Whispers from the Past (34 page)

“Just checking, Mark. See you Monday.”

Probably not. “Yeah.”

He hung up.

I looked around my room. The costume was done. The sack was packed. I’d even picked where to go first—Caleb’s farm. Susanna would have been in contact with her brother. He would know where she was, and he was the person most likely to be open-minded about me.

All major assignments had been forwarded to my teachers. That left one final detail to complete. My choice of college.

Mom and Dad had had the Talk. It was all up to me. They could afford the costs at whatever college I picked. The truck was mine. I’d get a good education at any of the schools. They both had their preferences, but I was to do what I wanted.

What I wanted was Newman. From the first moment I’d driven onto campus, Newman College felt like home. Maybe even before that, when I browsed through their website.

Susanna had been right all along. I had to pick the best college for me, and we’d make it work.

I logged onto the Newman future students’ page and clicked ACCEPT.

My parents were out of the house by eight AM. I set up a scheduling application to send them an email message around noon. I would be long gone by then.

I wanted someone to get voicemail, and the lucky winner was Marissa. I waited until I was sure she was at her job and then called.

She picked up on the first ring. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Uh…” That really sucked, because I couldn’t give her the speech I’d practiced and my brain wasn’t doing well with alternatives. “Don’t you have to work?”

“Yes, which you know, so this must be an emergency.”

“No emergency. I was expecting the call to go to voicemail.”

Pause. “What’s up, Mark?” She sounded suspicious.

Better come up with something fast. Something big. “I picked Newman.”

“Oh. That’s great.” Happy voice now. “That’s the one I was pulling for.”

“Really?” Her approval felt good. “You never said anything.”

“Everybody else was saying plenty. You didn’t need any more advice.”

“Thanks.”

“Hang up. I’m busy.”

I hit END. The real news would have to reach Marissa by email, too. I keyed in a message, scheduled it to send at noon, and then put my phone, keys, and wallet into the chest beside my bed.

There was a tiny part of me wondering yet again about how incredibly stupid I was being. What if Susanna wasn’t where I expected? What if she rejected me again?

For the hundredth time, I shook my head and shrugged it off. I would deal with whatever I encountered. I had traveled to her world before and figured things out. I’d be fine this time, too.

Enough thinking. I locked the back door, ran down the greenway, and stood on my rock. I gave one final look around and then…

And then nothing. I couldn’t move, frozen into place by doubts.

What if I was captured?

What if Whisper Falls couldn’t let us come back with the water gone on my side?

I was playing Russian Roulette with my life. The probability of disaster was slim, but the consequences were…
holy shit
.

Wave after wave of tremors showered over me. I stumbled to a nearby log and flopped down, shaking uncontrollably. What was I doing? I’d accepted Newman. I had the world’s best family. A job. A talent. Friends. I could lose them all. My family might never know what happened to me. And I was risking this for…Susanna.

Sucking in a deep breath, I let her name settle over me. I tried to remember her with every one of my senses. The sweet taste of her kiss. The touch of her roughened hands. Her look of utter joy when she’d first seen the ocean. Her husky voice speaking elegantly wise words. Rose-scented shampoo.

Why had she given up on us? I’d never understood that. I didn’t believe it was over my decisions about college—or hers.

It couldn’t have been about our feelings for each other. Those had always been good and sweet and true. Pure love was the reason I was standing here now, putting my future at risk.

Damn. That had to have been her reason, too. She’d gambled everything when she broke up with me. The security of my family. The only friends she really had. The support she needed for an education. The place she lived. The person she loved.

She’d sacrificed herself, and us, so that I could have me.

Yeah, I knew what I wanted. Only her.

Whisper Falls waited before me, glimmering patiently. I smiled. “Are you trying to tell me something? Will you be strong enough to let us back through?”

Sparkles flared and then faded.

It wasn’t perfect reassurance, but I didn’t need much. I jumped off the log and leapt through the falls.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-O
NE

N
O
M
ORE
W
ARNING

There was a rattle at the door of Mrs. Whitcomb’s home. I looked up from my position in the corner of the parlor. Mrs. Whitcomb did not look up from her reading.

The housekeeper hurried past the parlor door. “Welcome, Dr. Eton. Miss Pratt.”

My mistress and I exchanged surprised glances at their unexpected appearance. William and Dorcas had left only moments earlier for a stroll about the grounds of Union Square. Why would they have returned so soon?

Dorcas limped into the room ahead of her beau and came directly to me. Clasping my hands between hers, she said, “Susanna, your husband has come.”

“Pardon me?” I peered into her earnest face, trying to comprehend her words. “Mark is here?”

“Indeed. I have seen him.”

“Where?” I rose unsteadily. Mark had come. It was wondrous, awful news.

“He is at the jail presently.” She slipped a comforting arm about my waist. “Papa has him, Susanna.”

“Merciful heavens.” Could any possibility be worse? How long had Mr. Pratt had him? What might he have done? I leaned into Dorcas, hardly able to stand. “How is he? How is Mark?”

Dr. Eton stood before me. “He has been treated… roughly, but he is well. May I take you there now?”

“Yes.” Remembering my place, my eyes sought my mistress and waited for her nod.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Go.”

Dr. Eton and I hurried from the house and down the lane. My lungs worked with such difficulty that I was nearly panting. “Tell me. What has happened?”

“Mr. Lewis appeared in Worthville two days past. The village magistrate put him under guard and planned to charge him with aiding a runaway. Your brother, Mr. Caleb Marsh, demanded that Mr. Lewis be brought here, and so it was done.” He exhaled grimly. “Mr. Pratt, Mr. Marsh, and the magistrate have all accompanied your husband to Raleigh.”

“Thank you.” It was not the time for panic. There was no room in this afternoon for hysterics. Mark had come to save me. Now I must save him. I willed the anxiety from my mind and tugged impatiently at Dr. Eton’s arm. We had to move faster.

Senator Eton waited before the jail. With him was one of the justices who had presided over my petition.

“Where is he?” I asked with my most calm and businesslike voice.

“Inside, Mrs. Lewis.” Senator Eton gestured to the man next to him. “Do you remember Judge Reynolds?”

“Yes, sir. I am grateful for your presence.”

The judge inclined his head. “Jethro Pratt made no friends at your hearing. I am most eager to participate in today’s discussion.”

I nodded, my eyes already straining to see past them into the jail building.

Senator Eton gestured toward the doorway. “Shall we go in?”

We entered a small, mean space of rough gray wood, with a soot-blackened hearth and a plank over stumps that served as a bench. A brawny man, bored and gritty, reclined in a chair, lazily shaving the edge of a table with a heavy knife. A thick timber door stood open behind him, and beyond, a cramped cell was visible.

I took all of this in within a matter of seconds, for it was at the far end of the room, barely visible in the smoky light, where a group of men claimed my attention. Mr. Pratt had turned at our entrance and sneered, eyes hot with triumph. Beside him stood Caleb and Mr. Worth. A fourth man slumped in a chair, head bowed, arms tied behind his back.

“Mark.” I pushed past the others to kneel before him. He could hardly lift his head, so I cupped my hands gently along his bearded jaw and looked into his eyes.

“Hey, babe,” he whispered, for my ears only.

“Hello,” I murmured too low for the others to understand. “I love you.”

He sighed, as if deeply weary.

I fought back a wave of tears. They would not serve me well. I must focus on the task at hand—Mark’s release. I studied him for injuries. There were abrasions covering his jaw and neck on the right side, as if someone had clawed him with long fingernails. The stubble was heavy on his cheeks, but not so heavy that it obscured the bruising on his right cheekbone. The stench of the jail shack clung to his clothes.

I caressed his undamaged cheek with the light brush of my fingertips. “How are you?”

“I’ve had better days.” His lips curled into a half-smile.

“It’s going to be fine, Susanna.”

“Indeed, it is.” I wouldn’t rest until he was free.

“Enough,” Mr. Pratt rasped from close behind me. “Can we dispense with these delays? This man needs to be locked up.”

I stood swiftly and stared with hard determination at the jailer. “Release my husband’s arms.”

The jailer shrugged and continued his carving.

Judge Reynolds stepped in. “Indeed. Release him.”

Mr. Pratt frowned. “Who are—?” The words died as recognition dawned.

Nobody stirred, so I ran to the jailer, yanked the knife from his fingers, and ran to the back of Mark’s chair. With one quick movement, I sliced through the ropes binding his wrists.

With a grunt, he hunched forward, arms flopping into his lap and mouth hanging open. I dropped the knife on the table, cold with fury. The other men remained about us in a circle, watching us silently. If I had been in Mark’s century, I would have launched a verbal attack at them. But such boldness would not be welcome here. It could, in fact, work against Mark. I stepped behind him.

I hated being relegated to a place in the shadows, to the silence expected of a woman. And Mark did not know our ways like I did. What if he stumbled? How could I show him the way?

Thankfully, Senator Eton took control. He crossed the room and stopped at Mark’s side. “May I ask why you wish to have this gentleman jailed?”

“He is a criminal,” Mr. Worth said, puffing out his chest.

“In what sense?”

“He aided a runaway servant.”

The senator’s brow creased, as if in great perplexity. “Oh, indeed. Whose?”

Mr. Pratt took an aggressive step closer. “Mine.”

I edged nearer to Mark and pressed my hand to his back. One of his arms jerked awkwardly and then slid behind him, his hand fumbling about until his fingers linked through mine. I thrilled at his touch, at the firmness of his grip, at the knowledge that we were together again.

“Mr. Lewis, did you help Mr. Pratt’s indentured servant to run away?”

“I did not.” Mark struggled to hold up his head, but his voice was strong.

“He lies.” Mr. Pratt pointed a finger at me. “Ask her.”

Senator Eton gave a dry laugh. “A wife does not testify against her husband.”

“Can they prove that they are married?”

“Can you prove that they are not?”

Mr. Pratt’s shoulders heaved with the effort to contain his fury. “I saw them together. He took her away when she was bound to me.”

“It is your word against his.”

“The men from our village watched them.”

Mark gave a bark of laughter. “How can that be true? She was too weak to run. We couldn’t have escaped under those conditions.”

The judge gave Mr. Pratt a sly smile. “Did you use dogs?”

“Yes.”

“And you are claiming that neither you nor the dogs could track a man while he aided an ill woman?”

Mr. Pratt sputtered.

“No, sir, say no more,” the judge said, shaking his head. “Your story is absurd.”

I allowed myself to exhale a slow breath. It was nearly over. I caressed Mark’s back lightly, a small sign of relief.

There was a clamor at the jailhouse door. Dorcas entered on the arm of William Eton, her gaze quickly scanning the room.

I stared at her with panicked eyes. Her presence here was disastrous.

It was too late. Mr. Pratt beckoned to her with fierce intent. “My daughter was there. She was a witness.”

She hesitated, taking in the scene, her expression sober. “Is there some way I may assist?”

“Were you present on the day that Mrs. Lewis reportedly ran away, Miss Pratt?” the judge asked.

She nodded. I felt hot and shaky with fear, for she
had
been there. She had seen us together. Dorcas knew the truth.

If they asked the right questions, Mark would be found guilty. What would they do? Jail him? Merciful heavens, how would he fare in a prison of this century?

Might they flog him? Ten lashes? More? The jailer here had perked up with interest upon learning the charge.

Would the man take pleasure in inflicting pain?

Mark could be scarred physically for life—for helping me. What else would a flogging do to him? To his spirit?