Ruth’s oldest daughter, Sukey, put her girls, three teenagers, in charge of setting the tables, no small task. All the families would pitch in with the clearing and washing afterward.
Marley’s thoughts returned to Bronson. She hadn’t seen either him or Ray all morning. Were they at the ship?
When the delectable dishes began to make their way to the tables, she looked around anxiously for the men. Ashanti had enlisted helpers to pile the meats onto platters on serving tables, and now the turkeys sat there as well, waiting to be carved.
And, in that way Bronson had—that she’d come to rely on—he appeared just when she needed him most.
He sat atop a cart stacked with crates. In the back, she saw Ray facing the other direction, sitting beside a silver-haired man. As they arrived just outside the clearing—which by now was not particularly clear—Marley walked to meet them. He saw her, and his face lit up as he raised a hand to her.
She hesitated, unsure how to help. Ashanti hurried forward to meet them. By now, Camisha, too, had arrived, and she watched the men. “Oh, that’s Godfrey. You’ll love him.”
Between Bronson and Rashall, they had already helped the other man down. Marley could see he was perhaps Thomas Trelawney’s age—but he was slim and quite spry. He smiled at Ashanti and gave a genteel bow, leaning lightly on a walking stick. Ashanti offered him his arm, and he accepted it.
Bronson drove the cart around the cabins to the meeting house. There, he loosened the horse and tied it at a hitching post near the meeting house. He stopped and washed up at the well, then found Marley again, leading her to the new arrival.
“Mr. Hastings, may I introduce to you Miss Hastings. Hm. Truth to tell, I wasn’t anticipating how that would sound until it was almost out.”
The fellow had a courtly demeanor that instantly calmed Marley’s nerves. He bent over her hand, lightly taking it in both of his before releasing it. “What a pleasure to meet you, dear. Please, call me Hastings.”
“I’m Marley.”
He straightened, his pale eyes keen on her. He leaned forward, taking her chin firmly and tilting her face, peering, his other hand pushing away the hair that always dangled at her cheekbone. His thumb brushed at the crescent-shaped scar at the corner of her eye, and he blinked, his eyes dampening. He let the tear fall unheeded as he spoke, his voice a whisper. “Marley? Are you my lost Merrilea? You ran away from me that day, and I could not catch you quick enough.”
“That’s my given name,” she said, confused at his cryptic words. “But I …”
She remembered her grandmother’s lie. Godfrey Hastings is your great-grandfather, dear.
It could not be. It was simply a coincidence.
“You’re Merrilea?”
The booming voice beside her came from Camisha. She turned to look at her in surprise, and she nodded.
“Rachel’s sister? Juliana’s sister?”
Marley and Camisha stared at each other in disbelief—Camisha, from observing the truth, Marley, from her knowing it.
“Your name is not Hastings, Merrilea. Who told you it was?” This came from Hastings.
She turned back to him. “My grandmother, Hannah Hastings.”
His lips pressed tightly together. “I see.” He reached to grasp her hand once more and kissed it. “Let us give this some time, my dear, and enjoy the festivities. After all, I am old and at the moment quite hungry for Ashanti’s delectable meats. And Ruth’s delicious blackberry wine.”
Marley smiled at the thought. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
Camisha waited, lightly rubbing her back with affection. “All right, you’re off the hook for now, but we are going to talk.”
He laughed. “Come, child. May I have the pleasure of your escort for this gracious bounty which we are about to receive?”
Again came that fearful emptiness that had troubled her when she first suspected the identity of the Lost Sea Captain.
And she felt the smallest piece of the inexplicable slip comfortingly into place. Who was she to say what could not be, what was not possible? She had before her the evidence otherwise.
Chapter Thirty
Marley sat at Hastings’ right hand, and Bronson sat at hers. Open bottles of wine stood on every table, and Bronson filled Hastings’ glass, then hers, then Ray’s—on his right—then, finally, his own.
Marley had not yet had children, so she did not know that it was possible to fall in love at first sight with one’s own flesh and blood. But if indeed this old gentleman were any relation to her, she now knew the feeling. From his first finicky request for a finger bowl before tackling the ribs, to his dry quips at the endless jokes of Ray-shell, as he called him, he kept her laughing so steadily that she only sipped her wine when she could see his mouth was full, for fear of spitting it all over. He ate with the impeccable grace of the well-bred Englishman he had clearly once been, from his regal accent, but he enthusiastically enjoyed the uniquely American dishes—ribs, collard greens, candied sweet potatoes, oyster stuffing, green beans seasoned with onions and Virginia ham, crabcakes—and finally sweet potato pie.
Bronson continued to refill their glasses, but she sipped slowly, wanting to savor and remember every moment of this day. He refilled Ray’s glass. “Here you are, Ray-shell.”
Hastings laughed lightly. “Well it is his name, after all.”
“It’s Ruh-shawl,” Marley said.
“He was named after Rachel.” After he sipped his wine, he hiccupped. Then he nodded sagely at Marley. “Your sister.”
She glanced at Bronson and Rashall, and they all giggled together.
Ray took the remaining bottle and placed it beside him. “I’ll keep this safe. I think you’ve had plenty, Sir Talks-a-lot.”
“Shonny! Shonny!” The cry came from Parks, who sat near the other end of the table with her mother. “Ray, do you have Shonny?”
“No, I thought he was with you.”
In a moment, Camisha was on her feet, and the rest joined them.
Marley looked about. After several minutes of searching, she glanced out at the old Rosalie ruins. Was there someone there? Much more of the old plantation home still stood than would remain in the twenty-first century. Three of the four walls still rose three stories high, and the place was a death trap. She was sure that each time a good windy storm came through, a little more of the old girl gave up the ghost; that’s how these old treasures, left to their own devices, slowly reverted back to the soil.
She hurried toward the ruins to check. She didn’t mention seeing anything—it could’ve simply been a bobcat, or her eyes playing tricks on her.
When she was only a few dozen feet away, she saw the child, playing near the entryway, dancing up and down happily. She picked up her skirts and ran, calling Camisha as she ran. “I see him! I’ve got him! Shonny!”
The boy looked back at her, his face beaming with delight. “Look, Marley! A little girl, just my own size!”
“Stop him, Marley—hold onto him! Don’t let him go in there.” This from Ruth, a shrill shriek.
Just as the child was about to totter through the arched entryway, Marley grabbed his shirt.
“See?”
“Shonny, there’s no little girl—”
And she stopped, her breath leaving her. For just inside the house, waving gaily at Shonny, was the transparent silhouette of a little girl that grew more easy to see, the longer Marley looked. A cold winter breeze passed across her, cutting through the warm sun and making her shiver.
She stood still, staring at the child, and she began to see details around her, but what she saw was the child standing in the same place where they stood—outside the ruins, looking in. What was this place where they stood?
And the longer she stared, the better she saw her.
At last she recognized the little girl, because she’d seen her portrait in Thomas Trelawney’s bedroom in Williamsburg. His beloved granddaughter, Emily.
But … no. She strongly resembled her, but it wasn’
t quite her. She wore modern clothing; her hair was darker. Marley smiled at the apparition and waved at her.
The child waved back.
Camisha arrived behind them. “What—” She caught her own breath as she, too, saw the little girl.
Marley whispered. “Could she be a ghost?”
Camisha grabbed her grandson, pulling him back against her, and Marley drew closer to the boy.
The little girl jumped up and down, waving her arms. So did Shonny. The little girl, dressed in jeans and a frilly shirt, curtsied. Shonny giggled and bowed deeply. He held out his hand as if to ask her to dance.
“Emily?” Camisha said, her voice tremulous with emotion.
The child beamed back at her and shook her head. She looked over her shoulder, calling someone.
A young, blonde woman, perhaps in her early thirties, arrived behind the little girl, grabbing her. The child pointed to Shonny. The young woman nervously moved away from the arched entryway, as suspicious of it as Camisha.
The young woman peered at Camisha. Carefully, she mouthed a word, her eyebrows knit.
“Cammie?”
Camisha nodded with a smile.
The woman was overcome with emotion, and she touched her chest. “I’m Emily.”
Camisha laughed joyfully. “Child, you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. I know your daddy must be proud of you and your family.”
Marley wasn’t sure how much the young woman understood; they could only see each other, not hear. Shonny wasn’t happy with any of these developments, and he waved his arms gleefully again, making the little girl laugh.
Then, on the woman’s other side, another woman arrived. She was older, perhaps Camisha’s age. She frowned as she stared into the entryway, then her mouth dropped open as she, too, realized who she was seeing.
“Oh, dear God!” Camisha cried, her voice catching. Her hand covered her own mouth, as she tried to control her own emotion.
The woman who stood with one slender hand on her daughter, and the other on her granddaughter, was older, much older, than she had been the last time Camisha had seen her. Within the riot of black curls—in her usual French twist—were threads of gray, and she wore tailored slacks and a turtleneck and blazer.
The two women stared at each other, tears filling their eyes as they gazed at each other for the first time in nearly thirty years.
Marley could not have known this, but Camisha knew it in a single glance: In the first twenty-eight years of her life, this woman had known more horror, more pain than most people ever knew. But in the years since then, joy had become her companion, and it had been kind to her, finding its place in the few lines on her face. Now, the delight of seeing her dearest friend—lost to her for all time—filled her face with equal joy and pain.
How badly each woman yearned to hold the other in her arms. Just once more, please?
And each woman knew she dare not pass that threshold, or all she had come to hold dear might be lost.
Silently Camisha passed Shonny’s hand into Marley’s, and Marley scooped him up silently. Curiously, the boy watched his grandmother playing with her friend as he had with his.
“Rachel!” Camisha cried out, that same joy they both had known in their different lives spilling out in her tears. “How I want to hug you!”
The other woman nodded, touching her own heart as tears overcame her.
Still they neither heard anything, but they both laughed in their tears.
And Camisha took the smallest step forward.
Rachel did the same.
Camisha reached out, her hand trembling, to the midway point in the entryway.
Rachel as well.
They both pressed their hands forward until they touched—their hands clearly visible to all there, the pale skin gripping the black skin in the solidarity of unshakable friendship.
And at that moment, all the sounds, all the colors, all the richness of the other worlds where they both had once lived came to life, as real as the place where they lived now. Marley and Camisha saw the early autumn leaves and an overcast day in the Rosalie where Rachel lived, and Rachel saw the shades of brown and the setting sun in Camisha’s world.
“I miss you, my dearest friend,” Camisha cried out.
“I miss you so much. I’ll always love you, Camisha.”
“I love you, too, Rae.”
Marley heard their voices echoing softly through time, as if in her own memory.
“Rachel, this is your sister, Merrilea,” Camisha said, still holding her friend’s hand.
Rachel’s gaze swept her in astonishment. “Merri?” she cried. “I must see you, talk to you. Honey, I just want so much to hug you.”
But Marley knew, even as she stared at the graceful sister she’d missed for so many years, that there was something about this time portal that made such a thing impossible. Why was Rachel so much older than she? She was farther along into the future, now.
They were looking into the time portal of Rachel’s life. She was looking into the time portal of Camisha’s, where Marley had lived only a few weeks.
The inevitable consequences and progression of each person’s distinct timeline must explain why Nan suddenly looked so much younger, Marley thought.
Nan must have been born in this time! And she had aged in another—but when she returned to her rightful time period, she returned to her actual age.
All of it became possible in this new reality only because Rachel and her family had come to visit Rosalie, and her granddaughter happened to stand still before the portal, at the exact same moment that Camisha’s grandson happened to stand still before the portal. Both had stood there long enough to see its images materialize; at first, Marley had seen nothing. The longer Marley and Camisha had stood before the portal, the clearer the images grew.
But it was the innocence of children, dawdling and staring off into space, able to believe the impossible, that opened the portal and enabled their loved ones to see.
“Look, Merri—do you remember this? Show her the locket, Em.”
Marley carefully leaned close as the young woman withdrew the heart-shaped locket from so many years ago, and Marley couldn’t speak. The piece was exactly as she remembered it. Emily turned over the locket, and Marley blinked to clear her eyes of tears, and the words came into focus. As time is, so beats our hearts—tender, immortal, forever.
“Here’s one of the portraits!” Marley removed the portrait from the pillbox and showed her. “This is the only one I have—but I’m so thankful I do.”
Then, as she watched, another person appeared behind Rachel—a man, taller even than she, with curling, graying black hair. His hand rested on Rachel’s shoulder in easy familiarity. Despite his age, he was handsome and serious, and Marley needed no introduction. She’d met his father in Williamsburg, a man he resembled strikingly. He stood there in expectant confusion as his own vision cleared and he saw into the portal, and a surprised smile burst over his face. “Camisha Carlyle!”
“Grey Trelawney, you’re still as handsome as sin. And it’s Camisha Adams now, you’ll recall.”
Rachel waved at Marley. “Please, Merri! Try to find a way. Malcolm Henderson must know a way. He would not have allowed you to go back in time, were it not possible. What did he tell you? Did you go through this portal?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name. I was lost in a shipwreck in the Caribbean. I woke up in Bronson Trelawney’s ship.”
“Then you came here for a reason that has to do with Bronson—he’s my husband’s younger brother. My friend Jennie died giving birth to him. Thomas’s wife. Merri, take care. We all know such things are nonsense, but some there believe he was born under a curse. The men all die before the age of thirty.”
Marley felt the blood drain from her face.
“What?” Rachel asked, alarmed.
“Do you remember his birthday?”
“Ask him. It was near the beginning of July. It was just before we traveled
back to the twenty-first century.”
And then she remembered Ruth’s diary. It was still here. Bronson’s fate wasn’t yet written. She tried in vain to remember the exact dates of what she’d read. None of them came to her; when she’d read them, she was captured by the story, not the dates. Some historian you turned out to be!
“Merri, where have you been? Where did you grow up?”
“With our—Shonny, no!” The child broke free, and in a moment, Camisha released Rachel to stop her grandson from falling into another time. She fell to her knees, catching the boy who howled with frustration.
And when she and Marley looked up again, everyone in the portal had vanished. Her complete focus on the child she loved had broken the supernatural connection.
Camisha soothed the boy. Marley continued to stare into the ruins of Rosalie—the archaeologist in her wanting more than anything to investigate further. There was still so much left of the grand plantation home that would decay over the next two and a half centuries. Through the entryway, she saw a pile of materials, many rotted away over the past thirty years. She had no way of knowing that those materials were the same roof that had collapsed on Grey, Rachel, and Emily in the moments they escaped this time and traveled headlong into the twenty-first century.
Then, farther along the wall, where the upper level had collapsed and broken through the ruins, she noted a peculiar artifact. It looked almost like a newspaper section. She moved toward the opening in the wall.
“Marley, don’t!”
“No, I won’t go in. I just want to see …”
She cast a glance about her and found a sturdy section of fallen limb. Bracing her foot on the limb, she broke off a branch and used it to shove at the stone concealing the rest of the artifact. These stones, these bricks, would have fallen from the level directly above—where bedrooms could have looked out on the woods at the rear entry of the house.
With some leverage, she pushed the stone away, and the artifact fell out onto the leaves gathered at the base of the ruins.
“Oh, Marley, it’s the newspaper.”
Confused at Camisha’s astonishment, Marley bent to grasp the fragile section of newspaper. Only the heavy stones had protected it from the destruction of nature.
Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2) Page 25
