Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Do you jest?” he finally demanded. His throat was so tight, he could barely utter the words.

  “No.” The woman shook her head, her dark brown eyes locked on his.

  Charlotte’s eyes. The very thought jolted him. No! He refused to even consider such a thing. Down that road lay madness.

  “I do not find this amusing, young lady,” he said harshly. “My daughter is dead.”

  He nearly jumped when a hand brushed his arm. He glanced down, and realized that Kendra had moved to his side.

  She asked, “Do you want me to escort her out?”

  He lifted his gaze to meet the American’s worried eyes.

  “Por favor… please.” The other woman lurched forward, raising the hand that had been pressed to her stomach. Palm up, fingers splayed. An entreating gesture. He noticed that her hand was trembling. “Please, I would like to tell you my story. I beg of you… I only ask for a very small amount of your time, and then if you order me to go, I will go.”

  “Don’t come any closer,” Kendra warned with a hard look pinning the stranger. She glanced at Aldridge. “Your Grace?”

  His gaze moved between Kendra and the creature calling herself his daughter. They both had Charlotte’s coloring, he realized. Black hair, brown eyes so dark they looked like onyx. They were both the age his daughter would have been. If she had lived. If her body hadn’t been swept out to sea, never to be found.

  Dear God in Heaven. His stomach churned and the world seemed to tilt around him. He remembered when Kendra had suddenly appeared in his study at Aldridge Castle. Alec had feared that the Duke’s affinity for the American had been due to her resemblance to Charlotte. But in that moment when she’d first appeared, he’d only been concerned, reacting to the panic he’d seen on her face. She’d been lost and frightened, and desperately trying to conceal both. He’d wanted to help her. Never once, not even for a moment, had he been so foolish as to think that she was his daughter.

  He wouldn’t play the fool now.

  Carlotta’s mouth quivered. “I-I am aware this is a shock—”

  He gave a sharp bark of laughter, the bitterness surprising even him. “Madame, this is a farce. I suggest you take yourself off before I call the watch.”

  Tears filled her eyes and her hand fell away. If she hadn’t evoked his daughter’s name, he would have felt sorry for her, much as he had for Kendra. Now, though, he had to keep his hands clenched, or else he may still give in to the desire to throttle her.

  “I had hoped you would spare me a few minutes,” she whispered tragically. Again, she pressed her hand to her stomach, but her fingers weren’t still. They began to tap nervously.

  “I will not spare one more second for you,” the Duke said. But his gaze was transfixed by her tapping fingers. Not a random pattern, he realized. One, two, three… Pause. One, two, three…

  Kendra advanced toward the other woman. “Come on. You’ve had your say.”

  “Please.” Carlotta threw a desperate look at him as Kendra’s hand closed over her arm.

  “Wait!”

  Aldridge barely recognized his own voice, it was so harsh. He was aware of Kendra’s eyes searching his face, but he ignored her, staring at Carlotta.

  “Why are you doing that? That! With your hand!” He forced himself to take a breath. “Why are you tapping your fingers in such a way?”

  “Oh.” She glanced down at her hand, as though surprised to find her fingers moving at all. She flushed, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. A nervous habit, I suppose. Superstition.”

  “Superstition in what way?” he demanded.

  She gave a self-conscious laugh, flexing her hand. “If you tap three times, it’s magic. ’Tis silly, I know. I don’t believe it’s truly magic, but…” She shrugged. “As I said, ’tis a habit that I’ve had since I was a small child. I don’t even remember how I came to do it.”

  Aldridge stared at her.

  Charlotte’s body was never found…

  “Your Grace?”

  Kendra was looking at him. He shook his head, his mind racing with possibilities. Charlotte’s eyes… Charlotte’s body was never found…

  “My daughter had a doll that she prized,” he finally managed to say. His eyes never left the woman’s delicate face. “If you are truly Charlotte as you claim, you ought to remember the doll’s name.”

  He heard Kendra’s swift intake of breath.

  Carlotta searched his face for a long moment, then she nodded. “Si. It was a long time ago, but I remember that doll. I loved her. Annie. My doll’s name was Annie.”

  The room spun. He felt like he’d drunk a full bottle of whiskey. He lifted a hand; it was shaking.

  “Your Grace?”

  Kendra’s voice seemed to come from far away. He stumbled forward, made it to his chair before his legs gave out and he abruptly sat down. He struggled to control his erratic breathing, to keep hold of his composure even though it felt like it was shattering into a million pieces. He thought he heard Kendra say something, but her voice was drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears.

  “I think,” he said carefully, his gaze on the stranger, “I would very much like to hear your story now.”

  * * *

  Something had changed, Kendra realized. Something that had to do with the woman’s habit of tapping her fingers. And the doll. She’d obviously guessed the correct name for Charlotte’s doll. What were the chances?

  What were the chances that this woman was actually Charlotte?

  She glanced at the Duke. A minute ago, his face had been flushed with anger. Now he’d lost every drop of color, his complexion gray. Concern propelled her across the room to where the decanters were scattered across the side table. She pulled out a stopper to one of the bottles and splashed a generous amount of brandy into a glass. She hesitated, then added brandy to another glass. Carrying both tumblers, she hurried across the room.

  “Here. Take it,” she said, handing him the glass. “Drink it.”

  His hand trembled violently as he grasped the crystal. She pivoted, walking to the woman who claimed to be Charlotte, and thrust the other glass at her. Surprise registered on the pretty face.

  “Oh. Gra—thank you.”

  Kendra noticed that the other woman’s hand was steady now. Apparently, she’d managed to calm her nerves. Or her earlier apprehension had been an act. Kendra’s jaw tightened.

  “Please sit down.” She gestured to a wingback chair. “We might as well get comfortable. I assume this is going to be a long story?”

  If Carlotta heard the sarcastic edge in Kendra’s voice, she gave no indication. She sank down into the chair, looking small and fragile. Deliberately, Kendra eased a hip on the corner of the Duke’s desk. It was a strategic position meant to align herself with the Duke, to show the other woman that he wasn’t alone.

  She said, “Miss Garcia Desoto—”

  “Missus,” Carlotta corrected, long dark lashes fluttering. “I was married. M-my husband died.”

  Kendra raised her eyebrows. She was surprised, still sometimes caught by surprise by the era’s societal standards. She and Carlotta looked to be the same age, and Kendra was well aware that she was dangerously close to sliding into spinster territory. Most twenty-six-year-old women were not only married but also mothers. And in this grim, pre-vaccination world, many had already buried children.

  “Tell us why you believe you are my daughter, if you please,” the Duke said abruptly.

  Kendra glanced down at him, pleased to see that his color had returned to normal.

  “I’ll take notes,” she said, straightening. She shot Carlotta a warning look. “I want names, dates, details.”

  Carlotta drew in a long breath. “I was a child, you understand. There is much I do not remember.”

  Convenient, Kendra thought, but remained quiet.

  The Duke handed Kendra sheets of foolscap and a graphite stick.

  “Thank you,” she said, and moved to a chair. She motioned to C
arlotta. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Tell us what you do remember.”

  “Mamá…” Carlotta frowned, then glanced at the Duke. “Forgive me, but I shall always think of the woman who raised me as my mother.”

  The Duke took a sip of brandy, nodding. “I understand.”

  “Mamá said I was found floating unconscious on a piece of wreckage by the crew of La Rosa Negra. Diego Garcia was the ship’s captain. He brought me to San Sebastian. I was quite ill with brain fever. Mamá nursed me back to health.”

  “What’s your mother’s name?” Kendra asked.

  “Camila.”

  “And her connection to Captain Garcia?”

  “She was married to Captain Garcia’s brother.”

  “Your father?” Kendra clarified.

  “I never thought of him as my father. I scarcely remember him. He died two years after I was found.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Raul.”

  Kendra scribbled the name down. “How did he die?”

  Carlotta frowned. “Why does this matter? It was so long ago.”

  The devil was always in the details. The best way to trip up a con artist was to collect as many details as possible.

  She bared her teeth in a smile. “Everything matters.”

  Carlotta regarded her for a moment, then shrugged. “He was a bricklayer. I think it was an accident at work, but… I was so young. I only know what Mamá told me.”

  “Okay. After you recovered from your illness, why didn’t you tell them who you were? You spoke English, so they must have known you were English. Even with the language barrier, surely, they would have understood your name, that you had family in England.”

  The small chin lifted; the gesture haughty. “Mamá spoke English. I told them my name when I recovered my wits. However, they could not bring me home.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was terrible upheaval,” she said simply.

  “War,” the Duke clarified, meeting Kendra’s eyes. “Spain and France had joined forces against Britain in 1796—the year Charlotte… when she was lost.”

  The Anglo-Spanish war. It rang a distant bell. Kendra remembered the conflict from European history classes she’d taken at Princeton.

  “Captain Garcia would not have been welcomed in England,” Carlotta said softly. “Mamá never spoke of this directly, but I think he was a privateer. Or perhaps a smuggler. I believe that was why he was sailing near England at the time.”

  Kendra glanced at the Duke, curious to see how he was taking her story. His expression was impossible to decipher, but it was as though he didn’t dare look away, for fear that she’d vanish like a puff of smoke. Kendra’s stomach knotted.

  “I think he brought me to Spain for another reason, too,” Carlotta said.

  With an effort, Kendra pulled her gaze away from the Duke to refocus on the other woman.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Mamá was childless. She wanted children. Wanted me.” With a burst of defiance, as though daring them to contradict her, Carlotta insisted, “She loved me.”

  Kendra looked down at her notes. She said, “We’ll need Captain Garcia’s address.”

  Carlotta shook her head. “He was killed when Napoleon captured San Sebastian.”

  “What about the crew of the La Rosa Negra?”

  “I… I don’t know. Mamá and I left San Sebastian before the city fell.” Carlotta lifted the brandy glass, took a cautious sip. “I remember very little of our time in San Sebastian. Only fragments. In many ways, it feels like a dream.”

  Kendra asked, “Where did you go?”

  “Eventually Madrid.”

  The Duke leaned forward. “How did you survive? Did you have family to take you in?”

  “No. No family. Mamá worked.”

  Kendra searched the other woman’s face for subterfuge. “Where did she work?”

  “A panadería—a bakery. A sweet shop. A laundry.” She shrugged. “Many places.”

  “Can you be more specific? The name of the bakery or laundry would be helpful.” Kendra raised a brow. “You must remember a name.”

  “I’m sorry, no. I was a child. I remember the smell of the bread, and Mamá sneaking me pan basico.” A smile flickered on her face, and then was gone. She lowered her gaze back to the brandy she held. “Mamá found a… a protector.”

  Carlotta peered at the Duke through veiled lashes. He said nothing; his face remained expressionless.

  “Who?” Kendra asked. “What was his name?”

  But Carlotta shook her head. “I only know he was a wealthy merchant. For a time, we lived in a lovely house with servants. I had a governess.”

  “You lived with this wealthy merchant, but you don’t know his name?” Kendra didn’t bother to conceal her skepticism.

  Carlotta’s jaw tightened; her dark eyes flashed at Kendra. “We did not live with him. He had his own family. He gave us a house—for a time. Mario. Mamá called him Mario.”

  The Duke took another swallow of his brandy, his gaze shadowed. “How old were you at this time?”

  “I was thirteen when Mamá… when the affair was over, and we moved to Seville.”

  “Why did you move?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Mamá found work as a modista.”

  The Duke brought up a good point, Kendra thought. “Why did you move around so much?”

  “Spain was at war…” She shrugged. “But I do not know. I was a child.”

  “At thirteen, no longer a child. Weren’t you curious?”

  “She was my mother. I didn’t question her decisions.”

  Kendra tapped the graphite stick against the paper. But it reminded her of Carlotta’s strange tapping habit and she stopped. “Neighbors? Friends? You must have had some.”

  “Of course. But, as you said, we moved often. It is difficult to maintain connections.”

  Kendra didn’t like it. But perhaps it wasn’t unreasonable. People here wrote letters, for Christ’s sake. As far as Kendra was concerned, that was hard enough during peacetime. She couldn’t imagine people maintaining long-distance relationships in a time of war.

  “We lived in Seville for two years. Then Mamá married Jorge, and we moved with him to Barcelona. He was a soldier.” She shot a combative look in Kendra’s direction. “He was also killed in one of the battles.”

  “What was Jorge’s last name?”

  “Cortez.”

  “Any relatives? Friends? Fellow soldiers?”

  Carlotta sipped her brandy. “I’m certain he had all of those, but he and Mamá were married only two years. And it was war.”

  “You’ve had a tragic life,” Kendra murmured neutrally.

  Carlotta said nothing, merely looked at her with an unreadable expression.

  Kendra went on, “Tell me about your late husband.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Carlotta nodded. “I met Fernando when I was seventeen. He was a good husband. He provided for me and Mamá until she died.”

  “When did she die?”

  “The year I turned twenty.” Carlotta’s face changed, softening with memories and sorrow. “It was on her deathbed that she begged Fernando to bring me to England…” She looked at the Duke. “To find you.”

  “What did your husband do?” Kendra pressed.

  “He was a carpenter.”

  “Your husband was aware of your claim to be Charlotte?” Kendra asked. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was buying her story.

  “My husband knew who I was,” Carlotta replied evenly. “He wanted to bring me home.”

  “Six years ago.”

  “We had no money for smugglers to bring us to England. My husband had people in Toledo, but he… he died on the journey there. It took me another three years, but I finally managed to buy passage to England.”

  “Where did you work?”

  She shrugged. “At a ba
kery for a time, a dressmaker’s shop as a seamstress.”

  “Quite a story,” Kendra said, offering her a tight smile.

  Carlotta eyed her. “You don’t believe me,” she said flatly.

  The Duke, who’d been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke up. “What do you remember about your life here?”

  She shifted her gaze to look at the Duke. “Only bits and pieces. Annie, of course. And a woman with dark hair. Laughter like church bells. It’s hazy, but… lavender. I smell lavender.” She tilted her face up, and closed her eyes, smiling slightly. She opened her eyes. “It’s a happy memory.”

  “And I remember… you,” Carlotta continued quietly. “But only like a dream. The scent of tobacco. The laboratory. You let me help you there. You carried me to the roof of the castle and allowed me to look through a telescope at the stars. Orion, Scorpius, Pegasus. I remember that.”

  “My God,” the Duke breathed, his gaze fixed on Carlotta. His hand shook as he set down his glass. He stood abruptly. “Can this be true?”

  Kendra saw the wild glimmer in his eyes, and felt the air evaporate from her lungs. She scrambled to her feet, tossing aside the paper and graphite stick.

  “Can we take a minute? We need to take a minute here, Your Grace.”

  She stepped toward him, reaching out to grasp his arm. She tried to capture his gaze, but his eyes remained locked on Carlotta.

  “Charlotte?” he said. “Good God, is it really you?”

  5

  Your Grace—” Kendra tried.

  The Duke kept his blue gaze fixed on Carlotta. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Royal Oak Inn in Ealing.”

  “Sir.” Kendra had a horrible suspicion where this was going. She tried to catch the Duke’s eye again. “Can I speak to you? Privately.”

  The Duke ignored her. “Do you have a maid or chaperone with you?”

  “I hired a criada—a maid—for the journey, but I could not continue to engage her services.” Carlotta lifted a hand, palm up in a helpless gesture. “She has returned to Spain. I know it is not proper, but I am a married woman—a widow.”