The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter

by Elyse Douglas

  “Why did you want to see me, Ann?”

  Ann’s left eyebrow arched. “Why? To confirm Mr. Jackson’s story, of course. Because part of me—no most of me—could not and did not believe it. But how can I doubt my own eyes? Although your hair has changed, you are exactly the same. Tell me, Eve, will this war in Europe spread, and will we get involved? Will it last for a long time?”

  Eve considered her answer. When Patrick was adjusting to his new life in 2018, he had become obsessed by the Great War or World War I, and he had spent hours online learning about it. He could not believe the scope, the brutality and the devastation that would have occurred in his lifetime.

  Eve could have told Ann that the war would be one of unprecedented destruction and loss of life, resulting in the deaths of some 20 million soldiers and civilians, and the physical devastation of much of the European continent. But she didn’t.

  Eve sat in silence for minutes, while Ann waited, not stirring or moving her eyes away from Eve’s face. When Eve finally spoke, her voice was low, just loud enough for Ann to hear.

  “The world does improve, Ann. We do make progress. Women do receive the right to own property and the right to vote, and they do obtain meaningful and important jobs. Women will be elected to public office, and many will thrive and help to enlighten the world. There will be struggles, of course, but the world does improve, little by little.”

  Ann lowered her eyes just as their food arrived. The silence lengthened as they ate. Eve saw a gradual awkwardness, as Ann glanced up at Eve several times, nearly speaking, but then holding back.

  After Ann had finished her meal, she laid her fork aside and looked Eve directly in the eye.

  “Will you tell me, Eve, everything that has happened to you? Part of me is frightened by what you might say, but most of me would like to know if such things truly do happen in this world.”

  Eve’s eyes came to Ann. She saw nervous anticipation and tender sadness.

  Eve began the story slowly, giving Ann a condensed description of her life in 2017, how she found the lantern in the antique shop, and her subsequent travel to 1885. As she continued, Ann’s uncertain eyes slowly drifted away, staring out into remoteness, as the long and extraordinary story began to unravel.

  When Eve told of her marriage to Patrick, Ann perked up eagerly as she listened to Eve’s description of married life in 2018. She also described some current events and cultural advances in the modern world. When Eve said there were still few women in government and that there had never been a woman president, Ann slumped a little in her chair.

  Ann also saddened when Eve shared the reason she and Patrick had returned to the past, and their utter shock and surprise at arriving in 1914 and not 1885.

  While Eve told the story, coffee had arrived, along with some colorful Italian cookies and two cannoli. Neither had touched the dessert or drunk the coffee.

  An accordion player began playing Neapolitan songs, and a guest stood at his table and sang in a bright tenor voice. That snapped the solemn mood, and Ann sat up to listen while sipping her coffee.

  When the song ended, Ann peered at Eve with new eyes, probing her, replaying the story, her mind still struggling with belief.

  “Well, Eve, that is quite a story, isn’t it, and it seems to be a story without a finish. Quite honestly, it’s a story that seems contrived by someone with a highly imaginative and fantastical mind. One who is simply not anchored in any kind of reality.”

  Eve heard the edge of anxiety in Ann’s voice. Her response wasn’t what Eve had expected.

  “Then you don’t believe me, Ann. You don’t believe the story?”

  Ann’s smile was strange and vivid. “Oh, yes, Eve. I do believe the story. I don’t want to, but I do. I see the authenticity in your eyes and I hear it in your voice. Now the question for me is, what do I do with it? Perhaps I will have to broaden my thinking, abandon my scientific worldview, my entire belief system.”

  Ann tried to read Eve’s face. “How do you live with it? How can you reconcile it all?”

  “It hasn’t been easy, Ann. But, on the other hand, if I hadn’t time traveled to 1885, I would never have met Patrick.”

  Ann smiled. “Yes, of course. Speaking of 1885, have you contacted the Harringshaws or anyone else from 1885?”

  “No… Patrick and I decided not to disturb the past any more than we had to. We have already made more ripples than we had intended. You’re the only one we’ve contacted, and only then because of the lantern.”

  Eve leaned forward, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Now that you know everything, Ann; now that you understand why Patrick and I have come to this time, will you tell me where the lantern is?”

  Ann’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “There is something I don’t understand. When you lit the candle in your time, 2018, why didn’t the lantern go with you?”

  Eve sighed. “I don’t know. Each lantern, even though it is the same lantern, exists only in its time. It does not travel into the future or into the past. That’s why Patrick and I need the lantern that Jacob Jackson gave you. That is the same lantern that sent us to 2017. We must have it to return to 2018. You said in your letter that you have it.”

  Ann glanced away and listened to the accordion player dedicate the beloved Christmas carol O Come, All Ye Faithful to the men fighting in the European war. Many patrons joined in the singing, including Ann. Eve remembered most of the words and, as she sang, she thought of Patrick and wished he were here, rattling off one of his old Irish sayings.

  When the carol ended, peace hovered in the room while the two women sat quietly in the afterglow of song and candlelight. But Eve was growing anxious, and she broke the mood. “You do have it, don’t you, Ann? The lantern?”

  Ann’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, and no.”

  Eve’s shoulders sagged. “What does that mean?”

  Ann looked at Eve pointedly. “Let us find a taxi and take a little tour of this fascinating city while I tell you a little secret that I have never told anyone. It concerns where the lantern is.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Late Sunday morning, Patrick was relieved when he received a telegram from Eve saying she’d arrived safely, and she was off to meet Dr. Long for dinner that evening. He shot off a return telegram simply saying,

  PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU GET THE ITEM

  Eve didn’t need to know that Irene had been badly beaten by Big Jim himself, and that the newspapers stated that she’d been struck by a carriage and was convalescing in the Woman’s Hospital at 110th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. Her brother, Addison, told reporters that she was “improving splendidly” and would be returning home any day.

  Eve also didn’t need to know that Patrick had moved Duncan to another apartment on the edge of the Village. There, he’d forced him to take a 1904 Colt police 32 revolver, six shot, and directed him to a shooting range on the lower East Side where the kid could learn how to shoot the thing.

  Patrick’s mind was flaming with anger, and he was struggling to contain his rising violent emotions. Why had Addison allowed his own sister to be beaten to near death by an animal like Big Jim? What kind of a man was he? Was he scared of Big Jim? Were they both working together in some business that Eve and Irene had inadvertently threatened? Patrick wanted to meet Addison in person and find out for himself why he’d allow his beautiful and innocent sister to be beaten up by a perverted jackal like Big Jim. Patrick vowed to get the truth out of Addison, even if he had to beat him the same way Big Jim had beaten Irene. Was Irene beaten because Big Jim was trying to find Eve—to try to stop her from helping Maggie get out of town?

  Patrick had slept little as he worked to shove aside his hot feelings for revenge. He had to stay focused on finding Maggie before it was too late. An obvious thought kept striking his brain like a loud gong, reverberating and keeping him from restful sleep.

  Why didn’t he just track Big Jim down on a dark street and shoot him? That would take care of everything. Or woul
d it? First, could he really kill a man in cold blood, even if he was an animal like Big Jim? No, he couldn’t. He knew himself that well. If all else failed, could Patrick burst into Maggie’s St. Regis hotel suite and then shoot Big Jim before he killed Maggie? Yes, he could and would.

  But there was a problem with that last-ditch strategy now. Eve had altered the future, trying to help Maggie escape from Big Jim. According to history, that should not have happened—at least not in the past that Patrick had read about on that laptop in 2018. So, Eve had changed the course of history, making it entirely possible that Big Jim would not kill Maggie on Christmas Eve, or at least not at the St. Regis. Maggie had been moved. But where?

  Would Big Jim kill her at another hotel or apartment? A bad thought. And then there was an even worse thought. Had Big Jim already killed Maggie for betraying him and trying to escape? Again, Patrick didn’t think so. There was the awful and terrible thought that Big Jim had also beaten Maggie. But if he had killed her, then why would he have bothered to find Irene, beating her senseless, trying to learn where Eve was? Why did his man also go after Duncan?

  Patrick had to face it: history had been changed, and that meant his tactics had to change. He no longer had the convenience—if he could call it that—of knowing where Maggie was going to be on Christmas Eve 1914. Most certainly, Big Jim would not return Maggie to the St. Regis until he found Eve to learn who she was, what she was up to, and who she was working with.

  Now, not only did Patrick have to find Maggie, and find her fast, he also had to make sure Big Jim never learned who or where Eve was. The one tortured thought that kept haunting him was an obvious one: perhaps Eve should have thrown that lantern in the Hudson after all, and then there would have been no possibility of his going back in time to try to save Maggie. And what if he couldn’t save her? What if she was already dead? What then? How would he live with himself? Could he face Eve, knowing he had failed to save his daughter after he had put both their lives in great danger?

  On Monday morning, December 14th, as Patrick stopped by the Hoffman House lobby desk to see if he had any messages, the clerk handed him another telegram from Eve. Patrick stepped away toward the front window that looked out onto the street and opened the telegram.

  TRIED TO CALL. YOU WERE NOT THERE.

  DO NOT HAVE ITEM.

  LEAVING HERE MON 1PM.

  TRAVELING TO CANADA.

  Patrick let out a breath of surprise. Canada? Why was she going to Canada? He cursed under his breath, wishing again that this time of 1914 had cell phones. He stood for a time in the lobby, his forehead knotted into a frown, as he gazed out the plate glass window to see snow flurries drift and glide. If Eve didn’t have the lantern, then obviously it had to be somewhere in Canada. How? Why?

  Patrick felt urgency build in his chest. He had to find Maggie, and he had to find her fast. That morning he had formed a short-term plan, although he had no idea where it might lead. He walked aggressively out of Hoffman House and headed downtown.

  At the City Register Office, Patrick entered through two heavy wooden doors into a busy, bright cavernous lobby, filled with echoing voices and businessmen clumped in conversation.

  He descended two flights of white marble stairs to the Hall of Records to search property deeds and land title records.

  A crickety, dour clerk, about fifty, sat behind a scuffed mahogany desk. He wore a green visor, a dark suit, a tie, and a practiced smirk. He raised his droopy eyes from his ledger, regarding Patrick with little interest.

  Patrick flashed a phony police badge he had bought two days before from a crook on Bleeker Street and asked to see land deeds and titles for lower Manhattan. The clerk’s eyes widened only slightly. It never hurt to have a police badge. You just got better, faster service, and people like this bored and territorial bureaucrat would often deign to answer your questions.

  Patrick was directed down a long, dimly lit narrow aisle with tall shelves on either side, stacked with volumes. He wandered, searched, wandered some more and stopped short when he saw what he was looking for. He reached up on a third shelf, hauled down the thick heavy volume and dropped it on a tall pedestal mahogany table. He swung it open and began thumbing through the pages until he found the name he was looking for. And it wasn’t difficult to find. There it was, written in a clear meticulous script–Addison Reed Casterbury.

  Patrick ran a finger down the page, examining the Tract, Lot and Parcel. Addison Casterbury owned tenements all over the Lower East Side, some on Orchard Street, as well as storefronts and buildings on Mulberry Street and Mott Street, and several apartment buildings in Greenwich Village, including the one Duncan Beaumont had lived in, but not the one he was currently holed up in. Good.

  Patrick felt the burn of anticipation as he flipped the page, his eyes darting along the yellow page with blue lines, his forefinger sliding up and down the page. When he found it, he nearly yelled out in excitement.

  Addison Reed Casterbury and James Faolan Clancy.

  Patrick jabbed a forefinger on the blue line, his eyes expanding on what he read. Together, Addison and Big Jim owned The Gibson Hotel at 28 E. 30th St, constructed in 1892. They also owned several saloons and two warehouses along the East River.

  Patrick looked up from the page, the light of triumph glowing in his eyes. Only a few days ago, he’d followed Big Jim to O’Casey’s, an Irish Pub located near The Gibson Hotel.

  An hour later, Patrick stood across the street from the twelve-story Gibson Hotel, in a sharp wind and dancing snowflakes. The hotel was typically Victorian, with a heavy bracketed cornice, attractive bay windows, soaring turrets, and a mansard-roof with patterned shingles. In his research, Patrick had learned that it was frequented mostly by tourists and middle-class tenants.

  Patrick lingered outside for a time, getting familiar with the area, then he crossed the street and entered through two double glass doors.

  Inside, the breath of heat felt good on his cold bare hands and ears. The gracious marble lobby with brass railings was adorned with murals recalling New York Central Park scenes, the graceful Brooklyn Bridge, and the impressive City Hall Post Office, built in 1878, in an architectural style that was not well received in its day.

  Patrick noticed a bank of golden elevators, with attentive elevator operators standing by, dressed in chocolate brown uniforms and gold caps. Bellhops glided by hauling luggage, and at the back newsstand, two attractive women lingered, flipping through fashion magazines in giggling whispers.

  Patrick roamed the space, angling toward the brown marble fireplace, standing for a time by a six-foot Christmas tree trimmed in tinsel and holly but no lights. His vigilant eyes studied the lobby desk staff. They worked with formal efficiency and courtesy, answering the questions of the many guests who approached them.

  In the center lobby, tourists were seated in burgundy, hand-tufted chairs and couches, the men engrossed in newspapers or smoking a pipe or a cigar. Some women in elegant attire were busy with children, while others read magazines or examined the bagged items they’d purchased.

  Patrick noticed, with satisfaction, that the loud, omnipresent music so prevalent in the modern world was missing. There were also no TV screens blaring out sports or news, and there were no cell phones, laptops or computers. Patrick found the entire experience quite pleasant. The lobby was a quiet place except for the comfortable gurgle of a fountain in the lobby’s center.

  But Patrick was on edge. Was Maggie in this hotel somewhere and, if she was, where was she and how would he get to her? Of course, when the time was right, he would rent a room and then reconnoiter the upper floors until he found the one that was being guarded, but then what? For now, he’d have to wait and watch. He wouldn’t do anything until he heard from Eve.

  Patrick decided to hang around the lobby for a time, just to see who came and went. If the Gibson was owned by Addison and Big Jim, who among their crowd might be living there, or having meetings there? Maybe nothing would turn up, but it was
worth a wait.

  Patrick spent time at the newsstand, scanning the headlines. The war in Europe predominated. While Patrick kept one eye alert to the traffic of the lobby, he bought a copy of the New York World, just in case the house detective might be watching him. He strolled lazily, appearing to read the paper, but he was checking out the exits. He wandered past the lobby desk into a back-lounge area, where guests sat around marble-topped tables and sipped coffee, nibbled tea sandwiches, and engaged in friendly conversation.

  Patrick observed another exit. He explored it, leisurely. It led outside on the north side of 32nd Street.

  Returning to the lobby, he took an easy stroll to one of the elevator operators, who was standing at attention.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Going up?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if there are exits in the basement…in case of fire, of course.”

  The operator touched his hat with two fingers. “Yes, sir, there are two. One leading out to 32nd Street and the opposite to 31st. Do not worry about fire, sir, we have plenty of exits. This hotel is very safe.”

  “Good man,” Patrick said, with authority. “You can’t be too sure these days.”

  Patrick thanked him and moved off toward an empty chair near the fountain and sat. He snapped out the newspaper and superficially perused some articles until one caught his attention, LETTERS IN SANTA’S BOX. Patrick smiled and decided to read a few.

  Bronx New York—Dear Santa Claus: Will you please send me a doll, if you have one to spare? I want one eighteen inches long, kid body, bisque head, light hair or dark will do. Yours truly, Bessie Hanks.