Timeless Moments

by Michelle Kidd

  Before she had time to cry out, he grabbed her by the throat and slung her to the bed. He snagged the tie-back from the canopy and bound her hands, shoving her face first into the mattress. She tried to struggle, but his knee remained wedged in her back. She had no leverage. Her lungs burned for air. He seized her hair, jerking her head backward.

  His hot breath hissed in her ears. “Why must you make me punish you?”

  He released her long enough to fumble with his pants. She felt the tearing of her gown, the air cool on her exposed skin. She tensed as she heard the jingle of his belt and braced herself. Yet never fully prepared for the burning fire that spread across her back as leather cut into her soft flesh. She bit hard on her lip to keep from crying out. The acrid taste of blood filled her mouth. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Time after time, his belt rained upon her until she could no longer distinguish the blows.

  Finally, he rolled off her, panting from his efforts. He lay there spent, his chest heaving. Without a word, he rose to return the belt to its proper place. She couldn’t see him from her position, but she’d watched him enough times to know he would be combing the hair off his brow and restoring order to his appearance. He needed to present a controlled façade to the world.

  The door closed behind him with a soft thud. Now she could release the breath she’d been holding. Now she could let the hot, scalding tears wash away her shame. Her wrists remained bound, yet she instinctively reached for the Bible and drew it to herself, cradling it.

  Forgive me. I know it is wrong to hate—but I do, Father. I do! I don’t want to feel this way . . . Please, help me. As she lay there, another all-too-familiar ache arose: stiffness in her neck punctuated by a shooting pain over one eye. One of her headaches.

  *****

  Jack stared at the handkerchief in his hand, feeling nauseated. He held tangible proof that he wasn’t losing his mind, but it still didn’t explain how the woman had vanished. He ignored the tingle of sweat beneath his arms despite the icy foyer. The experience had left him shaken. Get it together, Jack. You don’t have time to be chasing phantoms.

  The economy had delivered his cabinetry business a hearty blow—money was tight. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. The last thing he needed was to be late or make a bad impression this morning. Once, he had been particular about the jobs he accepted, but now he had to be grateful for what came his way. He missed the passion that came from restoring the genteel giants of long ago, but those jobs were rare. Today, he was scheduled to meet a couple in the historic district of Diamond Hill. With any luck, it would lead to a bigger project. He’d have to do his best to forget the bizarre incident, he thought as he tucked the puzzling item in his pocket and dashed off to take a shower.

  Although pressed for time, Jack couldn’t resist the temptation to admire the stunning work in the newly finished downstairs bathroom. His eyes traveled over the wainscoting trim and blue-gray Venetian plaster, a technique popular during the Victorian period. It worked beautifully in the room. The bathroom featured both a roomy pedestal tub and a more convenient period-style shower. He enjoyed the best of both worlds. But no time for a relaxing soak today, a quick hop in the shower would have to do.

  His cell rang as he emerged from the glass stall. He scooped it off the bathroom counter, hoping it wasn’t the client canceling. “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey,” came the soft voice of his mother.

  “Oh, hi, Mom.” He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. “How are you?”

  “We’re fine, Son. How are you?”

  He pictured her tucking the short strands behind her ear, as was her habit when she was nervous.

  “I’m a little worried about you.”

  “Me?” He shifted the phone from one ear to the other as he applied deodorant. “I’m fine. What’s wrong, Mom—”

  “Don’t laugh, Jack, but I had this crazy dream.” She hesitated. “Honestly, I feel so silly now . . .”

  Jack lowered the deodorant and looked at himself in the mirror. “What is it?”

  “I-I can’t explain it—I dreamed you were running through a mist, chasing something. I couldn’t tell.” Her voice cracked. “It isn’t so much what happened. It seemed so . . . so . . . vivid. I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

  The scene from earlier that morning flashed in his mind. “Yeah, I’m fine, Mom, but I have to run. I have an appointment with a new client.”

  “Oh? Well, okay, dear. I’ll say a prayer for you.”

  That was Mom. “Thanks. Call you later, ’kay?”

  Jack shaved and dressed, all the while wondering about the timing of her dream. He checked his watch: fifteen minutes until his appointment. He would just make it.

  Chapter 3

  Jewel’s lashes fluttered open, vaguely aware of something cool pressed against her back. She tried to move, but gentle hands pushed her back, keeping her from rising.

  “Lie still. I’ll get you cleaned up . . . don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes brought on by kind words. She lay there feeling as if she was in a dream, the pain in her head so intense she felt nauseated. “Please,” she moaned. “I’m going to be sick.” She struggled to move, aware of the basin held beneath her chin.

  “Ah, love, another one of your headaches?”

  Before she could answer, her stomach lurched. The muscles repeatedly convulsed as the contents of her stomach emptied into the bowl. When the heaving subsided, she realized that Hunsdon was holding the hair back from her face and pressing the cool cloth to her lips.

  “Look at you. What a beautiful mess you are.” His voice broke with emotion.

  The pain of a headache made it hard to focus, but she didn’t need to see his face to know the contrite expression. Hunsdon smoothed her hair.

  “My beautiful, beautiful Jewel.” He rose and moved to her dresser, rummaging through the various bottles until he found the one he was looking for. He uncorked the flask, poured some into a glass of water, and handed her the reddish-brown liquid.

  She shook her head, the action causing the room to swim. “N-no, I can’t.”

  “Hush; of course you can.” The bed dipped beneath his weight as he sat beside her. “Here, you must. It will help you rest.” He eased the glass to her mouth and helped her drink.

  She shuddered as the bitterness touched the back of her throat, yet she knew she must obey. The liquid spilled down her chin and dribbled onto the sheet. When the last drop was gone, he eased her back and to her side, careful of her injuries. As he looked down at her, his gray eyes clouded with tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but he only mouthed the word, “Why?”

  Their eyes locked. A lump formed in her throat, making it hard to swallow.

  “I found your Bible—it pleases me that you turn to it for comfort. I know you don’t mean to be wicked.” He fondled a lock of her hair. “Beauty such as yours has been a curse to women since the days of Abraham.” The strand curled submissively under his touch. “Never fear, my darling. I will never let your soul be lost.” He eased closer and laid his head on her bare shoulder before continuing. “I struggled once, much as you do.”

  Hunsdon’s gaze traveled past her, staring at her, but not really seeing her. “Father said I was a wayward boy. Many times I thought he’d kill me before he taught me to master this sinful nature.”

  Tears coursed down his cheek, wet and cool against her skin. In some sad, strange way, she felt sorry for him. He was as much a victim as she, but she couldn’t bring herself to comfort him.

  “Mother was much like you. Beautiful, stubborn, defiant . . . but Father never gave up on her. Eventually, he broke her. In time, you’ll learn as well.” He continued to stroke her hair.

  Her heart twisted. Images filled her mind of abuse he had confided regarding his upbringing. She shuddered at atrocities his father had inflicted upon Hunsdon, his mother, and younger sister. In the beginning, she had tried to ex
plain the violence his family had been exposed to was not love—indeed, not of God. But he turned on her, teaching her the first of many lessons. From that point on, she studied Hunsdon much as one studied a book. She learned each nuance, each twitch that might reflect disapproval.

  If Father could see her now, his heart would break. He’d be sadder still to see a soul so twisted by man’s interpretation of a loving God. Her father was the gentlest man, a faithful minister of the gospel. That was why she knew she could never leave Hunsdon.

  Father would welcome her back home, she knew. But the stigma of her divorce would tarnish his reputation—she couldn’t allow that. His congregation would be appalled; a woman did not leave her husband for any reason. She set her lips in a grim line and resolved to trust God. He promised to make a way when there seemed to be none. She would trust Him.

  The effects of the laudanum began to dull her senses. Her head leaned against the pillow, and her eyes grew heavy. Of all her aches and pains, none troubled her more than her heart. Soon, that pain too started to fade as she drifted off in a cloud of warmth . . . sweet sleep welcomed her weary body.

  *****

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The microwave signaled Jack’s turkey dinner was ready. Reaching in, he grabbed it by the corner and tossed it to the counter before it could burn his fingers. He could never find the oven mitt when he needed it. He cracked open a Coke and slurped it as he rummaged through the drawer for a clean fork.

  Jack carried his dinner into the small downstairs area off the dining room that served as his office. Perhaps once, it may have been a servant’s quarters, but now it made a perfect place to store sketches, papers, and such. While renovating, he lived on the bottom floor to keep down the cost of heating. He made use of the formal dining room, converting it into a makeshift bedroom while the upstairs remained unused.

  Renovations were costly, even doing the work himself. It was a slow process, but well worth the effort. If this morning’s meeting was an indication, he might expect to begin work in the spring. The middle-age couple loved the pictures he’d shown from previous jobs.

  Jack did not often find clients enthusiastic when it came to restoration costs. They wanted to cut corners, take shortcuts. Most people did not want to pay for the high quality of his work. His quotes were often followed by the familiar eye-rolling and sharp whistles as potential clients scratched their heads and wrangled over the price.

  There had been no haggling over price today. Bill Wingfield had given free rein to his wife and her sincere desire to restore the historic home to its original glory. His new clients were the kind of people that it was a pleasure to work with. They knew exactly what they wanted. This made his job easier.

  Jack smiled when he thought of how the conversation had turned to the church. His mother would be happy to know they were Christians. They’d spent a great deal of time talking about church, especially the wife Brenda, who was rather chatty.

  In fact, they invited him to church this Sunday, First Baptist, on Court Street, where they were both members. He knew the magnificent church well, although he had never been there. It was built in 1886. He rode past it countless times with his mother when he was younger.

  The church was a great contrast from the small Baptist church he attended as a boy. His Sunday school class contained a total of four, including himself and the teacher—a sweet gray-haired lady with a penchant for memory work. Jack smiled, wondering how many verses he’d memorized in Mrs. Schwartz’s class.

  The small, whitewashed church with its black wrought-iron railing suddenly came to mind. It was far from fancy, and yet a calmness washed over him when he thought of the colorful, stained windows. It held more appeal than many larger, more elaborate churches he had attended in the years since. His family was present whenever those double doors opened, be it a covered dish, youth socials, or choir practice; it was all a part of his life and not a bit out of the ordinary.

  Jack peeled the lid back on the frozen entrée and tossed it into the trashcan beside his desk. He studied the unappealing glob of brown gravy and processed turkey. What kind of man still eats frozen dinners at your age? He thought of his best friend across town. Jeff was probably sitting down to a home-cooked dinner with his pretty wife, Cindy, and the kids.

  He shoved the green and white container back. Maybe he’d just run out and grab something. He glanced at his watch. It was never too late for takeout at the Tea Room—maybe a Cheesy Western and a bowl of their famous chili.

  Now where did I lay those keys? He patted himself down and slid several things around on his desk. He was deep in thought when suddenly, the cat startled him by pouncing onto the desk. She rubbed her head along his arm and meowed in a raspy voice.

  “How’d you get in here?” He rubbed her ear. “Off my papers. You’re getting cat hair on everything.” He gently shooed the cat away as her attention turned from him to his dinner. “I see what you want—well, you’re welcome to it.” He laughed.

  He glanced out the window, noting the darkness of early winter night. Long shadows stretched across the room while he hunted for his keys. He reached for the lamp. The bulb washed the darkened corners of the room with a fluorescent light. He stopped short when he heard a shuffling noise overhead. He looked up, noticing a hairline crack in the ceiling that needed repair.

  There . . . there it was again. Footsteps! His heart pounded. Was it her?

  The chair creaked as he rose and closed his fingers tightly around the baseball bat that rested against his office desk. He abandoned the now-cold dinner and the cat and started up the staircase.

  Despite his efforts to remain quiet, the steps protested loudly, groaning with age and added weight. The sound seemed magnified in the otherwise still house. He stopped on the landing to listen, straining his ears so long that he was sure they had grown an inch. Then he heard the sound again. It was coming from one of the bedrooms—the one that overlooked the garden. With care, he eased up the remaining stairs and waited outside the closed door.

  The blood pounded in his temples as he opened the door. It was cool, cooler than the downstairs and had that stale, musty smell of a room that had been shut-up for ages. Pale-peach streetlight spilled through the naked windows illuminating the scarred floor. Something else caught in the moonlight, something that made his breath stall.

  Chapter 4

  Jewel felt woozy. She had awoken an hour or so earlier and found the sky ablaze with a stunning display of color. The clouds glowed in a swirl of gold and reds before diminishing into a deep indigo. Her arms and legs felt as if they were made of stone. Why couldn’t she think? She blinked, trying to clear her mind. Had she been asleep all day? How much laudanum had Hunsdon given her? She could see the fire burning in the grate, and a covered tray sat on the table. Hunsdon must have been back several times. The scent of roast beef made her mouth water.

  A light gown, something that wouldn’t irritate her wounds, had been thoughtfully draped across the back of her dressing table. She ignored it for the moment and tried to stand. The room swayed. She gave herself a second before taking a few awkward steps toward the tray. Perhaps if she could eat something, it would clear her head.

  She pulled a small piece of cold beef off the platter, tasted it, then pinched off a larger piece, surprised by her appetite. The morsels were tender. She took several more, folding them into her mouth as she walked to the window. Outside, the moon rose and peeked from behind the trees, full and beautiful.

  Her movements were stiff and careful. She favored her back as she eased onto the cushioned window seat. This is where she spent countless hours overlooking the garden. The light from the window poured in during the day. It often cheered her to simply watch the daylight stream through the sheer yellow curtains. The sun’s warmth upon her cheek gave her courage, strength.

  She frowned as her leg brushed up against something. A book—her class annual? What on earth could that be doing here!

  She retrieved it from th
e cushion. The leather-bound book felt cool and smooth on the backside, rough with ridged lettering on the front. She traced the year with her fingertips: 1915—brooding over the two years since graduation. Her trembling fingers flipped through the pages, stopping when she reached her own picture. The face that gazed back at her appeared young—naive. She closed her eyes. “If only . . .”

  A movement at the door startled her. She looked up, expecting to find Hunsdon, but was shocked to see the strange man from the garden standing just inside the door. He looked equally startled. The comical expression of surprise might have made her laugh had he not been a total stranger standing in her bedroom door.

  He held out a hand, his eyes pleading with her. “Please, don’t scream.” He even dared to smile at her, revealing a slight dimple in his cheek. He was older than she first thought, tall, muscular, and dressed in much simpler clothes—denim pants and a shirt with a buttoned-down collar. She’d never seen its like before.

  “Don’t come any closer.” She pressed herself against the wall. The movement irritated the welts on her back, causing her to wince.

  His curious brown eyes regarded her openly, taking in her appearance. She found it unnerving. How dare he stare at her with such boldness! What made this man so presumptuous . . . forward?

  “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? You look like you’re in pain. Are you hurt?” he asked.

  Surprised and embarrassed by his uncanny perception, she noted the way his brows dipped. Was that concern? She wasn’t exactly sure why, but she sensed he wasn’t a danger. Still, it would never do to have Hunsdon find him here in her bedroom—worse, she had encouraged the staff to give him food.

  “Sir, I don’t know how you got in, but you need to leave at once. If my husband finds you, make no mistake, he will kill you.” Her chin tilted upward.

  “R-i-g-h-t.” He dragged the word out slowly. “Your husband? That sounds like a terrific idea. I’m sure he’s worried sick about you. You’re obviously not feeling yourself. You seem . . . hurt. Maybe a little confused . . . Let’s call him. I’m sure he's anxious to find you and take you home . . . or wherever it is you're staying.” Again, he regarded her, but she couldn’t read his thoughts.