give the two a little more privacy. The doctor did a quick examination of Jane's pupils and checked her skull for lumps and swellings. Ever the student, Jane noted that the medical technology and techniques he employed were still primitive, still several years behind Germany.
Not seeing any visible signs of injury, the doctor suggested that she might be suffering from a lady's trauma or hysteria. He asked her a battery of routine questions, to which she replied, "I don't know," as every answer.
This interrogation did prove helpful, as she knew it would. Feigning amnesia was always a great way of gleaning important information about the time period she was in. It happened that it was April 3rd 1926 and that she was currently in New York City. Calvin Coolidge was president and George, a struggling artist, was late to meet his intended, Helen Westwood, at some speakeasy in the warehouse district. Doctor Futherstein was George's uncle and he was a kind and honest man, character traits which balanced out his great failure as a physician.
The doctor suggested that Jane needed plenty of rest, but after a day or so… should engage in as many life activities as possible in order to hopefully retain some memory of her past life. She was to update him if possible on her the status of her amnesia.
Since she had no place to stay, he advised her kindly, that she should stay with his nephew for a few days until she recovered her identity and the whereabouts of her kin. Then she would be returned to them. He advised her that her memories would not stray for long. She was sure to be in good shape by this time tomorrow.
By this time tomorrow, Jane was hoping to be sitting at her work station on the fifth floor of the molecular biology building, preparing a lecture for her Wednesday night intro Psych course she did not voice this out loud.
It had been 30 years since H.G Wells had published the Time Machine, and popular science still regarded time travel as ridiculous and theoretically impossible. Infact, Einstein had laid the whole idea to rest 5 years earlier (in 1921) when he recieved the Nobel prize for establishing the special theory of realtivity. No one would beileve her story. Sometimes she didn't even believe it herself.
Her head was killing her. She winced sharply and closed her eyes. If she ever got home, she was going to have Josh Nader administer a CT scan to rule out brain structure abnormalities. After all, he was always bragging on and on about earning his PhD. Let him put it to good use for once. If she did indeed have a tumor or clot, then the boys would finally have something hot n' juicy to gossip about. She would rather them run a bet on her impending death date, than endure anymore fighting about which of two had the more valuable World of War craft character. Honestly. Whoever came up with the idea that women gossip more than men?
It was just then that a tall, elegant woman entered the room in a flurry, screaming and thrashing about. Her name was Helen Westwood and she was accompanied by an entourage which catered to her every whim. The doctor had warned her that this might happen when she realized she'd been stood up.
If anyone had noticed Jane lying there, they certainly didn't say anything. Jane supposed they were all to preoccupied with the dramatic overature of their lady mistress -bread and butter.
Among the crowd was a boyish looking man, probably a little older than herself. He seemed to act as Helen's partner in crime, and most of her bitter speech was directed toward him. It was as if her screamings were some inside joke between the two, although he never replied, just stood there snarkily.
There was something about the way that the didn't try to calm or restrain her as she ripped in half a giant painting, but stood behind her with an expression of amusment on his face which made Jane fume inside. This, was what was wrong with the world. The man was clearly captive auidence to Helen's destructive antics.
Jane hated him from the moment she laid eyes on him.
Of course, she didn't yet know that this man was William Harvy, undercover agent for the TRC, and that he was planning to arrest her for gross-negligence and time-abuse. All she saw was a dispictable, ruthless man. A man that delighted in chaos.