So Leah was someone they had been expecting. A relative? Martha's niece? At least, that's what they wanted her to think.
Martha went on. "The death of a mate is overwhelming, though, and I suppose we just can not judge the behavior of someone so newly bereaved. And of course you're not alone. All of your relatives are right here in this house." She patted Leia's hand in a motherly fashion, then leaned closer.
"You must not take to the spirits, my dear. Try to limit your drink to that which you take with meals for now." Martha wrung her hands. A gesture of concern? Her conspiratorial tone confused Leia momentarily, until she recalled her entrance into this madness with the wine bottle in hand.
"Oh, I..." Her voice trailed off from the automatic explanation. Why did she need to explain herself to this woman? She and others should be explaining their presence to Leia. Had Grandfather's lawyers or Jason arranged for this little charade? And why? Maybe these were some of Sara's charity show actors. That would make sense. Or maybe she was being set up for some scam, like she'd been warned about on television. Perhaps these people had drugged her, and done something to Martin. Where was Martin, anyway? And what were they after? Grandfather's money? Maybe they wanted the property to build a mall or hotel. Hadn't there been a TV movie-of-the-week just like this? Leia decided to play along for the moment, not to antagonize possible criminals. She had always thought television victims were stupid by refusing to play along with their abductors, at least long enough for an escape opportunity to present itself.
Ignoring her companion, Leia returned to the dining room. She smoothed the sides of her rumpled costume skirt, and wondered briefly if Donna Karan had ever encountered materials like the ones now in her house. Leia hadn't seen this much velvet since she visited the Velvet Elvis Gallery in Nashville.
The two ladies remaining at the table continued their chatter, oblivious to Leia's gaze. The older man, who not only resembled, but also acted a lot like, Grandfather, was nodding off in his chair...a Heppelwhite chair, Leia realized, the kind with dainty legs that could snap under too much pressure. She took a few steps closer to the table.
"Forgive my manners, ma'am," the soldier said, rising at her approach. "Are you hungry?" Despite his attempt to be polite, Leia felt his gaze slide down her entire body, as if he could actually see her figure under what she wore. Not shy, she returned the look. The only thing soft on his body was the sash around his waist. Their eyes met, but he looked away as if startled.
"Just wine, please," she replied, ignoring the older woman's advice and taking the chair he offered. He said nothing at her request and poured Leia a small glass of the burgundy-colored liquid. Since he was drinking from the same bottle, she assumed it was safe. She sipped and shivered.
"The air is damp. We need more wood for the fire," he said, and she smiled in appreciation. Only Leia knew that she wasn't cold...the heat was oppressive...that her body shivered only from the tingling his smoldering appraisal of her had caused. She had to remind herself that she was probably in danger, either physically or mentally. This was no time to enjoy the masquerade.
Brant tapped his fingers on the off-white linen table cover. He found it hard to believe the woman seated across from him was a McGarland, no matter how much Baltimore had changed after the riots. Her dress was similar to Belle's and MaryKatherine's, yet it was different. He couldn't put a name to the difference. It was subtle, but different it was nonetheless. Although her face was lovely, she wore a light layer of paint. Was that acceptable now in Baltimore? It certainly was not in Pennsylvania, even among the more liberal society...and not only her paint was brazen. She'd returned his assessment of her body, matching his with an unwavering gaze.
"How did your dear brother handle the news of your parents?"
Brant looked around, unsure of which lady had asked the question. So he merely said, "Torin?"
"Of course. I wouldn't ask about the others," Martha said, wringing her hands over her ample lap.
"It's been difficult for us both," Brant said, "but I've done what they would have wanted."
"Keeping that boy away from the real lines of fightin', you mean?" Patrick suddenly perked up, shaking his head. "Damn foolish of you, boy, to take so much on yourself."
"And even while you made things easier for Cameron at the farm." MaryKatherine spoke up, after crossing her knife and fork daintily. She was the little sister he'd never had.
Brant swallowed. He hadn't willingly given up his heart for his older brother, but he'd been raised to support his family and accept what he couldn't change.
Leah toyed with her glass, running tiny white hands around its delicate stem.
Little cannonballs went off inside of Brant as he watched. There was most certainly something about this woman...something unusual.
And attractive.
The kitchen maids cleared the dishes away, working around the people still at the table. Leia thought that in such a charade the "ladies and gentlemen" would have moved from the dining room before the cleanup, but that was the least of her curiosities. By the time the table was spotless and the older man was smoking a cigar, Leia had ascertained the first names of all the diners. The stogie-smoking, half-asleep grandfather-type was Patrick, at least that was his name for this role. Cameo-blue was called Martha, who presumably was the hostess. One of the chattering ladies was Belle, and the other MaryKatherine or something like that. The character with the most promise, the tall soldier with the sandy-brown hair, was called Brant.
Brant sipped on an amber-colored liquid, perhaps brandy or sherry, from a tiny glass. In real life that wouldn't seem so masculine, but on this guy, it worked. The woman called Belle continuously asked Brant questions about the war. War? There was no doubt they were supposed to be from the Civil War era, because Brant's uniform appeared to be that of a Union soldier. Dark blue, it had definitely faded from time or washing, and was entirely too heavy a material for a summer day in Maryland. A line of gold buttons marched up the front of the jacket, and gold epaulets decorated each shoulder. A sash of material Leia didn't recognize was wrapped around his waist, presumably covering a belt. She had seen the same sort of getup in scores of history books.
Keeping her silence, and watching Martha from the corner of her eye, Leia accepted another glass of wine from Brant. He smiled at her as he poured, carefully transferring the liquid without a single drop of waste. His grace surprised Leia, because his arms were quite large due to either muscle or bulky fat. ...scratch the fat. Actually, he looked muscular and hard compared to Jason. Since Jason hadn't appeared in this scenario, Leia began to wonder if he had somehow arranged everything. She knew he wanted to marry her and take control of the house, but she thought he had feelings for Sara. Would they overcome his ambition? There couldn't be any other explanation, could there? Could any of this be real? Had she perhaps fallen down the cellar stairs and now lay in a coma at the bottom, with Martin hovering over her or calling 911? Then this would all be a dream? She swished the wine around, drinking very little now. Determined to keep her wits about her, she smiled a lot and paid very close attention to the ongoing conversations.
"MaryKatherine, would you like to ride with me tomorrow?"
"Where did that divine lace come from, Martha?"
"So, Brant dear, how many troops do you think you'll be meeting in Pennsylvania?" This question came from Belle, who smiled and looked around the room. Leia thought she sounded phoney.
"All of this war talk lately has become dreary," Martha told her in response, then reached over to shake the older man's arm.
"Wake up, Patrick, you're nodding off again. We must be boring our cousin to tears. She hasn't said a word all evening."
"I am awake, Martha. You see? Please pass the wine, Brant."
Brant lifted the black bottle and shook it lightly.
"Empty, sir. Shall I fetch another?" The mention of wine made Leia pay attention, and she was grateful that she'd had the last glass. Someone would surely have to go to the
basement for more, unless they were trying to keep her in the midst of the act. She rose to grab the opportunity, heart pounding.
The old man nodded at Brant's offer, and before the cellar door shut behind him Leah was slipping through it as well.
"It can be dangerous down here, ma'am. It's very dark, and a person might become confused," he began, lighting an oil lamp.
"You don't know the half of it," she replied, not quite loud enough for him to hear. As he descended the stairs, Leia turned and felt the back of the door. She touched each hinge, and prodded the wood panels. She could find nothing unusual about it.
"Are you coming down?"
"Yes," Leia said, grasping the wall. She was happy to be wearing her boots instead of heels, but the crinoline certainly got in the way. She clutched at the railing. If she hadn't been scared, she would have been angry that someone had put her in the position of needing to be in a cellar. Brant watched her from the wine rack. With damp palms Leia approached him, noting even in the dim light the outline of his body, masculine and sturdy...proud.
"May I borrow the lamp?" She shuddered as the moist air settled on her face and neck.
"Here. Be careful with it, it's the only light source here." He handed her the small lamp, gently grazing her fingers before she raised it over her head and moved forward. She walked the perimeter of the cellar, checking carefully for hidden doorways. Every surface felt rough, slimy or gritty. The only door she found led to a tiny, closet-like room with hooks on the wall. A dank smell escaped, an invisible cloud that hovered in the humidity. She did not want to know what the room was used for, but peered inside just to make sure Martin wasn't in there, bound and gagged. The room was empty.
"Shall we return?" Brant's voice was patient, but did not completely hide his confusion over her actions. She didn't explain, but led the way back to the staircase. Why did she feel so disappointed when she really had no idea of what she had hoped to find? She only knew she hadn't found it.
Chapter 2
"Thanks for suggesting the walk," Leia said, still shaking. "I really needed to get out of that house." What she really needed was to figure out what was going on.
"I understand. The McGarland family can be smothering, with good intentions, that is. Martha wants to run the family, but every so often she remembers her place and worries about Patrick's reaction. He appears to be sleepy much of the time, but he sees all that goes on, and is very much in command. On a more pleasant subject, I must say that you are a fresh sight in this country house. I have not seen many ladies since the war started, but I can honestly say you are the prettiest, Leah."
The couple had passed through a dense area of trees, which Leia recognized as her front yard. The fact that there were many more trees than she remembered was not lost on her.
"And are you also a McGarland?" She felt she had to ask, hoping the question didn't make her appear stupid, or even worse, like she was falling prey to some scheme. He just seemed so darned sincere. Could it all be an act?
"I'm a Douglas. I am on my way to rejoin my regiment in Pennsylvania."
Leia struggled to think of an appropriate response. "Were you wounded?"
"No, my parents were just killed in West Virginia, in a carriage accident, where they had been visiting relatives. There were only a few of us able to get to the burial." His face twisted with the memory, and she understood his pain instantly.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Brant," Leia said, feeling her emotions tug at her heart. That explained the conversation earlier about his brother, at least part of it. She looked over at his profile, saw the lines deepening around his mouth, and turned away. Whatever his part in her situation, this man seemed to have felt real pain. Or maybe his pain was a part of her own wounded psyche and her mind had conjured up his image while she lay unconscious in her basement?
Surrounded by fragrant pine trees, Leia took a deep breath and turned again to Brant's sculpted face. She stepped toward him and placed a hand on his arm. He stiffened for just a second, then covered her fingers with his own.
"I'm an orphan, too," she whispered, "Since I was six."
"I'm sorry. The McGarlands never mentioned that," he said, touching a strand of her hair. "Leah.. I will be leaving soon. For Gettysburg. We are in great need of goods, especially footwear. I have to be with my unit." He leaned in to bury his nose in her hair.
Leia knew she should pull away. This man was a stranger, dressed as a Union soldier. He was either crazy or a criminal...or supernatural...or a mere figment of her imagination. Yet he was warm and sexy and uncomfortably close. Her body tingled in places that would shock old Aunt Martha. She stepped away from him.
"You know, Brant," she said, pulling on a tree branch over her head. "I think I know Hettie from somewhere." Changing the subject made Leia breathe easier. "It's not that she looks so familiar, but it's her mannerisms, the way she talks. Sometimes I get this feeling of Deja Va."
"What is that?"
Leia sighed, wondering how to explain the concept, telling herself that it didn't necessarily mean anything that he didn't recognize the phrase. "It's a feeling that you've been in the same place or experienced the exact same thing before. It can give you an eerie, confused feeling if you let it."
"Did you visit here as a child, perhaps? That would explain the feeling."
"Not that I can recall." Good answer, she told herself. Brant was almost too logical, it seemed.
"But I guess it's possible. And that would explain it, but I certainly hope I'd remember someone who is so, nice. So comfortable to be around."
"You like Hettie, then?" He sounded pleased.
"Oh yes. Except, she seems to have a wall of reserve around her, something deeper than a servant staying in her role. I talked to her in the kitchen just now, and she responded like we're old friends, but then she clammed up on me."
Brant looked at her. "Clam up? What an appropriate description. Leah, Hettie's growing older, and it worries her."
"It worries all of us, believe me. I have a birthday coming up I absolutely dread." She plucked a leaf from its branch and crumpled it.
"You are still young, and you don't have as much to lose as Hettie in your later years."
Leia nodded, assuming Brant spoke of an insecure retirement situation. What did free servants, farmers, storekeepers and other workers do in this era when their usefulness gave out? At least slaves had each other nearby, sometimes their own relatives lived on the same property. At least she hoped that was the case.
More likely, this group was contemplating what to do with the money Jason was paying them once the scam was over. Or maybe they were all afraid of getting caught and going to jail!
Brant had continued walking, pausing in front of a maple tree. He took his coat off and spread it on the grass like a picnic cloth, motioning for Leia to join him on the wool.
"We're lucky there's no fighting here," she said, settling on the coat's sleeve and lapel. "It's a beautiful area." Had she really said that?
"May it stay this way far into the future," he said with a reverent tone. He clasped his hands together in front of him, steepling the index fingers toward the sky.
"Oh, it will," she said, drawing a curious look from him.
"You say strange things, Leah. I may have to spend some time in Baltimore to understand you better."
Leia said nothing, looking around the garden for a reason to change the subject yet again.
"But you understand, I may never see you again." His words rang truer than any she had heard that day, and added a note of melodrama to the situation. She turned her face up toward his, which towered at least a foot over hers. His gaze locked onto hers, as they paused, embracing like two teenage lovers that were about to be torn apart. Leia knew raw desire when she saw it, and Brant's eyes glistened with it. Any other man, any modern man, would have been all over her by now. She reached toward his face, and stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers.
Brant took her hand and gently kissed it,
his thumb pressed into her palm "We should return to the house. There's no chaperone with us. It would be nice to learn more about you, to know you better, but I'm leaving very soon. I've no doubt there will be fighting." His voice was suddenly harsh as he pulled her to her feet.
Leia stepped back. Why did he keep saying that? Clips of movies portraying bloody, ragged soldiers played in Leia's mind. How could a man speak so calmly of combat if it was real for him? Perhaps he was just a good actor, though he was almost too-handsome for Hollywood. He didn't seem to know just how hot he was, which only made him more appealing.
They walked to the fountain and he passed his hand through the water spouting from the gurgling cherub's mouth. When he moved his hands up and down his thighs to dry the beads of water, Leia was struck by his sensual movement. The man certainly had captured her attention, she thought. They sat on a shiny, wrought-iron bench decorated with lacy scrollwork.
"It's so pretty here. Let's sit a minute."
"I like to think here. It's very calm," he began and smoothed his thick hair back from his forehead. "The sound of the fountain is relaxing, so when I visit, I always spend time out here."
Leia was still silent, contemplating that when she had seen this fountain this same morning, it had been rusted, broken in a few places, and not in use. If this was a scam, she thought, it was an expensive one. But what if it wasn't? Could she have traveled back to the nineteenth century?
"You are very quiet, Leah. Did I offend you? I should not have been so forward."
"Oh, heavens no. I was just wondering... I have seemed to lose track of time these past few days. What is the date?"
Brant looked at her with narrowed eyes. "June fifteenth, of course."
"June fifteenth, nineteen..." She looked at her hands in her lap. Asking was risky and her heart began to pound.
"Eighteen, Leah, 1863. You know that. Are you feeling well?"
The Will of Time Page 3
