A Whisper in Time (15 page)

“What?” my grandfather barked into the phone.

“Is Susanna out there?”

“What time is it where you are, Mark?”

“Seven thirty.”

“It’s seven thirty here too—which is damned early, if you understand what I’m saying.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“No.”

I really didn’t need this. “Okay, then. Is Susanna there?”

Granddad heaved a sigh. “Did she leave you a note?”

“No.”

“Does she normally leave a note when she comes out here?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s your answer. She didn’t magically turn inconsiderate today.”

“Thanks, Granddad.”

“Happy to help.”

So…not at my grandparents’ and not in the house.

Where could she be?

Whisper Falls
.

The thought gripped me with its truth, and I really hoped I was wrong. She hadn’t been there since her escape. She’d told me she didn’t want to see the waterfall ever again. It would be too painful to remember.

But had the pain faded? Had whatever new pain that had shown up in those journals driven her back there? Or was this about me?

I’d better go check. It wouldn’t take long.

The sun was low in the sky. Dry leaves rattled as I walked past. I stepped off the greenway onto the hard-packed dirt trail that forked into the woods, down the incline, and along the banks of Rocky Creek. The waterfall poured in a steady hiss.

She sat on a fallen log, back off the path in the shadow of the trees, motionless as a statue, almost blending into the background in her black tunic over a gray skirt. Curled leaves swirled over her bare feet and tumbled away on a gust of wind. A wayward lock of hair brushed across her face, but she didn’t even reach up to tuck it behind her ear. If I hadn’t been looking for her, I might not have noticed her there.

I’d been standing on this same spot when I’d first seen her. She’d been standing in the mouth of the cave behind the falls, stunning in a way that took my breath away still. Her reason for coming today worried me, but it also reminded me that a part of Susanna belonged in these woods.

“Hey,” I said as I sat beside her.

“Hello.”

I loved her voice. It was low, husky, and colored by the emotions she fought to keep hidden. After four months of listening to her, I knew enough to recognize sadness.

“Why are you here?”

“I miss my home.”

The soft response jolted me. It held yearning. It excluded me. “This is your home.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” I scoured her face, hoping for some sign that she hadn’t meant that. “You aren’t thinking about going back, are you?”

“I cannot. In that world, I’m either dead or a fugitive.”

Good. I was glad she remembered that. “Then why did you come here today?”

“It was time.” Her face creased in confusion. “I didn’t like the way I lived before. The endless chores, the bad smells…”

“The beatings.”

“…the injustice. I knew I would like to be free of it. I do not miss the misery.” She looked at me, her eyes searching my face. “I am a burden to your family. Can you understand what that means to me? I have never been useless in my life.”

“You’re not a burden.”

She shook her head. “I have read nearly to the end of Phoebe’s journals. There is an accident—a bad one. My sister needs me, and I am not there to help her.”

“If you were there, you would be dead now.”

“Stop, Mark.” She sprang to her feet and stared down at me, shaking with intensity. “Thank you for rescuing me. As often as you remind me, I shall say thank you. I may be useless, but I am also grateful.”

I stood too. “Don’t say that—”

She shook her head and looked away from me. “There is little in the life I live now to be proud of. How long will you be satisfied with a girl like me?”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

U
NDUE
A
TTENTION

I had shared my greatest fear with him but had not had the strength to linger and watch his reaction. I ran back to the house, hurried to the apartment, and closed the door with a definite
click
. I needed to be alone.

For the first time since I’d arrived, this space felt like a cage. A large, comfortable, dull cage. And, unlike with my indenture, I had no idea when I would be free.

My gaze fumbled about the room until it landed on the table. My sister’s journals. I ran to the chair and opened the laptop with determination.

The stack of papers I shoved to the edge, uncaring that they fell off in a messy stack. I had abandoned the effort to transcribe my sister’s life. No doubt others would. Someone else would make it possible to learn about the past from Phoebe’s words.

How would she react if she knew that her private observations and painful secrets had become fodder for aloof historians?

I wouldn’t be the one to make it happen. It was a betrayal.

The last images in the journal were filled with blots and wavy lines. Letters were large and ill-formed. There was page after page of practice. Phoebe must have been trying to write with her left hand.

She proceeded with diligence. Each entry showed a measure of progress. Letters grew smaller. Lines straightened. Loops became consistent.

Then I reached the final page of her journals. It held three brief entries.

Mrs. Eton had been kind and well-intentioned, but I hoped that my sister had not accepted. To spend an entire life as a housemaid would be hard and lonely. My sister should marry and have children.

I stared at the screen for so long that the words seemed to wave and blur before my eyes. How dearly the loss of her thumb had cost her.

Despair washed over me. I longed to find my sister and advise her on what to do. Surely there were other possibilities. A desperation marriage to Silas, the stable lad, or a lifelong position as housemaid could not be all. Her remarkable beauty and generous heart were deserving of much more.

To think on my sister’s plight a moment longer was intolerable. Until Mark returned from school, I would fill my hours with familiar activities. I baked bread in the big kitchen and scrubbed its already-spotless floor. I began a new Jane Austen novel and watched TV about the science of flight.

By mid-afternoon, I was too weary to think any longer. I climbed into my bed, lay in the middle of its mattress, huddled under a light quilt, and slept.

* * *

The roar of a lawnmower awakened me.

I remained where I was, for the warmth and comfort of my spot held me captive. Mark must be home and doing his chores. He would want to be with me later, just as I wanted to be with him. But would I be good company? Would the awkwardness of our last meeting cast a pall?

A tear leaked from my eye and dripped to the sheet. How had I come to this place in my life? I lived under the same roof as the man I loved, yet not as his wife. It was a situation completely opposite from everything I was raised to believe was proper. My heart could not let go of the expectation for marriage, even as my mind accepted that such a commitment from Mark was years away, if he ever made that decision. He had things to do. Important things. He had choices to make that could not include me.

Even though I had a strong body, willing hands, and many good skills, I had no choices.

I needed a birth certificate.

I needed a job.

I needed to save my sister.

With a swiftness that sent the blood thrumming through my veins, my mind flooded with purpose. I had no control over the first two needs, but I might over the third.

I could warn my sister about what was to come. To stitch with care. To wear thimbles. To anticipate twitching skirts.

No, I must slow down and think this through. I had changed Phoebe’s future once before. To prevent her ruination by Jethro Pratt, I had moved her to the Etons’ house. Was damage to her hand a consequence of my interference, the price history demanded for saving her from one awful fate? How would her life have progressed had she been Mr. Pratt’s wife? Mark hadn’t checked on anything after his 1800 will.

Perhaps this was a consequence, but I didn’t regret the choice, even now. Life with a crippled hand or marriage to a stable boy was better than living as Mrs. Pratt. If this change had created ripples in time, surely they had been small and absorbed by history.

I had led her onto the path she traveled now. Would it be so very bad to nudge her again—when another person’s carelessness threatened the tiny measure of contentment Phoebe had achieved?

Yes, I would consider whether I should go and what I would need to prepare.

Besides, wouldn’t it be lovely to see her again and hold her in my arms! The sweet hum of excitement trembled in my limbs. There was such pleasure in imagining the Raleigh of old, a world that made complete sense, a world where I did not strain to understand every sentence uttered.

A visit was illogical and dangerous. Many things could go wrong, but could I anticipate them?

The most fearsome risk was being captured. A grave risk, indeed. Yet, with care and planning, I could remain hidden from the wrong eyes. Could I not?

Worthville and its residents would be easy enough to avoid. I should simply not go there. No one would recognize me in Raleigh—except Phoebe and, perhaps, Mrs. Eton. They wouldn’t turn me in.

I could travel under the cover of the trees on the journey over and back. No one would see me. Indeed, the only time I would be vulnerable was the minute-long walk from the edge of the forest until the flow of the falls.

Unless, of course, there was no sparkle to the water. What would I do if I could not pass back through?

No, truly, I wasn’t concerned about the volume of water this time of year. The falls were strong in our century, and Phoebe had mentioned an overabundance of rain in hers. The only reason I could not pass back through would be the whim of Whisper Falls, and it was my friend. I could trust it to make the right decision there.

Could I make this work?

I leapt from the bed, on fire with resolve, and hurried to my table, eager to see Phoebe’s last entries and reacquaint myself with the details of her injury. The ball had taken place on September thirtieth. That was but two weeks away in Mark’s century. Was there sufficient time to plan?

As much as I should like for Whisper Falls to return me to the date of my choosing, I could not count on such an idea. It had always moved us on the precise date in both centuries. I had either to finish the plan in a few days or risk waiting another year, and that I could not bear to do.

What would the journey require?

I would need clothes, of course, and sturdy shoes.

No doubt Phoebe could feed me.

It would take three hours to walk from the waterfall to Raleigh and then three hours back. There would be no reason to arrive at the Etons’ house before supper. Phoebe would be too busy to talk during the day anyway. I would have to stay the night.

This necessity sobered me. Bruce and Sherri had been good to me, and they would be greatly distressed by my decision.

Even more, my absence would terrify Mark. If he discerned my plan before I left, he would do everything in his power to stop me. He wouldn’t succeed, and it would cause a rift between us.

Indeed, could this trip cause a permanent rift in our relationship?

No, I wouldn’t think these thoughts. He would be angry, perhaps for a long time, but he loved me. He would grow to understand.

Still, it would be best to hide my intentions, and if I left during the day when no one was about, it would delay their concerns until it was too late.

The simplicity of my plan calmed me.

The clothing must be investigated to ensure that I wouldn’t draw undue attention. The bodice and petticoat I had worn when I moved here wouldn’t be appropriate. They had been cast-offs that Mrs. Pratt had given to me as work garments. The women in the upper and merchant classes of Raleigh had worn frocks that were nothing like my old clothes. Fortunately, Mark had taught me the skills I needed to discover information on the internet. After logging in, I searched for “gowns” and “1800.”

Hundreds of links appeared, many calling themselves “The Federal Period.” The links revealed paintings of gauzy dresses, pale or white, with wide ribbons emphasizing a high waist. Mrs. Eton had worn such a gown at our last meeting.

There was no need for me to dress as one of the upper classes. Phoebe wouldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t pretend well, though I should still like to dress as a lady who had prospered. My mistress had embraced roundgowns, which appeared to remain popular into the early nineteenth century. I approved of the modesty and practicality of these garments. Unlike what I’d worn as a servant, a roundgown had its bodice attached to its skirt. I could take the simple cotton nightgown given me by Norah, a yellow “granny gown,” as she put it, printed with clusters of cornflowers, and make a fine imitation of a roundgown.

I no longer had stays, nor would I acquire any. The twenty-first century was to be commended for the undergarments worn by its women.

The nightgown hung in my closet, just as I remembered. It would make an acceptable costume for a woman of the merchant class. With a white cap and apron, I would blend in with the crowd.

If I decided to go, the only true difficulty would be to convince Whisper Falls to grant me passage to the year 1800.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO