Whispers from the Past (24 page)

I growled in frustration and hugged her to me. Random remarks I’d been hearing at school now made sense. I felt stupid. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Sure.” She kissed my cheek and then backed away. “You could use a shave, but a little stubble does have a big swoon factor to it.”

“Shut. Up.” I laughed as she walked to her car. “Marissa?”

She paused as she opened the door. “Yeah?”

“Which team are you on?”

She smiled. “I’m on Team Mark.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-N
INE

A V
OLUME OF
C
HARITY

I had completed my preparations for the return to the past.

My clothes, painstakingly copied from fashion plates of Federal-Period America, were ready. I had chosen to array myself in the garments of the upper reaches of the merchant class. I would dress and act like a lady, not mistaken for someone of Mrs. Eton’s class, but certainly not a servant, either. I wanted my family and friends to recognize that Mark had provided well for me.

Marissa’s freezer was stocked with soups and stews. I had baked bread and cookies, especially her favorites, since they would be the first thing to go. It might be several days before she noticed that the supply had dwindled without being replaced.

The apartment was spotless. There were clean sheets on the beds and fresh towels stacked everywhere. My clothing and personal items were boxed and sealed for storage.

I wrote letters to her, to Norah and Charlie, and to Sherri and Bruce.

I wrote to Mark.

There was an envelope of cash to cover my portion of the rent through April, and I’d instructed Sherri to turn over to Marissa any money that arrived from my wedding projects.

I’d packed a canvas bag with a large jar of bacitracin, painkillers crushed into a fine powder, an extra roundgown and shawl, and the sewing supplies that I hoped to sell in Old Raleigh to pay my way.

Of course, I would take my father’s books, one on algebra and the other with Latin exercises. I would study these things if time permitted. It would, perhaps, allow me to maintain progress toward passing my GED test.

Lastly, I packed toilet paper—the kind that campers used. I would not feel remorse. Wikipedia said that the Chinese had been using toilet paper since the sixth century. I wouldn’t be able to argue this point with anyone in nineteenth-century North Carolina, so I would have to think of something else if the question arose. Perhaps I could pretend it was a unique type of note paper.

I left my keys and my phone on my desk and walked out of the apartment for good.

How many days would it take Marissa to detect my absence? Two? Perhaps three? For Mark’s sake, I hoped it would not be until Saturday. I should like for him to enjoy his prom without worrying over me.

It did not take long to pedal to the Lewises’ house. After locking my bike to a post behind Bruce’s barn, I slipped into its dim interior to exchange this century’s garments for those of the past. I removed my jeans and shirt, laced my stays over my silky new shift, fastened on a new gown, and donned the straw hat.

I stepped from the barn. There was likely no one about, but I checked anyway. It was quiet at this time of day. I lifted my canvas bag and walked swiftly to the waterfall.

It still flowed steadily with an encouraging sparkle to usher me into the past. The Umstead Park website said that the rerouting of Rocky Creek would be completed by May first. I should not be here in two weeks to see the creek change. I was glad of that.

It was time to take the leap.

I hesitated. Fear leadened my feet. What awaited me on the other side?

Mr. Pratt’s cruelty was never far from my mind. If I failed in my plea, if I were given back to him, what might he do? I could still remember the horror of my clothes ripping and his vile inspection of my body. Shackles that weakened me until I could hardly move. The agony of a burned arm.

And always, the images were accompanied by the crisp, soft, patient voice of the man who inflicted the abuse—explaining why I had deserved it. If those were the things he’d done before I left, what might he do after nine years of festering anger?

Worse though, much worse than Mr. Pratt, was the mystery of the falls. I couldn’t return to Mark’s world until well past May first, at the earliest. The waterfall might be gone on this side. What if that
did
make a difference to the passage through time?

I wanted reassurances from the falls. I slipped my hand into the flow. “Why did you help us?”

It glimmered briefly.

How should I interpret that? Perhaps I should ask a question that could be answered with a
yes
or a
no
. “Have you been helping Mark?”

It encased my hand—warm, calm, not wet.

“Not Mark?” I frowned at it, feeling foolish that I spoke with a waterfall—and so very anxious for it to answer. “Have you been helping
me
?”

The water sparkled and glowed.

So, I was its mission. This was hopeful news. “Can you promise that I shall return?”

The water flowed clear and steady.

“No promise, then?” If it didn’t glimmer, was that truly a
no
or was it disinterest in responding? “Do you want me to live in the past?”

Nothing.

“Do you want me to live in Mark’s world?”

No change.

Such a vexing way to converse. I should very much like to have an opinion or a promise. “Is it purely my choice, Whisper Falls?”

The water dazzled.

I withdrew my hand. A clear answer, indeed. I was being given choices. The knowledge comforted me, for it reminded me that the waterfall was on my side. Whatever the future held, Whisper Falls would not be an obstacle.

I looked around me, up at the sky, at the greenway through the trees, and down at the rutted trail. I wouldn’t miss the pace of Mark’s world, or its bewildering rules. I wouldn’t miss the decisions; there had been far too many. I wouldn’t miss the raucous noises, the harsh smells, the blur of vehicles rushing past on the roads and in the skies.

But I would miss the people. Merciful heavens, if I thought of them now, my resolve might weaken.

I took a deep breath and gave myself a shake. I had thought through these factors carefully. The likelihood of problems was low. I would prevail in court. I would keep Dorcas safe from the tornado. I would find a path back to Mark’s world.

I clutched my bag and leapt.

If I had arrived in the past on the day I had planned, I had four days to persuade my brother to take me to Raleigh. It was the part that I feared most, for it counted on a volume of charity in him upon which I could not rely.

I knocked on the door to the Marsh farmhouse. When it swung open, my sister-in-law stood before me with two young girls peering from behind her.

“Frances.” I nodded.

She eyed me from head to toe. My straw hat trimmed with satin ribbons. A silken shawl over a lady’s gown. Leather slippers. She gave a jerky nod and gestured at the older girl. “Mary, run to the barn and fetch your papa. Tell him that Aunt Susanna is here.”

The little girl pressed past me, eyes lowered, and ran off. Frances stepped aside to let me enter.

“What brings you to our home, Susanna?” she asked, one arm curved protectively around her younger daughter.

“Shall I wait until Caleb arrives, so that I might only tell the tale once?”

“Certainly.”

I smiled nervously. “Frances, what is today’s date?”

“Thursday, April eighteenth, I believe.”

In 2017, April eighteenth was a Tuesday. It should be a Thursday in 1805. I hid my sigh of relief. We did not have long to wait. The door banged open and in strode my brother, his face tense but lacking hostility. “Why are you here?”

So, I was to receive no welcome. “I need your help, Caleb. I have come to clear my name.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is your name?”

“Susanna Lewis.” My voice wavered. I was Mark’s wife here. He had made the claim before my family and friends. So had I. That was enough to make it true. Yet it hurt to calmly speak his name as if it were mine.

“Your husband is a gentleman?”

“He is.”

“Why is he not with you?”

“He pursues business interests in a distant place. He does not know I have come here. He would likely be opposed to the idea if he knew.” All true.

“Do you have children?”

“We do not.” I looked away. In my brother’s mind, I had reached the age of twenty-six. To have gone so long without children meant I was barren. A tragedy in our world.

“I am sorry.” Exhaling loudly, he said, “Make yourself at home. After supper, we will finish this conversation.”

We spoke until late into the night, Frances, Caleb, and I. He did not like my plan; it was too fraught with uncertainty. But I was adamant.

“Very well, Susanna. I shall take you to Mr. Worth tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.”

“He will jail you.”

I nodded.

“It could be for several nights.”

“The Court meets Monday and my petition is on the docket. I must be moved to Raleigh on Saturday. There can be but one night in jail.”

My brother rubbed his eyes. “Why did you not go straight to Raleigh?”

I had prepared an answer for this question, although I hadn’t truly expected my brother to pose it. “I must ensure that my witnesses attend. The burden of proof is on me. I want everyone to know that I have come. I do not want this process to be quiet.”

“If the court doesn’t side with you, what could happen?”

I ignored the quiver of fear. “I shall finish my contract with a penalty.”

“How long?”

“Four months, I hope. Perhaps as long as two years.”

Caleb shook his head. “What will your husband think about all of this?”

“When he learns of it, he will be greatly displeased. I chose not to share this difficulty with him until it was resolved.”

“You said he has a business venture in a distant place. Where exactly is Mr. Lewis?”

The truth would be easy to remember. “He heads west to the mountains. He will find his fortune there.”

“Why risk clearing your name? Why do you not accompany him there and be out of reach?”

“It is not possible for me to live where he is going. If I must stay behind, I should like to put the issue of the indenture behind me forever.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

N
O
T
IE

Gabrielle came over for a study date Wednesday night. Mom had offered to cook for us, and it would be real food, since Dad was out of town for the day.

With AP exams looming in three weeks, my goal today was to review the first few units of my art history class. I felt confident about the material, which was partly because our teacher was so good at making it interesting and alive. I pulled up the study notes on my iPad and swiped to the right page.

Gabrielle was squirming next to me. “You took AP Biology last year, right?”

“Yeah.” Great class as far as Advanced Placement went, but the teacher got recruited by a different academy. Major loss to our science faculty.

“Did you take the exam?”

I gave her a
duh
look. Why would anyone take something as painful as an AP class and not take the exam? “Yes.”

“What did you get?”

“You do realize that it’s not cool to ask that question.”

“Bad score, huh?”

I shrugged. “A five.”

“That’s great. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Felt too much like bragging. Besides, I made fives on all of my life sciences exams. The other AP classes? Not.

I found my spot in the art history notes again.

Gabrielle sighed. Loudly.

“Do you need help with something?” I asked.

“I’d love help.”

I wasn’t used to being interrupted on study dates. Susanna was always focused—just like I was. Well, there had been kissing, but generally as a reward for long stretches of silence. “Is this about biology?”

She nodded. “What did the exam emphasize?”

“It was pretty balanced.” I gestured toward her iPad. “What are your weaknesses?”

“Genetics.”

“Yeah, that’ll be on there.” I returned my attention to my art history notes.

“That’s it? That’s all the help you’re giving me?”

So in the Gabrielle-centric universe of study dates, the studying was
for her
and not me. Finally got it. I set my iPad on the coffee table and slumped into the couch. “What else do you need?”

“Are you mad?”

Gabrielle often asked if people were mad at her. What had happened in her life to make her think that every lessthan-happy emotion meant mad? “I’m not mad. Do you need help or not?”

“You
are
mad.”

I reached for her hand and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it. “I. Am. Not. Mad.”

She laughed. “Your breath tickles.”

“Okay, then.” I dropped her hand.

She tossed her iPad to the side and closed the distance between us, her fingers cool on my cheek, her kiss light. Gabrielle didn’t need coaching on how to initiate contact.

“Excuse me,” my mom said from the kitchen doorway.