Secret Lady

by Beth Trissel

  “Yes. And friends battling on, if they are still alive. I lost most of them at Gettysburg. But there are men here to aid. Some are mere boys.”

  For such a young man, he was old in experience. Years beyond her. “How old are you, Jack?”

  He arched his brows at her familiar use of his name. “Twenty-two, Miss McIntyre.”

  “Please, call me Evie. After this much sharing, I think first names are appropriate.”

  Shrugging broad shoulders, he nodded. “Fine by me. No need to stand on formality. I don’t expect I shall survive this war.”

  Pain twinged in her at the thought of him dying. “I pray that’s not so. Shouldn’t the war be winding down?” She couldn’t remember exactly how long it lasted.

  “Lord only knows, dear lady. I confess to feeling a bit more hopeful in your sweet presence. And what of you, Evie?” He smoothed her cheek with callused fingertips and inhaled. “You even smell like a thousand flowers.”

  “Roses, jasmine, iris…” she whispered.

  “You are an angel come to this bloody earth.”

  “There’s a reason for that.”

  He groaned. “Don’t tell me you are a spirit? You feel real.”

  “I’m as real as you. Only…” How could she tell him?

  “What?” he pressed.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m from the future.”

  His eyes widened.

  A sense of urgency welled in her and she bent toward him. “Please believe me. It’s the only explanation. I live in this house. I swear I do. But tonight, everything has changed. And you’re here talking about the Civil War like it’s now. But it was over one hundred and fifty years ago for me.”

  Words tumbled from her as she sought to alter his silent stare. “Seriously, Jack. There’s always been something odd about this place, like the house is trying to tell me something. And my grandmother told me it used to belong to a Mennonite family named Wenger and—”

  Creaking steps intruded on their hushed conversation.

  “Shhh.” He held a finger to her lips before she had a clue if he believed a thing she’d said, or thought she was completely insane.

  They both glanced around. An older man with a gray beard and long white nightshirt descended the stairs. He halted on the bottom step in his stocking feet and surveyed them from beneath a grizzled brow that matched his rumpled hair.

  He brushed back his untidy locks with a work-worn hand, and goggled at her, then turned to Jack. “I did not think to see you this night, Jack Ramsey. Who have you there? Never, have I laid eyes on such a grand refugee woman. Who is this Englischer?”

  His jaw tight, Jack swiveled from the astonished man to Evie. Everything in him seemed to be weighing her.

  He’d called her an angel. He must see her sincerity? She pleaded with her eyes for him to take her side.

  He seemed to come to a decision and clasped her hand in his. “This lady isn’t a refugee. She is with me.”

  Relief roiled through her churning gut.

  “Ach.” A smile deepened the creases on the older man’s face, like the wrinkles in a shrunken apple. “Have you taken a wife, as my Mary advised?”

  “I have, Paul. The minister was in western Virginia. I thought to surprise you with my lovely new bride.”

  A blow to her middle could scarcely have left Evie more winded. Opening and closing her mouth, she gaped at Jack.

  “You surely did.” The newcomer clucked and shook a thickened finger at him. “You are a cagey one, Jack. Keeping this lady a secret, and wedding at such a time as this.”

  “The perfect time. Let me introduce you to Evie Ramsey.”

  “Hallo. Wie bischt du,” the man called Paul hailed her, likely a Pennsylvania Dutch greeting.

  She nodded weakly and almost sank to the floor. Jack’s arm around her waist was all that kept her standing.

  “It’s the only way,” he whispered in her ear. “Or you will be sent to God alone knows where, if word gets out. Maybe prison for being a spy. Or an asylum.”

  “I’m not a spy or crazy. Do you believe what I said?” she hissed.

  “Still thinking.”

  “What?” she sputtered. “I told you the truth.” Lightheadedness rushed over her. “My head’s whirling.”

  “I’ll see to you,” he assured her, circling an arm around her waist. “What say we celebrate, Paul?” he called more loudly. “My bride could use a hot drink.”

  Their apparent host nodded his readiness. “I regret we have no kaffi to serve. Roasted chicory we have aplenty. Needs must.”

  “We all sorely miss coffee but are warmed by your hospitality. And Paul, just so you know how special this occasion is. It’s our wedding night,” Jack added, firming his grip on Evie.

  She slumped against Jack at Paul’s answering chuckle. This can’t be happening.

  Chapter Three

  Masking his incredulity, Jack Ramsey considered the stunned young woman he upheld with an arm snugged around her middle. If he removed his support, she’d slump to the floor, and that was the last thing he wanted. Discovering Evie McIntyre in the Wenger farmhouse was as far-fetched as finding a pot of gold in the woodpile. He wasn’t letting her go.

  Damn, she was mesmerizing.

  God help him. She rocked his world to its molten core.

  The sight and feel of her kindled a fire in him. Her perfume fanned the flames, imbuing his senses like the headiest love potion. He wouldn’t accuse her of witchcraft, but she was an enchantress, whether she realized it or not. The bemusement in her blue-gray eyes told him she didn’t have an inkling of the earthshaking impact she wrought on him. He’d never reached the heights she unwittingly beckoned him to, and he had no business attempting the ascension now.

  Hell. There was a war on. Possibly forever.

  Strange how unaware she was of the strife pitting brother against brother and tearing families apart. Where had she been? Surely, not the future, as she claimed.

  Unless someone dwelled in a cave, they could not possibly be this unaffected, and she was no cave dweller. Her hands were soft against his, her cheeks like petals, and her gown the finest he’d seen since prewar life with a prosperous father.

  As delightful as diversion with her would be, he had committed himself to aiding the unfortunates caught in this brutal struggle. His work was not yet done, and he must tread with care. Nearly every man’s bullet had his name on it, as happens when you abandon one cause and don’t embrace the other.

  There was another problem with the tempting dalliance, apart from the fact that he and Evie were not truly united in holy wedlock. He wasn’t sure she was right in the head. In fact, he was increasingly certain she wasn’t, even though he had said otherwise.

  “Did you suffer a blow?” he whispered in her ear. Maybe the effects would pass, and she’d come to her senses.

  A hint of annoyance penetrated the fog that seemed to envelope her. “Before or after you announced our wedding night?” she thrust back, while their enlivened host hastened up the creaking stairs to alert the family to their arrival.

  The floorboards overhead sounded beneath Paul’s tread, and he rapped on doors. “Guests! Our friend, Jack Ramsey, has brought his new wife. Wake, my dear Mary. Make haste, my girls. Hurry and dress Hettie, Margaret, Lena, Sara! Come and greet them, Anna, Faith, and Joy.”

  The amazement in Evie’s eyes heightened and she glanced at Jack as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “How many daughters does he have?”

  “Seven. Two sets of twins.”

  “Good Lord,” she exclaimed under her breath. “It’s like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.”

  “What?”

  “The old-fashioned musical. Well, it’s old to me. You might better know the term musical theater? Anyway, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is being revived. Never mind—”

  “It’s quite all right,” he interjected, before she grew even more breathless. “Your musical sounds most diverting. So many fortunate bro
thers. The Wenger sisters love to sing and will descend on us with a chorus of questions.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Which you had better have answers for, Mister liar liar pants on fire.”

  He smiled wryly at the childish rhyme. “I am an adept dissembler. Follow my lead.”

  “I think I’d better sit down.”

  “Of course. Allow me.” He assisted her to the couch and helped her settle on the rust-colored upholstery.

  She ran her fingers over the fabric. “Horsehair?”

  Odd question, but she was unusual, to say the least. “Most folk have horsehair if they have anything. Easy to come by and durable.”

  She squinted at him thoughtfully. “My grandmother’s couch is velvet, but I recall the term from an antique show she likes.”

  Maybe he should just nod in response to these fantasies.

  Sighing, she leaned her forehead on her hand. “I know what you’re thinking about me, Jack.”

  “Doubtful.” Thoughts tumbled through him in a fiery meld of I want to take you in my arms, fair lady, and kiss you, to What on God’s green earth are you talking about, woman?

  “I am not concussed,” she continued, addressing her lap while seemingly awaiting his reply.

  “Nothing that severe,” he assured her, with strong suspicions to the contrary.

  Wondering how near he dared sit to this exquisite, baffling female, he lowered himself at her side, as they were supposedly newlywed. Heat shot through him at their close proximity. What a thrill just to be near her. He burned to be nearer still.

  Reining himself in, he battled to recall the topic under discussion. “I’m merely saying a blow might account for your confusion.”

  She glanced narrowly at him through her fingers. “You mean, I was knocked silly and dreamed up a life in this house with my grandma, every facet of which I could describe to you?”

  He’d wager she possessed imagination enough. “I’ve heard some mighty peculiar ramblings from injured men.”

  “With head wounds, you mean?” Her frown deepened. “I suppose you think I also dreamed up my mom and dad, plus a younger sister, and two little brothers?”

  “They might be real. Just not in the future,” he suggested, contemplating a clan of McIntyre’s.

  “How do you account for no sign of injury on me? Look for yourself.”

  His lips twitched at her invitation. “Through that wealth of hair?”

  She waved him on.

  “You don’t have to invite me twice.” He slid his fingers through the honey-streaked brown lengths rippling around her in a glorious mane. She’d even tucked lavender blossoms in the narrow braid circled on her head. Intoxicating. Ribbons of heat zinged through him.

  Steady, he cautioned himself, and lightly pressed her scalp. No lumps or bumps. She didn’t wince from a recent bruise. If she were hurt, she gave no indication.

  “Perfection,” he breathed out. And the opposite of what he’d witnessed in camp and on the battlefield. “You are as fresh as a spring morn sparkling with dew.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “Easily done with hot and cold running water at the turn of a faucet.”

  A strange way to evade a compliment. “Of what do you speak?”

  “Bathrooms with showers. Toilets that flush. No outhouse or chamber pots.”

  He drew back at this latest revelation. “Are you among the wealthiest of the land?”

  “No. These amenities are common where I’m from.”

  “Nae,” he argued. “I have heard of pipes carrying water and toilets that flush, but only those with the greatest means have bathrooms and water closets. The rest make do with privies and chamber pots, or the screen of a tree or bush.”

  “I could show you modern things, if you return with me.”

  He arched his brows at her. “Journey to another realm? How is that possible?”

  She pursed rose-blushed lips. “I don’t know.”

  Nor did he, but he hung on her every move. Perhaps she was vastly wealthy. She must be, with her expensive clothes and talk of theater and running water. But if that were so, why was she in the Wenger farm house in the middle of a war?

  “I confess I marvel at you and detect no injury.” He snatched at possibilities. “Perhaps illness confuses you?”

  “Am I feverish? Are my eyes glassy?”

  He laid his hand on her creamy brow and couldn’t resist cupping her cheek. “Not in the least. Only as bewildered as I feel.”

  She searched his eyes. “Can you say how I came to be here?”

  “No.” He reluctantly withdrew his hand. “That is the great puzzle.”

  “To us both. So, don’t go thinking I’m good with it.” She fought to still the quaver in her voice, the struggle evident in her face. “The house did this.”

  “What do you mean, the house?”

  “I told you it’s a strange place, with secretive voices I call the whispers. They are the most vocal in the closet.”

  He studied her closely. “Where?”

  “In my bedroom upstairs at the end of the hall. There are two rooms on the left, plus a bathroom, and then there’s me on the end.”

  “Yes.” He envisioned the second story layout. She had it correct minus the bathroom. “There’s no closet in that chamber. The attic door opens from the far side.”

  “It still does, only through the closet now…” She trailed off, then firmed her quivering chin and met his close regard. A look of clarity had displaced the mystification in her eyes. “I haven’t heard the whispers since going back in time. That must be significant. Whatever message they’re trying to send me involves an event that has not yet occurred.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Not sure, but I’m onto something important, Jack.”

  He gave a nod as if appreciative of her discovery. Better that way. It would keep her calmer, he hoped.

  Before she related further fantastical theories, the quick footfall on the stairs announced they were about to be interrupted. Everything she’d asserted was outlandish, save one. Her presence here. He couldn’t account for it, yet there must be a rational explanation.

  She had the soft Virginia accent of the Shenandoah Valley, southern in tone but not overly prominent. Maybe she’d been transported to the house by carriage and left on the porch for her own safety, and unknowingly found her way inside?

  Talk about bizarre. Why would anyone do that?

  How important was she? Judging by her elegant appearance, very. But to whom?

  Perhaps, he was meant to protect her…

  She should have come bearing a letter of instruction pinned to her lacy pink wrap.

  Scant time to ponder the mystery that was Evie McIntyre. A flurry of brown and blue skirts swirled into the room amid scents of homemade soap and herbal water.

  What a contrast she made to the Wenger sisters. Ranging in age from twelve to twenty, the girls were plainly dressed as befit their simple lives. Rosy faces, dotted with freckles and creased in smiles, beamed at the couple. They wore their ginger and coppery colored hair in plaited braids or on their heads under white caps. No frills. No ribbons. None of the finery adorning Evie.

  He wouldn’t describe them as beauties, but they were pleasing to look on and always lifted his spirits. Hettie’s bright blue eyes were particularly agreeable. Their petite mother was gowned in black and stood by their string bean father.

  After being caught in his nightshirt, Paul had donned a black ‘sack’ suit with trousers, vest, and a coat that hung on his slim frame. A smile curved Mary’s weathered countenance, gray tendrils escaping her black cap. Though goodhearted, she possessed an outspoken nature for a plain woman and could be what Jack termed belligerently affectionate.

  He sprang to his feet in deference to the families’ arrival while anticipating free flowing speech from the matron of the house. Offering a short bow, he smiled at the assembly.

  “Ladies, I apologize for disturbing your slumber. How kind of
you to make us welcome.” He gestured at the young woman seated in doe-like shock. “Allow me to introduce my bride, Evie Ramsey.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, the crazy thought passed through his mind that he wished they were true. Madness. He’d be rambling like a lunatic next thing. He lowered his gaze and saw she needed a nudge to play her part in this facade.

  He reached toward her. “Say hello, sweetheart.”

  She clasped his fingers and he helped her to rise. Seeming more in command of herself, she extended her free hand. “How do you do? I’m pleased to meet you.”

  The girls pressed her fingers, murmuring well wishes, and darting awed glances at the exotic newcomer. Jack recognized Gott segen eich, God bless you, in the blend of English and Low German. He’d picked up some of their words and expressions, but his ancestry was Scots-Irish, totally different. It made the friendship between them that much more remarkable.

  Mary surveyed the bridal pair with satisfaction in her brown eyes. “Did I not say you should take a wife, and here she stands? Good work, Jack Ramsey. Gut. Gut.” She nodded happily. “Welcome to you and your new bride. God keep you both and bless you with joy, long life, and plentiful children.”

  Evie inhaled at the well-intentioned wish and coughed. Jack noted her change the choking to throat clearing. Fortunately, she didn’t launch into a coughing fit. Having abundant fertility wished on the unsuspecting girl might send her into one.

  He smothered a smile, but Mary wasn’t finished.

  “For children are a blessing from God in this troubled world,” she continued, a quizzical eye on the young bride, as if she feared her not mindful of her blessings and duties.

  “Ya,” her husband agreed, while their daughters tittered good-naturedly. “Am I not eternally grateful for my girls, and the sons you helped shift from harm, Jack Ramsey?”

  He sidled self-consciously. “The least I could do.”

  Paul shook off his effort. “You got my boys to safety in the north, and there they shall stay until this terrible war is through. I shall never forget the good service you did us.”

  For simple people, they were heaping it on. Jack felt his cheeks warm under the homage.