Authors: Lori Copeland
Watery pellets stung her face as she popped the umbrella
open, then started down the long flight of stairs to the street.
Concentrating on holding the hem of her dress out of the
water, balancing her bag and the umbrella, she made her way down the row of
stairs, mentally cursing the blasted buckle slippers. Belatedly it occurred to
her that she should have changed into her street shoes, but it was foolish to
go back now.
Hallway down, she felt her foot slip on the wet concrete.
Pausing, she steadied herself. All she needed was a broken leg.
Continuing more slowly, she caught her breath as the
umbrella suddenly turned inside out, propelling a wall of rain back in her
face.
She jerked the umbrella upright, which caused her to lose
her balance again. Her foot gave way, pitching her forward in a clatter of
buckle shoes, flying bag, and flyaway umbrella.
She found herself tumbling end over end, praying she
wouldn’t break every bone in her body. Panic seized her as unsympathetic
concrete rose up to slam painfully against her ribs.
Joel’s image flashed before her as she tumbled out of control,
her head smacking against the step. Dear Lord, she was about to die. Didn’t a
person’s life flash before her when she was about to die?
She grabbed for a railing and missed. The wig flew off,
flowers going one way, birds and feathers the other. The buckled shoes went
next, soaring through the air like a kite on a windy March day.
Dying in a broken heap in a rainstorm was her punishment for
breaking up with Joel, she realized too late. She shouldn’t have left him a
note the way she did—she should have invited him to some nice little Italian
restaurant, and—no, he wouldn’t have shown up! Someone with an infected
gallbladder would have taken priority, and she would have been left to finish
off the basket of breadsticks all alone.
She tumbled over and over, the agony of her sins haunting
her. Maybe she should have given the relationship a little more time—been more
patient with him. The doctor’s lounge wasn’t so bad. She’d met a lot of weird
but interesting people there.
Maybe Joel hadn’t found the note yet. Hope sprang anew in
her. Yes, he would still be in surgery! It would be hours before he discovered
what she’d done. If she lived, she would still have time to remedy her mistake.
Please God, don’t let there be anyone watching. Her skirt
went over her head as her bottom up-ended again.
Thirty-five—thirty-six—thirty-seven—thirty-eight...
Spilling onto the sidewalk, she finally landed in a tangled
heap.
Groaning, she rolled onto her back and lay prostrate as she
tried to orient herself. She couldn’t move. There wasn’t a single place on her
that wasn’t throbbing like an abscessed tooth.
Lying with her eyes closed, she tried to summon up enough
strength to move. She was only vaguely aware that the wind and the thunder had
suddenly died away, and it was cool and strangely quiet now.
She could feel curious eyes fixed on her. And why wouldn’t
they be? It wasn’t often that Bostonians were met with the sight of a woman
dressed in a Revolutionary War costume lying spread-eagle in the middle of the
sidewalk. How embarrassing! She could imagine the spectacle she had just made
of herself. Arms and legs flailing about wildly as she pitched headlong down
the flight of stairs. She groaned again. And her bag...all of her personal
toiletries were scattered in the middle of the sidewalk!
“I’m all right,” she murmured in a modest attempt to soothe
the onlookers’ curiosity. She attempted to push herself upright, trying to
still her spinning head.
The strained silence was suddenly shattered by the frenzied
sound of chairs scraping against stone and knocked to the floor in haste.
“My word! We have been set upon from above!” a man’s voice
exclaimed.
“Stab my vitals! What manner of wench have we here?” A
second voice sputtered.
Ashley’s eyes flew open, growing wider as she stared into the
astounded countenances of six very strange looking men. The men, all dressed in
beautifully authentic commoner eighteenth-century costumes, stared back at her.
She stared blankly at the three cornered, cocked-black hats,
the full periwigs, the sleeveless waistcoats, breeches, and gaiters.
“A Tory spy,” one man spat out. “Have the British completely
lost their minds?”
“Excuse me?” Ashley murmured, for the men appeared to be
expecting some sort of an answer from her.
“‘Tis the truth,” another agreed. “Curse their miserable
hides!”
The men tilted their heads upward, peering at the large hole
in the ceiling as Ashley struggled to sit up. Her head spun, and she was
feeling slightly nauseated from her fall. “Please...could one of you gentlemen
give me a hand?” she asked feebly.
Pushing herself up on her elbow, she waited.
And waited.
The men stood, hands on hips, staring contemptuously at the
gaping hole in the ceiling.
Ashley’s eyes followed the men’s gaze, her eyes widening
again as she became aware of her surroundings.
An audible gasp escaped her as the six men turned, focusing
their attention on her again. She was lying on the middle of a table,
surrounded by clumps of dirt, pieces of thatched grass, and rotten timber.
She looked about in disbelief. Why, she wasn’t in the middle
of the sidewalk, instead of a small, low-ceilinged, dimly lit room where
particles of light struggled to work their way through a narrow window.
She grew even more confused when she saw that chairs were
overturned and pieces of a checker game were scattered on the floor. A beer
stein dangled limply from one man’s hand, while the others stared at her as if
she were a bug-eyed alien who had just popped in for a visit.
She swallowed, searching for her voice. “Excuse
me...I...where am I?”
“Better the question of who are you?” A man’s voice, deep
and resonant, sounded from the shadows.
Ashley strained to discern the man’s features in the dim
lighting. He was tall with a menacing presence that made a shiver slide down
her back. There was a cold, dangerous edge about him that made Ashley draw back
protectively.
The man stepped out from the shadows, his eyes flickering
with contempt. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Ashley stared into steel-gray eyes that were totally lacking
in warmth.
When she failed to find her voice, one of the men standing
next to her chuckled mirthlessly. “Shall we toss a coin to see who shall have
the privilege of returning her to Gage and permitting him to see what a fool he
has employed?”
Who were these men? Especially that one with the cold eyes?
And what was he doing in such a costume? Was he part of a reenactment group
hired by the museum? The man’s lawn shirt was unadorned, and his waistcoat and
coat were a matching tobacco brown marked by silver buttons. He was breathtakingly
handsome, but something wasn’t right. If this was a reenactment group, why were
they angry with her? After all, she was the one who had taken a hard fall.
“Look, I don’t understand what is going on here.” Ashley
slid off the table, sending dirt flying in all directions as she shook out her
skirts.
“She plays the innocent,” one of the men scoffed.
Ashley reached to collect her shoes. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about,” she snapped.
“Explain yourself,” the man with the cold eyes demanded.
Ashley answered guardedly. “Why should I have to explain
anything? You are the ones who have some explaining to do. And I demand—”
“You are in no position to demand anything. What is your
intent here?”
Ashley whirled to face the man who spoke. “Intent? The
windows on my car are open, and—”
"What is your name?”
“My name is Ashley Wheeler.”
The men exchanged looks. “Wheeler? We know of no such name
in Boston.”
“She is English, no doubt.”
“Mayhap. The Tories are well versed in the art of disguise,”
the tall one conceded, “though this is somewhat ambitious, even for them.” His
gaze swept ruthlessly over Ashley as he bent to catch the hem of her skirt and
jerk it down over her exposed calf.
“If she is not a spy, then what was she doing on the roof?”
“I think we can safely assume that she is a spy.”
“What!” Fighting back a wave of dizziness, Ashley gripped
the table for support.
A hand on her shoulder shook her fiercely. "What is
your true name?” the tall man asked.
“Ashley Wheeler,” she repeated, then a sharp pain in her eye
caused her to blink rapidly. Something was in her contact lens, and it hurt
like blue blazes!
“Perhaps a time in the jail would help you regain your
senses,” one of the men suggested.
Jail? The word sent fear racing through her. Ashley wasn’t
sure what was happening to her, but the idea of spending time in a cold, dark
prison was sobering, even in the best of circumstances.
Ashley blinked rapidly again, her heart pounding. Maybe this
was just a dream. That’s it. She was dreaming! She would wake up anytime now
and be in her own bed.
“These are desperate times,” the tall man soberly reminded
her. “You have placed yourself in a dangerous situation. I only hope the
lobsterbacks are paying you enough.”
Lobsterbacks! Ashley struggled to remind herself this was
only a dream. That’s all it was. A crazy dream! Blinking furiously, she dabbed
at the tears rolling from the corners of her eyes. A crazy dream.
“The woman is mad! Completely mad!” one of the other men
observed.
Ashley blocked out the men’s voices. If it was only a dream,
what they said or threatened didn’t matter. She would wake up any minute now.
Moving away from the table, she sent clots of dirt
scattering across the floor as she spied the catchall that doubled as her
purse. She leaned over to scoop up the spilled contents, dismayed to see that
her small bottle of perfume had broken. After dumping onto the table an
assortment of lipsticks, loose change, compact, mascara, billfold, sun glasses,
car keys, aspirin, cold and cough medicines, and old tissues, she rummaged
through the pile, searching for the small bottle of saline solution for her
contacts.
Anger surged when she realized her cell phone was missing,
and just when she needed it most. A lipstick rolled across the table, and she
snatched it up before it fell to the floor.
The men watched, completely speechless now.
A tampon fell to the floor, and Ashley grabbed for it, her
face flooding with color
The tall man lunged forward, snatching the long white
cylinder from her hand. Balancing it in the palm of his hand, he motioned for
the others to gather around to inspect it.
“Careful, men. The wench plans to do away with herself,” one
of the men warned.
With a tampon? Rolling her eyes, Ashley turned back to the
table, picking up the small vial of saline solution. Weirdest dream she’d ever
had. She tilted her head backward, dropped three drops into her eye, and
blinked hard.
“Here now!” Three of the men bolted forward. “She’s putting
her eyes out!”
Ashley squealed as her arms were captured and brought
swiftly behind her back. “I’m only wetting my contacts!”
The men gasped. “Fie! Wetting on her contacts? The woman is
clearly daft!”
The tall man grabbed the bottle of saline solution from her
fingers and lifted it to the light.
“What manner of evil does she use?” another asked.
“Wetting solution,” he read.
The men exchanged meaningless looks.
“For contacts,” he added.
The men’s jaws finned.
“Who is your contact, young woman? Give us a name and you
may avoid a hanging!”
Ashley’s eyes widened. “Hanging? Okay. Wake up! Wake up,
Ashley. Nightmare’s over!”
“Now who is she talking to?” one of the men demanded.
“She is addlebrained,” another reminded.
“Or pretending to be,” the third conceded.
Ashley blinked again, trying to clear her eyes.
“See how she rolls her eyes.”
“‘Tis only a ploy.”
“Wake up, Ashley, time to wake up,” Ashley chanted. She
jerked free of the man’s grasp, still chanting. “Wake up, wake up, wake up....”
“Let her be,” the tall man ordered as the others scurried to
capture her arm again. “She cannot escape.”
Shooting her captors a smug smile, Ashley calmly reached up,
pulled at her eyelid, and popped her contact lens out into her palm.
“God’s teeth!” someone murmured. “The wench has dislodged
her eye!”
“What has been wished upon us? She speaks of contacts,
obviously Loyalist, but denies being a spy. Is she a fool, or merely a poor,
demented soul?”
“She’s clever, would be my guess,” the tall one returned
softly.
Ashley squinted in his direction. She was so nearsighted
that without her contacts anyone or anything more than five feet away was
reduced to a blur. “Now that we know who I am, a daft, poor, demented spy, who
are you?” she challenged, getting a little tired of the men’s chauvinist
attitudes.
The men exchanged pained looks.
“Be not fooled. She knows our names, would be my guess,” one
in the group observed, disgruntled. “She must be disposed of immediately.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Where are your manners?” the tall one
chided. Ashley eyed him warily as he approached. “The young woman has inquired
of our names.” He bowed mockingly. “Aaron Kenneman, physician, at your
service.”
“So very nice to meet you, Dr. Kenneman.” Ashley calmly
squeezed a few drops of the saline solution into the palm of her hand. She was
going to have a good laugh about this dream in the morning.
When the contact was thoroughly rinsed, she caught it on the
tip of her finger and popped it back into her eye. After blinking three or four
times, she relaxed. Wonderful. She could see again.