Whispers from the Past (31 page)

A shiver raced down my spine.
Clothes
popped out, which was expected. But what about
court
,
pleas
,
quarter
, and
petition
?

My fingers pounded the keyboard, furiously trying combinations of those words in the search engine. It took less than a minute to discover the Court of Pleas and Quarter Sessions for Wake County. In 1805, there had been a session held in late April.

Susanna must’ve made a petition to the Court.

The State Archives were closed tomorrow, but I would head down there on Tuesday to confirm my suspicion. I was sure, though, that her name would be on the docket—and likely the verdict, too.

What was the point of going to court? How could Susanna’s petition have saved Dorcas?

My stomach cramped with fear. Susanna could be working for the Pratts again. She might be in Worthville with Dorcas on the day of the storm. Jethro Pratt—with nine years of anger and revenge boiling inside him—might have Susanna under his control.

I was getting her out of there.

If I went before May fifteenth, I’d have to kidnap Susanna to bring her home. That effort was doomed to fail. It would be better to show up on the day of the tornado, help Dorcas through it, and then coax Susanna back.

Until I confirmed the outcome of her case on Tuesday, this was the plan I’d go with. For the next three weeks, I’d bide my time, study hard, complete my final assignments, take AP exams—and hope that Susanna’s brother Caleb would keep her safe until I made the trip to the past.

There was a new bodyguard waiting for Gabrielle outside Neuse Academy when we left school on Monday. Jesse, Benita, and I were formally introduced to Jomo. Everyone else stayed away, which was the point of having Jomo around.

I headed home and went out for an afternoon bike ride through Umstead. As I was finishing up, I stopped by the Worthville ruins. They looked the same as ever. A meetinghouse with a crumbling foundation. Tombstones that lay randomly in broken slabs. There were no names that hadn’t been there before. Nothing looked out of place or different.

Susanna’s visit had changed nothing in the graveyard. That was good.

I continued down the trail. Up ahead, I could see the orange ribbons and webbing of the construction site for the new neighborhood adjacent to the greenway. What were they doing over there?

After cutting across a new wooden bridge north of Whisper Falls, I rolled down its bluff and then maneuvered onto the greenway, heading for our yard.

When I made it into the kitchen, Marissa was standing there, messing with a bread machine on the counter.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I reached into the fridge for Propel.

“Changing the oil on my car.” She wrinkled her nose. “What do you think I’m doing?”

I took a slug before answering. “It looks like you’re making bread, but I know that can’t be right.”

Her smile was sad. “Susanna’s got me hooked on fresh bread. The supply she left behind has run out, so I thought maybe I could give this a try.”

“Gran will make you some.”

“I’m twenty-four. I ought to be able to bake, especially with the ‘any idiot can do this’ machine.” She sniffed and then made a mock-gagging sound. “Mark, gross. Somebody needs a shower.”

“Sure do.” I stretched, just to make sure she recognized that her comment would not hasten me on my way to something I’d already planned to do. “Sweat is an occupational hazard for athletes.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned back to the instructions for the bread machine. “Where did you go?”

“Lake Crabtree Park. Then Umstead.” I finished the bottle and wiped my mouth. “Have you heard anything about the construction project up along the greenway? They’re getting close to Rocky Creek.”

“They’re taking over Rocky Creek.”

“What?” I went still, dread prickling over my skin. “What about it?”

“They’re dredging a channel from the creek to this water thing they want to put near their clubhouse.” She shrugged. “Raleigh’s making them put in a drainage pond, so they’re trying to make the whole thing look pretty.”

I took a deep breath and tried not to sound too frantic. “Do you know how that will affect Whisper Falls?

“It’ll go away.” She looked up with a frown. “Well, maybe not entirely, but it’ll never be the same, not much more than Whisper Trickle.”

I walked to the sink and stared through the window to the backyard, turned so that my sister couldn’t see my face—and how much this news horrified me. “Does Susanna know?”

“Yeah. She was really upset about it.”

No shit. “Okay. Thanks.”

“What’s up?” she asked. “You’re upset, too.”

I took a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and tried to sound as unsuspicious as possible. “I know how much she loves that place. It’s almost sacred to her. I hate that she’s losing it.”

“Uh-huh.” Marissa started blinking rapidly, like she was fighting back tears. “I hate it for her, too.”

Good time to get out of here.I raced upstairs, flipped open my laptop, and brought up my neighborhood’s website. Under “news,” I found the item that I wanted.

Our homeowners association had apparently fought to block the changes to Rocky Creek but hadn’t won. It was anticipated that the “channel project” might be completed as early as May first.

Was there only one week left until the end of Whisper Falls?

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

D
RIFTING
I
NTO
A
P
LACE

After living in the home of Mrs. Whitcomb for two days, I still could not describe my precise job duties. She already had both a lady’s maid and a housekeeper, so I could claim neither of their titles, although I performed some tasks that would typically fall under their purview. Perhaps it would be best to think of my responsibilities as more like a companion’s than a servant’s.

Regardless of the name, my servitude could not have been more pleasant and tolerable had I created the role myself. The remaining weeks of my contract would pass quickly, I was sure.

The other servants called me Mrs. Lewis—not Susanna or simply Lewis—as if the knowledge that I had married well gave me a measure of respect that could not be reconciled with my indentured servitude. I was the same person who had been working class for much of my life, yet the expensive fabrics I wore and the confidence of my manner were convincing. I did not seem like one of them, and so they left me to my own devices.

I had easily returned to the nineteenth century’s ways of being. I spoke as they spoke, ate what they ate, dressed as they dressed. I understood how they thought and could mime their actions. It was only at night, in the quiet of my room, that I pondered the parts of the future that I missed. The freedom of movement, physically and socially. The lack of apology that I was a woman. The people I loved. Mark.

After breakfast on this Thursday morning, my mistress and I adjourned to the parlor, she to her sofa and I to a window seat. While she stitched, I read in the book I’d inherited from my father on the peculiarities of algebra.

There was a rap at the door close to noon. We had our first visitor.

Dorcas burst into the room in the wake of the housekeeper. “Good morning, Mrs. Whitcomb. May I speak with Susanna?”

My mistress smiled indulgently and gave a nod. Dorcas rushed to my corner and sat on the bench beside me.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Quite well.” I put aside my book and gave her my full attention. “Did you come by yourself?”

“No, of course not. Rebecca and her mother strolled with me. They will fetch me on their way back from the shops.”

“I see.” Dorcas’s sister-in-law found it too hard on her nerves to pay social calls to the upper-class families. It was no surprise that she had not dropped in as well. “So, tell me why you’ve come. You seem most pleased about something.”

“The examination is over.”

“Truly?” I watched her closely. Did this mean she would have to leave soon? Surely not. She was enjoying her stay with Jedidiah.

Dorcas sighed happily. “It has been so lovely. I am almost sorry the tests are complete.”

“Lovely?” I considered this idea, although I had little experience to compare it to. The only physical examination that stood out in my memory had been hideous. “You are sorry?”

“Yes, for I shall miss the opportunity to speak freely and frankly with a gentleman.” She blushed and leaned near me to whisper. “Dr. Eton is so handsome and well-spoken. He listens to me with such care. I noticed this on the way from Worthville and again as he examined me. I liked it very much.”

“Of what did you speak?”

“My health, naturally.” She smiled dreamily. “We also talked of politics. I do not know much about politics, but it did not stop me from sharing my opinions.”

“I think that is true for most people.”

She laughed. “He told me of his travels. He has been many places. I should like to travel somewhere besides North Carolina one day.” Her eyes sparkled. “He has sailed on a ship all the way to Boston. Is that not a wondrous thing?”

“Wondrous,” I agreed with a smile.

“He says that, after watching me both at your court case and during the examinations, he finds me to be the bravest young lady of his acquaintance. Do you not think that is a splendid compliment?”

“Splendid, indeed.” I patted her hand. “I do believe you are smitten.”

Some of the sparkle died from her eyes. “I am. Very much so. You wrote to me once that a man’s kisses would one day delight me. I did not believe it then, but I do now. I catch myself staring at his lips and wondering how they might feel pressed to mine. The
anticipation
of his kisses brings me pleasure.”

“Perhaps then—”

“No, Susanna.” She shook her head sadly. “He thinks of me only as his patient. I am far too young for him—”

“He cannot be more than twenty-five,” I interrupted. “That is not so great a difference.”

She placed gentle fingers around my wrist and squeezed lightly. “I am lame, and I have a frightful father who has made himself an enemy of the Etons. Truly, I recognize how foolish I am to dream.”

How I hoped that she was wrong.

Friday morning found Mrs. Whitcomb and me sitting in her private parlor with our needlework. Her hands rested idly in her lap, a half-embroidered shawl forgotten on her knees. I waited quietly in my corner, mending a pillowcase with stitches that could only be described as adequate.

The housekeeper opened the door and said, “Mrs. Eton is here to see you, ma’am.”

“How lovely,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, rising.

The sisters embraced, murmured happy greetings, and then settled beside each other on the loveseat.

“Tell me, Abigail,” my mistress said as she poured them each a cup of tea. “Do you have news?”

“Indeed. William has reached his conclusions on Miss Dorcas Pratt.”

I glanced up. My mistress inclined her head sweetly. I had been given permission to stay and listen.

Mrs. Whitcomb turned back to her sister. “Please. Go on.”

“William suspects a rupture in her Achilles tendon. It is likely that her ankle will never heal.”

“What do you think, Abigail?”

I held my breath in anticipation of her response. Mrs. Eton’s understanding of the healing arts had always bordered on the astonishing.

“I must concur with my son. The damage is permanent.” Mrs. Eton took a sip, her face thoughtful. “I do not, however, believe it will hamper her from having a long and productive life.”

“Will she be able to carry children?”

“Yes, of course. Running and dancing will be difficult for her, but I cannot imagine anything else will be.” Mrs. Eton shook her head. “Nevertheless, I fear for her future. It takes a rare man to see past that flaw.”

“How fortunate she is that Raleigh has an unfair portion of rare men.” Mrs. Whitcomb smiled.

“It is a pity that she will return soon to her home. The thought of it agitates my son.”

The thought of Dorcas’s departure agitated me as well. We had to keep her in Raleigh for nine days more.

“Do you think his interest extends beyond professional?”