The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Hey, we Confederates stick together, or haven’t you noticed. Listen, why don’t we be honest from here on out. I have this thing about lying. Even white lies fluster me.”

  Bryce travels to the passenger side of Miz Logan’s large, chromed-out vehicle. He gets the go-ahead to climb in. “Nice wheels. What year is it?” he asks, and secretly boasts his cunning, still anxious to define the date.

  “Oh, this li’l ol’ thing?” Kat’s Southern accent is creamy smooth. “Two thousand thirteen. It was bought last year when the new-model-year vehicles came out. My ex-husband’s parting gift, so to speak,” she chuckles. Dainty white teeth with a trace of an overbite show on a cherub face. Light coming from the dashboard instrument panel casts a blue glow on her soft features and turned up nose.

  “Mother always said marrying a Yankee is like opening a huge can of worms,” Kat abruptly breaks off. For some reason she has the desire to share her life’s story with this stranger. She keeps this latest impulse under control.

  “It still has the new-car smell,” Bryce adds politely.

  The red suburban starts up at the press of a button, and they pull out onto a two-lane road with a double yellow line running down the middle. The tires kick up loose rocks that ping off the undercarriage.

  “All I can say is, I can’t thank you enough for your help,” Bryce smiles. Hope trapped like crystals in a stone surges free with the notion he may very well be back in good ol’ 2013.

  “So, Mr. McKenzie, what are you doing down here in our neck of the woods? You’re a reenactor?” Kat inquires. She is happy the man’s disposition has improved.

  “You might say,” Bryce answers. He can hardly explain his clothes are authentic. Nor, can he tell the woman he appeared out of thin air, having traveled a space-time continuum into the past and only now boomeranged back to the future. One hundred fifty years must be the magic number. At least, the number he and Jane have been dialed into for whatever nefarious reason.

  “And?” Kat keeps her eyes on the road.

  “And, I just did a reenactment at Fort Pulaski.” Bryce feels a string of lies coming on. He is sorry for anyone who bears the brunt of his willful deception. He worries about his budding lack of remorse. Even more, he wonders if he has become pathologically incapable of total honesty after so many months of practicing deceit.

  “I know the place. It is outside Savannah. You’re dressed as a civilian, sir. I mostly saw Civil War soldiers when I was there.”

  “Yeah, well, civilian reenactors volunteer too,” Bryce points out. His conscience coaches, don’t muddy the waters. “A friend and I—”

  “You mean girl-friend?” Kat teases.

  “Are you going to let me tell my story, or not.” Bryce struggles with the hidden meaning in her words. The ouch factor of Jane’s rejection is still fresh.

  This time Kat laughs outright. The sound is light and husky, the pitch naively seductive. “Please, do finish,” she encourages.

  “It’s nothing, really. After the fort thing, it made sense to catch some historic sights down this way. You know, Savannah and Darien, while in the area.”

  Bryce decides to go with the girlfriend idea. “You could say we had a disagreement, a big one, and she put me out.”

  “That’s terrible! Out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Smack dab,” Bryce feigns displeasure. Mixing lies with truth is a tricky business, especially if the woman is sensitive to it. He pushes the sympathy button, “It was terrible. I only walked what seemed like ages and somewhere along the line I must have killed over. Fatigue and dehydration are never a good combination.”

  “I can’t believe your girlfriend dumped you, literally,” Kat says. Her voice sets a more playful mood.

  “Pretty bad, huh?” Bryce’s jagged chuckle has a sardonic ring. Miz Logan’s reference to getting dumped obscures a clever truth, a sad scene outside a chapel on the outskirts of Darien. The place where, only hours before, any chance for a life with his Jane had been smashed to smithereens. “She’s not my girlfriend . . . nope, not anymore.”

  Chapter 5

  MRS. JANE PETERSON-HOPKINS, 1863

  Snuggled comfortably between the crumpled sheets of their newly formed marriage bed Mrs. Jane Peterson-Hopkins stirs at the movement of her husband. She pulls the patchwork quilt up to her chin to combat the night’s damp chill and listens. His sleep grows more restless as the days pass.

  Although he bears horrible scars, Jane is thankful Matt’s severest wound has healed and his range-of-motion continues to improve. A secondary ankle injury that left him with a limp is barely noticeable now. Against her better judgment, Matt abandoned his cane, rather a stylish one, over two weeks ago.

  Jane heard stories about the gruesome state of affairs in military makeshift hospitals dotting the front lines of the Confederacy. In Matt’s case, it was a tobacco warehouse hastily commandeered by the Army to prepare for a massive influx of soldiers from battle.

  Matt’s ballistic trauma was caused by the discharge of a muzzle-loading rifle. Jane remembers the medical term Bryce used for patients in the ER with gunshot wounds. A destructive minié-ball had entered Matt’s neck and exited under his arm in a nasty explosion of muscle and tissue, cracking ribs on its way.

  The harm done to his ankle is still a mystery and something physicians in Virginia entirely neglected. It scares her to think how close her husband came to losing his life. Had it not been for Matt’s mother, she is sure he would not be here today. Jane’s mother-in-law Anna Hopkins’ unerring instincts and determination had guaranteed the survival of her son.

  Against all adversity and advice to the contrary, brave Anna insisted on traveling through four war-torn states to bring her wounded warrior home to Savannah and better care. Delirious, emaciated and blazing with infection and fever, she had rescued Matt from what Anna plainly described as, “A despicable place that had the sickening sweet smell of curing tobacco and dying men.”

  Jane is amazed the sails of destiny woven by tragedy and strife would steer Matt and his family to her in one joyous reunion. The master of Sea Oaks Plantation, a fiery Scot called Captain by his clan, has gathered them all under his roof into the most cheerful and affectionate family she has ever known. Sea Oaks is a refuge for rest and healing, a temporary home for their weary minds and bodies. A welcoming place where time flows like the saltwater tides at the mouth of the Altamaha River on Georgia’s coast. Here, Matt has been gently and lovingly nursed back to his old self, or almost.

  Matt makes great strides in his recovery. However, he still tires easily and lacks a degree of flexibility, especially when trying to fully extend his arm. Jane hopes the daily regimen of exercises she has forced upon her grudging husband will eventually complete his rehabilitation, but the process cannot be hurried.

  She tells him every day that patience brings success in the end. Matt, on the other hand, chooses to ignore his prolonged ailments. He optimistically claims he is revived in every respect. He even suggests he is ready to report to the Army of Virginia, now, as a Major and member of General Robert E. Lee’s personal staff.

  In spite of his atrocious setback Matt’s eagerness to rejoin the troops increases by the hour. Jane is beginning to understand that despite the ugly evils of war Matt strangely loves the pumped-up patriotic high from its intensity. He is beguiled by the beauty of its choreographed battles and misses the forced camaraderie of his men. And, heaven forbid this hateful game come to an end without him.

  As if overnight the tables have turned in the South’s favor, and Matt is chomping at the bit to be part of the fight. General Stonewall Jackson, who also recovered from life-threatening wounds, is again at Lee’s side and the Confederacy benefits from the very best of military minds.

  In conflict with Jane’s overall knowledge, Lee no longer suffers the trials of passive leadership. He is liberated from the vulnerabilities that led to the grueling defeat of the Army of Northern Virginia. During the fall of 1863, newspaper art
icles, which cover the South’s latest victories, describe battles that are unfamiliar to Jane.

  Another critical change is France’s intervention in the American conflict. It is a known fact the Union blockade of Confederate ports has succeeded in cutting off vital supplies of cotton to Europe. In Jane’s history, France remained officially neutral and never recognized the Confederate States of America. French leaders knew the economic impact threatened to decimate their textile industry, yet they did nothing to help. Now that the South has shown signs of gaining momentum, negotiations with France have begun anew. The Confederacy and French governments could very well form an alliance. And with it, the South would receive much-needed supplies and reinforcements.

  By saving Stonewall Jackson’s life, Bryce has altered history. The lost pages of future events carefully recorded in Matt’s leather-bound book are becoming useless, one-by-one.

  Matt rolls over and mutters a few garbled words before settling again.

  Jane heaves a sigh of relief. Matt’s attacks of night terror, the blood-curdling screams that startled them awake and left the poor man inconsolable, breaks her heart. Jane blames herself. The burden of her hand in it presses down like a leaden weight on her chest.

  “A troubling malady of the mind,” is how Doctor Richard Arnold generalized Matt’s condition in a personal letter. Jane had learned a great deal from Doctor Arnold when she worked at the Marshall House Hospital in Savannah. However, she thinks it is more like PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder that preys on Matt’s sleep. Malicious shadows that recede into nooks and crannies during waking hours wait stealthily until nightfall to slink through his subconscious and bedevil his sanity. Matt’s sleep deprivation and the building tension of a memory he cannot explain even spurred their first real argument. Jane closes her eyes and recalls their recent clash over his rush to service.

  “I can’t believe it. You actually think you’re well enough to travel all the way to Virginia and duke it out on the front lines of the Confederacy,” Jane fumed in earnest.

  “Duke it out? My dear, such expressions are not appropriate for a lady of demure nature.”

  “Quit, now. You are baiting me, Major Hopkins,” Jane snapped. The couple had come to enjoy a vigorous repartee, which usually left them rolling with laughter, but not this time. “I’m being serious.”

  Matt searched her face for meaning, “I have recently received correspondence from General Lee. He needs me at his side. The sooner I report for duty the better. I am wasting valuable time here.”

  Jane’s mouth dropped, but her indignation overcame her surprise.

  “Just when were you going to tell me? Really Matt, that’s a bad idea and you know it. You are far from better.”

  “Why, madam, I am perplexed. One minute you convince me and everyone around us with a manner of great sincerity that I am as fit as a fiddle. Now, you say I am long to recover. So, tell me, what will it be?”

  “Ah, a clever trap I have no intention of falling into. You know darn well all my encouragement has been for a good reason. You have come a long way, Matthew Hopkins, from the brink of death for Pete’s sake. But, and I repeat but! that does not imply you are up to riding six hundred miles through treacherous terrain, suffering the elements of nature, exposing yourself to disease and famine . . . and Lord knows what else.” Jane felt the veins on her temples pulsate. “Well, I won’t permit it.”

  “Hmm, permit, you say? I would advise you to rethink your position, wife,” Matt warned faintly. “Those are fightin’ words, ma’am.” He eased his remark with an engaging smile, meant to sooth Jane’s qualms. She is forever under the spell of his charismatic ways.

  During their ardent exchange, Jane also learned Matt has arranged a meeting with Sea Oaks’ family physician, a retired captain who served in the Mexican-American War. The elderly Doctor Raymond Chadwick is no match for Major Hopkins’ winning qualities. Her husband can charm the birds out of a tree. The poor unsuspecting gentleman with the round face and belly to match will sign the document that certifies Matt “fit for service” without a second thought.

  With Matt, disagreements are short-lived. He has an uncanny way of ironing things flat, of getting to the root of a matter, and hammering out an agreeable solution. Or, at least one Jane finds impossible to argue with. She never has very long to stew in her juices. Matt can effectively draw her out of a bothersome mood, leaving her none the worse.

  Thankfully, he heeded her passionate plea and postponed his appointment on the advice of his new bride. Later that day, Matt teased her at dinner, “It seems my sweet Jane cannot flourish without me.”

  Jane had observed Matt study his nails after the remark, silently pleased with himself for goading his wife enough to warrant a substantial kick. And, it came. Jane’s spontaneous boot under the table, hidden from peering eyes, gave credence to her impetuous temperament that questioned convention and promoted independent thought and deed for herself and her gender.

  As her mind roams, she watches shadows dance and sway on papered walls. She loves their bedroom in the Old Homestead with its large balcony and enchanting view of the Altamaha River. It has become their private sanctuary for rest and romance. They spent their wedding night here, and although it might not be their permanent home, they have stayed on to everyone’s delight.

  Silver-white moonlight filtering through the leaves outside form interesting shapes that keep her quiet for a while. She listens to her husband’s breathing as her body seeks to amend its own natural rhythm to match his.

  She cannot deny her heart is tightly bound to this man of Victorian upbringing. With her destiny entwined with his, their love blooms like a spring garden. It is a rock on which to build a life together. It flies on unfettered wings and dares to be tested. It is strong and real and invested, a bridge to the soul.

  Matthew Henry Hopkins is Jane’s chosen one. Although their union was consummated in an unlikely time and place, she has willingly become part of his world and is happy in it.

  Finally, when she can’t endure his irregular jerks a minute longer, “Matt?” Jane whispers, her lips gently brushing his shoulder, “Are you okay?”

  “Oh,” Matt groans, and sits up abruptly. He is always resting on-the-ready, a soldier’s habit of sleeping. With a grunt of frustration, he pushes his tangled hair from his face and covers his mouth to hide a yawn.

  “Was I snoring?” he says softly, sleep still in his voice.

  Jane sits up too. “I wish it were that simple,” she sighs.

  Chapter 6

  A FOGGY CONUNDRUM

  In the calmness of first waking, Matt runs his hand along Jane’s back, tickling her flexing vertebrae. He props on one arm and leans to kiss the tender spot on her neck.

  “Good morning, my love. It is a pity to have roused my angel from her sweet slumber,” he says, his tone low and sensual.

  “Are you okay?” Jane repeats her concern and ignores the shock of goose bumps that form at his touch.

  PTSD is a reality, now and in any other time in history. Jane knew about the hundreds of military veterans returning home from war in the Middle East with acute symptoms. In this time, long before diagnoses filled the gap in psychiatric theory and practice, she had witnessed the mental disorder in combat-stressed soldiers in Doctor Arnold’s Savannah hospital.

  When Jane introduced the concept of PTSD to Doctor Arnold, he was intrigued at first. Then, he swiftly pooh-poohed the idea calling it nonsensical hogwash. “We are all affected in our own way,” the doctor expounded. “War is a cruel mania that mars the fiber of our existence. It deprives us of joy and fills our hearts with hatred. We have God in which to find refuge and serenity.”

  But it is complicated. There is much more to Matt’s condition than PTSD. Jane has wrestled with this hard fact almost daily. She had hoped her husband’s unique trauma-induced amnesia buried the shock of an inconceivable secret so deep he would be permanently rid of it.

  “Dreams again,” Matt murmurs, clear
ing his hoarseness with a cough. “I am so close to remembering. It clears around the edges, but continues to evade me.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches for his under drawers, and strains to tug them on. An early morning throb and the tightness in his upper back and arm are maddening mementos of harm done by a single bullet. He lights a candle on the nightstand. The wick pops in a tiny arc and the spark dies out before it hits the carpet at his bare feet.

  “It’s still dark out,” Jane protests. “Won’t you keep me warm?” She hears the provocative tone in her voice and smiles inwardly as her cheeks color a pretty shade of pink. She has been waiting for this man all her life and is obscenely insatiable in her conduct, not able to get enough of him. Hopefully, the concentration of her need to ravish his body at every turn will fall off a bit. If Matt must return to active duty, she is sure her sensual desires will be unequivocally tried.

  “I cannot find peace,” Matt says irritably, and plunks down on the mattress, exhaling through his nose. “I regret my behavior is disturbing, yet I am helpless to control it. It visits me in the depths of my dreams, contorted impressions of things I do not understand.”

  He rests his hand on his wife’s leg. The touch ignites a reaction they both recognize. “You must forgive me, Mrs. Hopkins. I do not mean to worry you.” He slowly runs one finger, as light as a feather, along her thigh.

  “Come now,” Jane remarks, and promptly moves to halt Matt’s advances. “I’m not to be treated like a delicate flower. This rose has thorns.” She chuckles at her metaphor and stretches languidly. “Light another candle, won’t you, honey?” Her mind delights in seeing her new husband in any light. It is a fresh and thrilling experience each time. She scoots to the side of the bed.

  “You must not rise on my account.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re up, I’m up,” she smiles sweetly, and reties the yellow ribbon used to bind her abundant red hair at night. “What time is it, anyway?”