A Cry at Midnight (13 page)

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Once Randi began her duties, she felt much more settled into her life in 1849. Having a job took her mind off some of her troubles, giving her focus. Although she still hadn't solved any of her other problems--like finding out why she was here and figuring out how to convince Jackson to move out of the house before the flood came, she felt more confident that she could accomplish her task.

Already she could tell that he wouldn't put his daughter in danger. He loved that baby just like the best Twentieth Century father. His love for Rose was the first thing Randi had admired about Jackson, but the more she was around him, the more she decided he wasn't the cruel slave master, the insensitive chauvinist, or the social-status-seeking elitist that she'd once assumed he would be.

Not to mention the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous, and more appealing now that she'd gotten to know him better.

Whatever was going on in her brain--and with her hormones--she could now look back on their kiss in the garden and remember the first few moments of wonder and passion before her suspicion had kicked in. She'd accepted his apology, and she now believed he wasn't trying to get more information from her by kissing her senseless. He'd been caught up in the moment too, and if he'd changed in some subtle way, he'd simply tried to get control of his passion.

Jackson Durant was definitely a man who liked to be in control.

Something was bothering him today, she could tell. He'd been restless at breakfast, and when she'd asked if anything was wrong, he'd said nothing serious. Lebeau had gone off on some business, he'd said, and he was awaiting his return. Jackson had looked at her closely when he'd revealed why he'd been such a bear. Randi didn't know why, but she was thankful he'd at least told her a little of his reasons for feeling tense and temperamental.

She wasn't afraid of him . . . at least, not usually. She didn't think that he was going to whip her, shake her, or do anything else that was possible behavior for a man who could become quite angry. His anger seemed to be directed at situations rather than individuals.

Rose's cooing brought her back to the present. She'd taken the baby to the garden, spreading an oiled cloth, given to her by Suzette to protect them from moisture, and a thick quilt on the ground beside some low shrubs. The baby pushed herself up and crawled around awkwardly on the colorful quilt, chasing rays of filtered sunlight and errant, floating petals from the flowering trees behind them.

"No, you can't eat that," Randi told the baby, who'd grabbed a handful of blossoms and was in the process of moving them toward her mouth. "Are you hungry? I think you need some more solid food," she told the baby, who protested the confiscation of her "snack" with a high-pitched squeal.

She wished she could phone her mother for advice, or call her sister Tanya or her sister-in-law Darla to ask when their children had started on cereal. How much solid food should Rose eat, and what would be comparable to modern baby food? Could anything hurt her gums when she was teething? Lots of questions that hadn't come up before because Randi hadn't been totally responsible for her nieces and nephews. She was a great baby-sitter, but having full care of Rose was more like being a mother than an aunt.

The thought of herself as a mother caused a sharp pang of longing. For however long she had with Rose, she'd enjoy the baby's sweetness and revel in the sense of wonder each infant expressed about the world.

With a tentative smile, Randi seated Rose on her well padded bottom and handed her a thick, dense biscuit that Suzette said all babies needed when they were teething. Sure enough, Rose stuck the hard object in her mouth and started working it with her gums. Soon, the gooey mess ran from the corners of her mouth onto her clean white embroidered dress.

Randi dabbed away the mess with a wet cloth she'd learned to keep close by. Without constant clean-ups, Randi had discovered, she'd be swapping out dress after dress on the baby. Considering the fact that all of Rose's clothes were hand-washed and ironed, the extra work for the servants seemed unnecessary.

One thing Randi had changed was to simplify her young charge's wardrobe. A baby didn't need long skirts and voluminous bed sacques, as Suzette had called the nightgowns babies wore much of the day. Randi had asked for several of the garments to be cut off so Rose could crawl around without getting tangled in her clothing.

"Plenty of time for that later," she'd told the gleeful baby, "when you have to wear uncomfortable dresses like mine."

Rose was a wonderful, intelligent, active baby. Randi knew she shouldn't be so attached to the infant, but she couldn't help herself. How could anyone not love Rose? Leaving her behind in the past was going to be unbearable, but Randi tried not to think of that. First, she had to find a way to get home. She'd gotten here by following the sound of a baby's cries into a replica of Black Willow Grove. Unfortunately for her, there were no replicas of Twentieth Century Tennessee for her to use as a time-travel device. She didn't have a clue how to create one, either, or to explain her needs to Jackson.

She couldn't say, "Build a tiny little three bedroom ranch style house with an asphalt shingle roof, beige wood siding, and brown trim." Not only would they think she was crazy, but the materials they'd need didn't exist. Black Willow Grove had been so detailed and accurate. She couldn't imagine any replica she'd build--or supervise building--would possess such marvelous elements.

The only way she could show them what her home looked like was through sketches. Could she reproduce a good copy of her reality and not forget many of the features? She wasn't sure if she could draw accurate detail to scale. But she could practice. Besides, she loved to draw, getting lost in whatever she was creating.

Maybe if she tried to recreate her parent's house or even the museum as it existed now, she'd preserve the memories of her world. She had a horrible feeling that if she stayed too long, the images would fade in her mind. She wouldn't be able to remember . . . and then she'd be stuck here forever, waiting for a flood to claim their lives. Or she'd lose the chance to escape through Black Willow Grove since the house would be destroyed.

Perhaps Rose and Jackson didn't really perish in the flood. Maybe they fled too, except no one knew. Maybe the historians assumed they died.

Within a few minutes, Rose's chewing motions slowed and her eyes became heavy. Randi eased her to the quilt with a minimum amount of protest from the infant. She sang softly, humming whenever she forgot the words to Elton John's "Candle in the Wind." She kept getting the words to the Marilyn Monroe version mixed up with the newer lyrics written for Princess Diana's funeral, but both songs moved her. She especially remembered that he called Diana "England's Rose," so the song seemed very appropriate. The princess' death was tragic, but this baby deserved a chance to grow up, to love and have children of her own.

By the time the baby was asleep, Randi had tears in her eyes.

If she couldn't convince Jackson of their fate, she wondered if she could leave them to be victims of the flood. With a sniffle, she wiped the moisture away from beneath her eyes, patted Rose gently on her back, and continued to sing softly.

"I seem to find you in the garden often," Jackson's deep, soft voice said from behind her.

She pivoted, sniffling again as she looked up past his tall black boots, thigh-molding breeches, and his trademark riding crop resting in one hand against his leg. Thoughts of tragedy flew from her head as his very live, very masculine presence overwhelmed her senses. A cut-away coat emphasized his broad shoulders, and the somber, dark colors accented his blue-black hair and tanned complexion. The man looked too good to be true, so composed and handsome that she had to remind herself to breath--especially when she remembered how they'd been "discovered" by Suzette in the study last night.

Randi was sure that the impromptu hug she'd given him must have seemed like more of a romantic embrace, because Suzette had smiled shyly at her when they'd put Rose to bed. Jackson, of course, had been too much of a gentleman to mention the incident. He'd been even more embarrassed than she about the impropriety of post-dinner hugs. Of course, if he hadn't given her the wine and the brandy sauce, she probably wouldn't have acted so impulsively!

He'd been even more courteous that evening, but she couldn't forget his attractive blush. If she'd believed in princes and fairy tales, here was tangible proof that Cinderella's dreams could come true. Of course, this wasn't a ball, and Randi wasn't wearing glass slippers.

She did owe him some justification for her sniffles since she couldn't yet tell him the real reason she'd been moved to sadness. "Rose is just so perfect, so special, that she brings tears to my eyes."

He looked at her with a wistful smile that seemed to say, "I don't believe you for a minute." But he didn't give voice to his doubts about her explanation. "What was that song you were singing to her? I don't recall it," Jackson said, kneeling on the quilt and smoothing his daughter's fine blond hair with one large hand.

"'Candle in the Wind,'" Randi replied. "And I doubt you would have heard it around here."

"Another custom specific to your homeland?"

She nodded, wishing she could tell him the truth, but knowing she couldn't. He'd never believe her story.

"It's nice. Different, but nice." He shifted his focus from his sleeping daughter to Randi. "Rather like you."

She felt herself blush. "Thank you. I was afraid you didn't like the fact I was different."

"I'm growing accustomed to your eccentricities."

Randi smiled. "That's what you call it? I'm glad you've figured me out."

"I haven't figured you out at all. I'm just growing more familiar with the way you say and do certain things, your unique views on life and equality, and the way you feel very passionately about certain issues."

Like you
, she wanted to say.
I feel very passionate about you
. She couldn't admit that to him, though. To encourage this insane attraction would be the height of stupidity. They were from two opposite worlds--wealth and relative poverty--and two distinct times. She couldn't forget their differences for a minute.

Randi looked away from his intensely personal expression. "Rose just went to sleep. I think she wore herself out crawling around, exploring the world here in your garden." She patted the baby gently on the back and smiled at the peaceful way Rose slept. "I've had to really watch her because she keeps trying to eat all the flower petals that fall from the trees."

"I'm not sure if the flowers are edible, but I suppose the air is good for her."

"Yes," Randi said, hoping that was right. Rose didn't seem to have any allergies, or other bad reactions to being in the fresh air and sunshine. Of course, Randi didn't allow her in the sun for long. No one in the 1840's knew about SPF 35, that was for sure.

"Are you coming or going?" Randi asked, looking over his finely tailored garments that fit him like a glove.

"Going. I've been summoned to my former father-in-law's plantation to meet with some of the planters. I believe the subject is the crisis in hiring skilled workers," he said with a sigh of resignation.

"I suppose you don't believe this is very important."

"What I don't believe," he said with a bit of steel in his voice, "is that we can compete with the lure of gold fields."

"Gold fields?" Where had she heard that before?

"Surely you've heard of the gold strikes in California," he said rather incredulously.

"Oh, yes, the gold strikes," she said, suddenly remembering her high school history class. "Sutter's Mill."

"That's right. That was the start. Now every man who wants to become rich has packed up a cart or a wagon and headed west."

"That must be really hard. I mean, there are no trains, no roads, no easy way to get there."

He tilted his head and stared at her thoughtfully. "You say that like there should be all of those things. What do you mean?"

Oops. She'd goofed up again, letting her knowledge of the future seep through into the conversation. "I didn't mean anything like that. I must mean that compared to civilization, they'll have a hard time living in such a distant . . . place." She didn't know if California was a state, a territory, or another country at the moment, so she played it safe.

"I'm sure it's quite rough out there, but men are willing to risk everything for a chance to make money quickly and easily."

Randi shrugged. "You can't really blame them. Not everyone is born wealthy. I'm sure it's easy for you and the other planters to forget that people need to hope for a better future."

He looked at her as though she'd just said something incredibly stupid. Well, she wasn't apologizing for her little lecture. The rich might think they could control all the wealth forever, but they were wrong. Lots of people earned their way into the upper class . . . some of them even without winning the lottery!

"All I'm saying is that they're pursuing the American dream by going to California to search for gold."

He continued to look at her with a blank expression.

"You know, the American Dream?" Maybe that phrase wasn't in use yet either. Oh, well. She could bluff this one. "People started coming to America for opportunity, right? Religious, political, and personal. That's the American Dream."