Stars in Her Eyes

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “There! I’m ready,” she said to the wide, starry eyes in her mirror.

  She rose, still unaccountably restless. She went to stand at the window, holding back the lace curtains to get a better view of the night sky. Her slender fingers trembled on the drape. Annoyed by her own nervousness, she quickly slipped her hands out of sight, into the folds of her ciel-blue lace gown.

  Emily certainly wasn’t in the mood for merriment on this particular evening, but her uncle had insisted that she accompany him.

  “Tonight of all nights,” he’d said. “It does no good to dwell on what happened, my dear,” he had told her gently, his shaggy white brows drawn together. “Besides, tonight being the two-week anniversary of that awful tragedy at sea, you should be rejoicing that you survived—celebrating life instead of brooding over what can’t be changed.”

  Emily sighed. He was right, of course. But she couldn’t help thinking about Jonathan and his last words to her there on the deck of the Union Star—that he’d see her at the Castines’ party, if not before. She wondered vaguely if it could be Jonathan’s promise rather than her uncle’s pleading that had convinced her to attend tonight.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she told herself. “Jonathan’s gone! Face it! Weep your tears privately, and put the past to rest.”

  Yet it seemed more than coincidence to Emily that of the fifteen men who had died that night, only Jonathan’s body had yet to be recovered.

  “Miss Emily?” came a call through her door.

  “Yes, Heatherbee?”

  “Senator Middleton’s just now arrived. I gave him a sherry, but he won’t be long distracted by that. He says, if you’re not downstairs in two minutes, you’ll cause him no end of embarrassment by making him late to the party and, on top of that, all the spyglasses might be taken by the time he gets there.”

  “Please tell him I’ll be right down, Heatherbee.”

  The odd lights that had been sighted in the sky were the talk of Washington that spring season of 1897. The usual round of balls and formal dinners had given way to evening garden parties and suppers on the lawn, with opera glasses provided for the ladies and spyglasses for the gentlemen on the remote, but much-hoped-for, chance that the night sky might be illuminated with the strange waltz of colored lights that had amazed viewers from California to the East Coast since last November.

  Emily wondered suddenly if the green fire in the sky that had appeared on the night of the tragic loss of the ship might be related to those other sightings. She wasn’t sure what she thought, since she had yet to see any weird lights over the city. But those in Washington who had viewed the heavenly balls of flame hovering over the Capitol a few weeks earlier believed. Just what they believed, they hadn’t yet decided. But something or someone was up there!

  Emily took one more quick glance out the window, then closed it firmly and headed downstairs to meet her impatient uncle.

  The Castines lived in a lovely, prewar home outside the city proper. Rock Creek rambled through their acres of manicured lawn, the tall-columned mansion shaded all around by a vast park of large oaks, dotted with dogwoods just coming in bloom.

  When Senator Middleton’s carriage rolled to a stop at the head of the circular drive, a liveried footman quickly jumped to help both the elderly widower and his niece from the brougham. Moments later, they were in the elegantly appointed entrance hall, their host and hostess hurrying forward to greet them.

  “Emily, my dear!” exclaimed Dolly Castine, clasping the slender young woman to her buxom, satin-clad bosom. “We are so glad you decided to come, aren’t we, Lloyd?”

  Senator Lloyd Castine, a head shorter than his generously proportioned wife and a good fifty pounds lighter, grinned at Emily and pressed her gloved hand. “Oh, indeed, we are, and—”

  “Well, enough of this chatter,” the imperious Dolly interrupted. “Do come through the dogtrot to the back. Everyone’s out there with their glasses trained on the heavens. That nice young congressman from South Carolina saw something only moments ago. Come along, now. We don’t want to miss our heavenly visitors, if they show themselves again.”

  Senator Middleton chuckled softly and exchanged glances with his niece. He leaned down and whispered, “No doubt, Dolly hired some fool to hang from the top of the Washington Monument with a Chinese lantern.”

  Emily smiled at her uncle’s skepticism, but shushed him lest their hostess overhear.

  The back lawn was spread with long, linen-covered tables, offering everything from terrapin soup, to Maryland crabcakes, to roast pheasant. Formally attired waiters moved among the guests, passing silver flutes of iced champagne. A string quartet played on the white-latticed bandstand surrounded by a mirror-polished dancing floor that Senator Castine had had erected especially for this momentous occasion.

  Both old friends and new acquaintances sought out Emily to hear about the sinking of the Union Star and her terrifying plunge into the sea. She soon wearied of the topic and tried to turn the conversation to her travels through Europe, but to no avail. Finally, she excused herself from the group and wandered a short distance away from the others, into a sheltering grove of crepe myrtles.

  It was then that she heard it—that same voice, calling softly, “Emily…Emily.”

  Her heart thundering, her breath short, she stared down at her empty champagne flute. “I shouldn’t have had this second glass.”

  She sank down on a white wrought-iron bench, hoping a moment’s rest might restore some measure of strength, of calm.

  Off in the distance, she heard the quartet playing softly and, over those sweet strains, the chatter and laughter of the other guests. But it seemed as if she had suddenly moved into a shadowy world all her own—with only the night and that voice calling her name. Peculiar as it seemed, the feeling did not alarm her. On the contrary, she once more experienced that wonderful cocoon of warmth and protection that she had felt the night of the disaster.

  Glancing up into the lacy branches of the crepe myrtles, she saw only the pinprick lights of amorous fireflies overhead.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “Where are you?”

  She neither expected an answer nor received one. Instead, she heard an excited cry go up from the other guests. “There!” Dolly Castine shrieked. “Just beyond that line of trees. Don’t you see it?”

  Emily turned in the direction in which all the spyglasses were now pointed. A brilliant green light glowed just above the horizon. As she watched, it seemed to fly through the heavens like a great, luminous star gone off course.

  The cries of wonder turned suddenly to shouts of fear as the speeding fireball grew ever larger, washing the lawn in eerie light, coming straight toward the Castines’ home. As the green star drew ever closer, the guests ran for cover. Only Emily experienced no fear. She sat calmly watching until it came to a sudden stop in mid-air, directly above where she sat. It blinked once and again, then as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. Emily continued staring at the black sky for long moments.

  From the lawn, she heard the relieved chatter of the other guests. What tales they would have to tell! But what could it have been? Where had it come from, and where had it gone?

  None of that mattered to Emily, she realized. It was enough that the light had come—come to her. She knew that green fire; she loved it.

  She was still sitting quietly, savoring the wonderful, languid feeling that had coursed through her moments before, when she heard a sound nearby. One of the Castines’ many hunting hounds rustling around in the bushes, she decided. Only an instant later, she realized her mistake.

  He came out of nowhere. One minute, she was alone in the myrtle grove. The next minute, he was standing before her. She gasped softly. She simply couldn’t help herself.

  “Jonathan?” she said, once she could find her voice.

  He didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring at her with an odd, disoriented expression on his face. He seemed to gaze about him almost in wonder.
He cocked his head toward the house, listening to the party chatter coming from that direction. Then he turned his full attention back to Emily. He neither smiled nor frowned. There was a look of deep concentration on his face, as if he wanted to speak to her, but had difficulty finding the right words.

  “Jonathan Webb, is that you?” Emily demanded. “Or have I had more champagne than I realized?”

  Still no answer.

  She stood, uneasy at his silence and at the odd way he kept staring at her. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks again. The moon cast only the palest light, and the shadows inside the grove were thick and shifting. He was Jonathan’s height, Jonathan’s build, but perhaps she was only seeing Jonathan because she wanted to, because she remembered his promise to be there tonight, and she ached with her whole heart to have it so.

  She frowned suddenly and took a step away from him. If this man wasn’t Jonathan Webb, who could he be? Some escaped lunatic who had found her alone and might do her real harm?

  “I think you’d better leave now,” she warned in a shaky voice, “before I call Senator Castine.”

  Even as she uttered her threat, Emily realized how foolish it sounded. The strange, silent man standing before her—so like Jonathan, yet different—was at least six feet tall, well-built, and strong. The frail, timid statesman would hardly pose a threat to him.

  She decided to try a more reasonable course. “This is a private party, you know. You can’t stay unless you have an invitation.”

  The man moved for the first time, causing Emily to draw back in alarm. But he was only reaching into his rather rumpled coat. A moment later, he withdrew a sodden, crumpled envelope and placed it gently into her hand.

  “Invitation,” he repeated in a voice that was almost, but not quite, Jonathan Webb’s.

  The ink on the envelope had been washed away almost entirely. But when Emily withdrew the card inside, she could see, even by the dim light of the moon, that it was indeed one of the engraved invitations to the Castines’ anniversary soiree.

  “Where did you get this?” Somehow, she knew it was Jonathan’s invitation. She knew, too, that this man was almost Jonathan. But not quite.

  Again, in that oddly measured, totally emotionless voice, he answered her question. “My invitation to Senator and Mrs. Castine’s party arrived only the day before I left London.”

  Emily caught her breath sharply. She had heard those exact words before. She could even visualize the expression on Jonathan’s face as he spoke them at the captain’s dinner.

  Or was this simply a case of déjà vu?

  Staring hard at the man through the darkness, Emily said, “Mr. Webb? Jonathan?”

  The man gave a quick, sharp nod. “I am Mr. Webb—Jonathan. Yes.”

  A flood of questions and doubts bombarded Emily’s brain. Hardly conscious of what she was doing, she reached out and touched his arm to make sure he was real. Her fingertips tingled as they brushed his sleeve. He was very real!

  “Jonathan, where have you been all this time? What happened to you? How were you saved? How did you get here?”

  Returning her touch, he cupped her cheek with his warm palm. In answer to all her questions, he said only, “Emily…Emily.”

  She covered his hand with hers, feeling her pulses race. Strange bits and snatches of their previous time together flitted through her mind, bringing with them a flood of arousing emotions. She trembled slightly as his thumb caressed the tender spot at the left corner of her mouth.

  So good, she mused. His touch feels so good!

  Closing her eyes, she uttered a soft sigh. An instant later, she felt his mouth come down on hers. His kiss was every bit as sweet and urgent as it had been when she was drowning. But now, there was no life-threatening danger. When his strong arms closed around her, she snuggled into his warmth, feeling his hard body enfold her softness. Again, it seemed that their hearts were beating as one. Again, she experienced the soul-piercing sensation that this was meant to be—that they were meant to be.

  “Oh, Jonathan!” She sighed. “I don’t know how you saved either of us, but I’m awfully glad you managed.”

  He didn’t answer. The moment she broke the embrace, he staggered slightly and seemed about to lose his balance.

  Coming suddenly back to her senses, Emily cried, “Why, you’re hurt, aren’t you, Jonathan? Well, don’t you worry. Stay right here. I’m going to get Uncle Thomas. We’ll drive you straight to a doctor.”

  He obviously wanted her to stay with him. As she had gripped his hand that night in the lifeboat, he now clung to hers with equal desperation.

  “It will be all right,” she assured him. “Really. Sit down and rest. I won’t be a moment.”

  She urged him down to the wrought-iron bench, then turned to run for help. He was probably suffering from exposure and might have a head injury as well. That would explain his disorientation.

  But he was here. Jonathan Webb was alive! Nothing else mattered.

  The moment Emily returned to the party, her hostess and several of the others clustered around her, bemoaning the fact that she had failed to see the fireworks overhead.

  “Where have you been, my dear?” Dolly Castine demanded. “Why, such a sight you see only once in a lifetime, and you missed it.”

  “Please, Dolly, I need to talk to my uncle. Have you seen him?”

  “I believe he stepped inside to see my husband’s new fowling piece. They’ll be back out shortly, I’m sure.”

  Emily didn’t wait; she couldn’t. Gathering her flounced skirt in both hands, she hurried up the stairs, calling her uncle’s name. A moment before she meant to bang on the library door, it opened.

  “Emily, what on earth is all this commotion? Are you ill?” Senator Middleton looked as concerned as he sounded, snowy brows furrowed and lips pursed in a frown.

  Grabbing his arm and literally dragging him toward the back gallery, Emily said, “I’m fine, Uncle Thomas, but there’s a guest who needs our help. If you’ll summon the carriage, then come to the myrtle grove over there, we can rush him right to Dr. Pierce’s home. He’s close by, I believe.”

  “I saw no one who looked ill,” the senator balked suspiciously.

  “Please, just do as I ask, Uncle Thomas. He’d as soon the rest of the guests not see him in this condition.”

  Emily’s ploy worked. The senator, assuming the fellow was drunk and hoping not to besmirch his reputation, went along with his niece’s plan. He gave her a wink, then said, “By all means, my dear. We haven’t a moment to waste. I’ll be at the myrtle grove in a jig.”

  Sighing with relief, Emily left her uncle and hurried back across the lawn.

  “I’m here,” she called as she entered the grove. “My uncle will have the carriage around in a moment. Then we’ll take you straight to a doctor, Jonathan.”

  When Emily looked up, she found she was talking to herself. The little grove was as empty as it had been when she first entered it.

  “Jonathan?” she called. “Mr. Webb? I only want to help you.”

  She thought she heard someone whisper her name. Wishful thinking, she decided, when she realized it was only the wind sighing in the branches overhead.

  “Emily, the carriage is ready,” her uncle called. “Do you need my help with him?”

  Suddenly, she felt quite ill. A wave of dizziness overtook her. She sank to the bench for a moment to catch her breath. Something had happened to her two weeks ago this very night. Something that was making queer changes in her life. She’d had strange dreams since her rescue. Now, it seemed she was also imagining things. Of course, that was the answer. She had wanted to see Jonathan; therefore, she had seen him!

  “Emily, where is this poor tipsy friend of yours?”

  She looked up at her bewildered uncle and tried to smile—a weak effort at best.

  “Gone,” she answered. “But the carriage won’t go to waste. I’m not feeling quite myself. Perhaps, if you’ll make my excuses to the Castines, I’d be
tter go along home.”

  Senator Middleton reached down and took Emily’s arm, helping her to her feet. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” he murmured. “It was too soon for you to be out. And it’s all my fault. I insisted.”

  “I’ll be fine, Uncle Thomas,” she assured him. “I only need to rest. I suppose the lights in the sky provided more excitement than I was ready for.”

  “Quite a sight, eh?” He gave a huge chuckle as he led Emily from the grove toward the waiting carriage. “I’m glad you got to see the airship or whatever it was. Something to tell your children and grandchildren, my dear. Our visitors from beyond!”

  Emily stopped in her tracks and stared up at the senator. “Do you truly believe that, Uncle Thomas? That there are beings out there who come down to visit Earth?”

  The old man looked thoughtfully heavenward, then nodded vigorously. “Yes! After what we’ve witnessed tonight, I do believe. And why shouldn’t we believe? Even the Bible tells us of fiery chariots in the heavens, and the ancients drew pictures of visitors from afar. Still, I’ve always been a stubborn skeptic. I used to tease your mother unmercifully about her Starwanderer.”

  “My mother? Why, I never heard any such tales!”

  “Well, we never encouraged her to spread the stories around, but she claimed to have seen lights in the sky over the old house in Bryantown and to have been visited by some ambassador from another planet not long before you were born. I supposed it to be the pure lunacy of a woman in a family way. I used to laugh at her and dismiss the whole thing. I wish now—after what I’ve seen with my own eyes tonight—that she was here so I could apologize.”

  Emily was still reeling with this shocking bit of family history when she spied something on the ground at the edge of the myrtle grove. Even before she stooped down to pick it up, she knew what it must be.

  The invitation—Jonathan’s invitation!

  5

  Emily lived all alone in a quaint, old octagonal house in Georgetown—a gift from Sir Harold when they married. Although the place was said to be haunted by some disgruntled former statesman, Emily insisted that Hattie Heatherbee and even her housekeeper go to their own homes at night. Ghost or no ghost, she simply preferred her solitude. And on this particular evening, she thanked her lucky stars for that idiosyncrasy.