How little it took for me to forgive him.
“I was on my way out the door,” he explained, “when my solicitor arrived unexpectedly, needing me to sign something. I couldn’t turn him away.” Captain Fraser glanced up at the sky. “Will you come into my coach, Miss Hughes? I wish to spend time with you. I was hoping we could walk together, but it looks like rain.”
“I really should start for home,” I said, “or I will be late, and Mother will worry.”
“Allow me to drive you.”
I hesitated and pulled my shawl even tighter about me. “She doesn’t know we are together. I don’t want her to feel the need to start setting rules, forbidding me to walk alone, unchaperoned.”
My walks had never been a problem before—not as far as my mother was concerned—and I don’t know why I was making a fuss about it today. I suppose I was still recovering from my hurt feelings over the past hour, when I had slowly come to the conclusion that the great love of my life had brushed me off.
Captain Fraser strode closer and reached me on top of the dune. My pulse quickened, for there was a constant physical longing inside me that could not be satisfied, especially when he stood a mere arm’s length away.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked, and the troubled, regretful look in his eyes broke me completely. I realized I was soft putty in his hands, but I didn’t care. Not as long as I mattered to him.
“Yes, I forgive you,” I replied on a sigh, “because it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry if I was angry. I was disappointed, that’s all. I didn’t know why you weren’t here. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten me. I fear I may be too young for you. There is a fourteen-year age difference between us, sir. Perhaps I am not worldly enough.”
His head drew back as if I had swung a punch at him. “Too young? Not worldly enough? My darling Miss Hughes—that is what I love most about you. Your youth and innocence. You have charmed me completely. You make me feel more alive than ever before, and you have helped me to remember how to laugh, and to recognize and not take for granted how remarkable our world is. I am constantly moved by your fascination with a colorful seashell, for instance.” He waved a hand through the air. “Or the movement of a wispy cloud, fast across the sky. Forgotten you? Never, Miss Hughes. I live for our walks on the beach.”
Emotion rose up within me, and I could have wept at the sound of those words on his lips. I took a desperate step forward and suddenly found myself spilling out my whole heart to him.
“I live for them, too, Captain Fraser. If you must know, I miss you all the time. I think of you day and night. And when you didn’t come today, I was so afraid this was over—as if I had been wrenched awake, out of a perfect dream. I don’t know what I would have done if you wanted to end it.”
He laid a hand on my cheek, and I inhaled sharply at the contact, for this was the first time he had touched me, aside from offering his arm or a gloved hand to assist me in some way. The captain had behaved with perfect propriety over the past eight weeks.
Until this moment…
“I feel it too, Miss Hughes,” he said, his voice husky and low. “And I am afraid I cannot go on like this much longer.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, terrified that he was about to put a stop to this. That he was going to tell me I was too young for him, or too emotional. Too demanding.
“I mean that you have become everything to me,” he said, “and I am completely besotted—and utterly, woefully, heartbreakingly in love with you.”
I bit my lip to stifle a cry of delight, and before I knew what was happening, he had gathered me into his arms and pressed his lips to mine.
Pleasure radiated through me and I felt transported, as if I were rising up on a floating cloud. I’d never been kissed like that before—with passion and ferocity. I’d only been kissed by one boy in a childish experiment outside the fish market in Boston. I had been fourteen at the time.
That was nothing like this. Today, I was being kissed by a real man who knew how to hold me, how to make me open up to him, how to seduce me completely.
His lips parted, and even though a part of me knew this was wicked and dangerous—and if anyone saw us, my reputation would be reduced to rubble—I couldn’t say no to him. There was nothing in the world that could keep me from the pleasure of his touch and the ecstasy of knowing that he loved me. I would have done anything for him in that moment. I would have given him everything—my heart, my body, and my soul.
Perhaps he already owned it.
When he stepped back, he left me trembling and dizzy. My lips parted. My eyes opened wide as saucers. I blinked up at him, half thinking this was a dream.
“Miss Hughes.” He took both my gloved hands in his and rubbed the pads of his thumbs across my knuckles. “From the moment I stepped out of my coach and saw you on the road, shivering and drenched to the bone, I knew I was done for. I believe I fell in love with you in that instant, before you spoke a single word. It was like a lightning bolt, and I am still in its grip.” His eyes lifted and his hypnotic, blue-eyed gaze met mine. “I’ve been alone in that big house of mine for many years, because I have never found a woman who has inspired me to pursue her, unreservedly. I feel as if I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and it boggles my mind that we have only just met.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I want very much to have you with me, at my side, so that I can be content at last, with the woman I am destined to love. I believe you are that woman, Miss Hughes, and that we are meant to be together, forever. Until the end of time.”
My chest was heaving. I could barely breathe.
“I wish to ask you a very important question,” he continued, “but first I must ask your father for his permission and his blessing. Is he at home today?”
I nodded frantically. “Yes, he is.”
“Then would you permit me to drive you home and speak with him? Please tell me now if this is not what you want. If that is so, I will understand and say no more about it. But if you have feelings for me, Miss Hughes… If what you say is true—that you miss me when we are apart…” He regarded me lovingly while the savage ocean breezes swirled around us, and my heart exploded with happiness.
“Would you make me the luckiest man alive, and be my wife?”
I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in the firm wall of his chest. “Yes, Captain Fraser! Yes!”
He clasped my body tightly to his. “Then it is time, my darling Evangeline, for you to start calling me Sebastian.”
I drew back to lay my gloved hand upon his cheek. “Nothing would make me happier. Now, please, let us go. You must speak with my father before you change your mind.”
“Never,” Sebastian said. And like the perfect gentleman he was, he offered his arm and escorted me down the slope of the sandy dune to the path that would take us to his coach.
Chapter Thirty
On New Year’s Eve, 1878, with giant snowflakes falling from the sky like confetti, I married my one true love.
The ceremony was a simple affair in the Cape Elizabeth Chapel, with only our closest friends and family in attendance. This included my parents, a few special aunts and uncles, Sebastian’s sisters and their families from Portland, and Mr. Harvey, the lighthouse keeper.
I wore a white velvet wedding gown with a fur muff instead of flowers, and a matching mantle of soft white rabbit fur. After the ceremony, our guests and the minister followed us to Sebastian’s home for an intimate reception and dinner, where toasts and speeches were delivered. Then we all danced until midnight to ring in the New Year.
Much champagne was consumed, but it did not dull my senses, for I was jubilant the whole night long, and not the least bit tired when it came time to say goodnight to our guests and retire to my husband’s bedchamber. As man and wife—at last.
o0o
The first day of 1879 dawned majestically before my eyes, for I was transformed. I was now a married woman, and pleasure took on a whole new meaning for me. When I rose fr
om bed that morning, donned my robe and gazed out the frosty window at the cold, winter sea, I was warmed by the sensation of Sebastian’s arms around me as he joined me there to watch the sunrise. Soon, we climbed beneath the covers again, fell back to sleep, and woke up to breakfast in bed.
By noon, a frigid wind rattled the glass panes and snow mixed with ice-pellets began to fall. As cozy as we were in bed, it was difficult to believe that a severe winter storm was beginning its violent assault across the state.
Temperatures dropped to record levels, and three feet of snow fell in a twenty-four-hour period.
What was there to do as newlyweds, but remain in our warm bed until it was time to dig ourselves out?
o0o
Over the next two years, I bore my husband two healthy, beautiful children—a boy, Nathan, and a girl, Amelie—and we were as happy as any family could be. Sebastian’s shipping company continued to prosper, and most days, I felt as if I were living in a picture-perfect dream, for I never imagined I could be so deeply and passionately loved. Everything felt right and as it should be. I must have been thoroughly blessed indeed, for he was not only my best friend and my lover, but the one true mate of my soul.
Katelyn
Chapter Thirty-one
For three nights in a row, I used the information I had gleaned online about lucid dreams and astral projection, and went to bed straining to recall another life: the one I had seen as I flew over the handlebars of my bicycle, in which I had a son named Logan. But each morning I woke from a dreamless sleep—or at least it seemed that way. If I dreamed, I could not remember, and unlike what happened to Sylvie, I did not wake with new knowledge or wisdom about my existence, or my true destiny in this lifetime. Everything was the same. I was still Katelyn Roberts, recently divorced television reporter who was probably insane because she yearned to have her imaginary son back.
Bailey was supportive as always, but there wasn’t much she could do to help me. The best we could do was try to enjoy our summer vacation together in Maine.
And so, we went down to breakfast each morning in the dining room at the inn, socialized with the other guests, then spent the day at the beach or touring the area. We visited the Henry Wadsworth-Longfellow House in Portland, and afterward, went shopping for clothes and souvenirs.
On another day, we visited the Portland Head Light Museum, where Captain Fraser’s wife had been swept off the rocks over a century before. It was a stunning, ruggedly beautiful location on a point of land that jutted out into the ocean, and as we went through the displays inside the museum—a large Victorian dwelling built in 1891—I found myself intensely moved by the history of the place. I read about the shipwrecks and storms and stories of adventure, and about all the lighthouse keepers who had dedicated their days and nights to keeping the tower lit—and to warning others of danger on the rocks.
Afterward, Bailey and I went outside. We stood at the fence and looked out over the jagged coastline to the blissfully calm sea beneath a bright blue sky. Still curious about so many things, I approached one of the attendants.
“Can you tell me where Captain Fraser’s wife was standing when she was swept off the rocks in 1881?” I asked. “There was only a brief mention of it inside.”
“We’re not sure exactly,” the woman replied, “but we think she might have been standing over there.” She pointed down at a small cove, north of the tower. “We have no idea why she would have been down there on such a cold winter morning. Her husband and the assistant lighthouse keeper were nearby, which must have been an awful thing for them to witness.”
“For certain,” Bailey said as she lifted her sunglasses to look down at the rocks.
I moved slowly along the fence. “It’s hard to imagine something like that happening today, when the water is so calm. It looks harmless down there.”
“It’s a very different sight during rough weather,” the attendant told me, “especially when the tide is in. It’s terrifying to see how violent the ocean can become. Poor Mrs. Fraser wouldn’t have stood a chance, especially in the winter. She was from Boston, I believe, so she didn’t grow up in Cape Elizabeth. She might not have understood how unpredictable the ocean can be.”
Later, Bailey and I took the “cliff walk” and enjoyed the rest of the park, and as usual, ended up on a blanket at Crescent Beach with our books and sunscreen.
That night, after we said goodnight to the other guests at the inn, retired to our rooms and got into our pajamas, I turned on the local Portland news. But then Bailey showed up at my door with two tiny bottles of Baileys Irish Cream and a couple of bubble base tumblers.
“Interested?” she asked, holding them up with a smile. “It’s my namesake drink.”
I chuckled. “I certainly don’t need the calories, and you are a terrible influence…but definitely yes.” I stepped back, invited her in and shut off the television.
She poured each miniature bottle into a glass, and we climbed onto the bed to talk about our week.
“Only a couple more days,” she said. “Then we’ll be flying home again. Are you going to be okay?”
I inched back against the comfortable array of thick feather pillows and crossed my legs at the ankles. “I don’t know. I guess so. I came here thinking I was going to uncover something mind blowing about my past or my future, but not much has happened, even after talking to Sylvie and learning what she went through—allegedly. Now I’m starting to wonder if she was delusional, thinking the sundial was some sort of portal through time. And apparently, I somehow tapped into her crazy brain waves through telepathy or something—like what you saw in that documentary.” I sipped my drink.
Bailey, sitting at the foot of the bed, tucked her legs under her and leaned on one arm. “I’m sorry you haven’t found what you were looking for. But maybe all of this will make sense to you one day. Maybe there’s a reason you’re here. It might be a stepping stone to something. Who knows? Maybe you’ll write a book about it, or do a story on lighthouses, or sundials, and win a big award for it.”
“Maybe so.” Holding my drink in my hand, I gazed up at the portrait of Captain Fraser’s young wife over the fireplace. “Do you think she looks like me?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.
Bailey slid along the bed to sit beside me against the headboard. She crossed her legs at the ankles as well and stared up at the portrait. “Yes, actually. I wouldn’t have noticed it until you said it, but wow. Yes. There’s something in her eyes. And her hair is the same color.”
I took another sip of my Irish cream. “Do you remember, after I had the cycling accident and I was trying to figure out what I saw, that I did some research online about reincarnation and past lives?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“It totally creeped me out at the time, because there were actual documented cases of children who insisted they had different names and different families. When the parents did some investigating, they found those other families and discovered that they had actually lost a child shortly before the new child was born. The other parents were convinced the young child was their own teenage son or daughter, reincarnated. And then, to top it all off, the kids grew up to look very much like the son or daughter who died. It was so freaky.”
Bailey blinked a few times. “Why are you telling me this? Do you think you’re this woman, reincarnated?” She raised a finger. “Ah hah. Maybe that’s why we’re here—because you wanted to sleep in your own bed again.” Bailey nudged me playfully.
I chuckled. “I’ll probably need therapy after this.”
The air conditioning came on just then, and we both jumped with fright, then burst out laughing.
“This has been a wild trip,” Bailey said, glancing around. “I wonder, if on top of everything else, this place is haunted. Remember the story the cab driver told us? I wonder how many other people have died in this house.”
I nudged her hard in return, nearly knocking her off the bed. “Stop it, or I won’t sleep a wink ton
ight, and you’ll have to deal with my early morning cranky edition.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “Blame it on the Baileys.”
“Sure. Let’s blame it on the Baileys.”
o0o
As it happened, my conversation with Bailey turned out to be the perfect nightcap.
For the first time since my arrival in Cape Elizabeth, I did not struggle to make sense of what I had envisioned on the mountaintop during my cycling accident, nor did I attempt to dream lucidly about a life I never actually lived. I let it all go and relaxed into the soft feathery pillows, gazing up at the portrait of Evangeline Fraser.
My thoughts then turned to the CNN job in New York.
As I rolled to my side and hugged the pillow next to my cheek, I began to feel that it was time I set sail toward unknown horizons. I shouldn’t fear it, because a fresh start could turn out to be far better and more fulfilling than anything I’d experienced in my past. Perhaps my destiny was not here in Cape Elizabeth, but in New York City, and I had simply needed this trip to help me learn to look forward, not back, otherwise I might have remained stuck in the same place forever. And in a terrible rut.
Sylvie had certainly tried to convince me to move on. Perhaps she was the person I had needed to meet. A part of my destiny, in a sense.
As I fell asleep, the young woman in the portrait over the fireplace reminded me that life was short and every day was precious—because you never knew when a rogue wave might come out of nowhere and sweep you away. I didn’t want to get swallowed up by the past. I wanted to live each day to the fullest.
Feeling liberated by these thoughts, I drifted off to a place where my spirit felt light, without burdens of any kind. I dreamed I was walking down to the sundial, just before dawn. I put my hands on it, but then I felt cold and began to shiver. My teeth chattered. I wished I had worn gloves.
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