by Tamara Gill
“And this Vesey plotted some sort of slave revolt?”
“Exactly. He drew me in. I became one of the secret leaders of the conspiracy, along with several others, white and colored, slave and free. He never told most of us the full extent of his plan, however. To me, and to all of the other whites and several of the coloreds, he put it forth as simply a mass escape—the slaves were to work their way north and west through the wild country. What he really planned was a bloody massacre. It was set for mid-July, but in May the word leaked out. I suspect some of the slaves involved found out about the proposed killings and were loyal enough to warn their masters. Vesey had time to burn most of his papers, which was the only thing that saved me, but he and thirty-four others hanged for it. I found it—expedient—to liquidate my assets and leave Charleston before the incident could be investigated further.”
“You mean you could have been executed for your involvement?” Kathryn was aghast.
“Of course.” He looked at her strangely. “After all, a massacre was planned and I was involved, however the technicalities may absolve my conscience. Legally, I assure you, I am guilty of a capital crime.”
Kathryn sat back, stunned. To think that a man could be hanged for simple plotting that hadn't even harmed anyone—that thirty-five men already had been! In spite of what had been intended, such so-called justice seemed incredibly harsh to her.
“I shock you, do I not? I will give you ample time to think about it before pressing my suit again, but I must ask you to say nothing of this to anyone. If it were suspected, inquiries in Charleston could be dangerous to me—and to others—even now.”
“Others?”
“Yes. I did not flee here alone. One man and his wife came with me, posing as my personal slaves. I have reason to believe that he may have been implicated in the little evidence that remained to the magistrates. It is for his sake, more than my own, that I must ask you to remain silent on this.”
“Of course!” Kathryn assured him quickly. As if she would betray such a secret, especially when it carried such a penalty! “You can trust me, I promise.”
He searched her face for a moment and was apparently satisfied. “My motives have not changed since that time, as you have seen today, but I have, ah, moderated my methods.”
“I'm glad of that,” she exclaimed fervently. When his look questioned her, she forced a smile and a wink to mask her true feelings. “You're much too ornamental to be hanged, Mr. James. I doubt if a noose would be very becoming.”
“If I didn't know better, I might almost suspect you cared,” he responded. She smiled mysteriously, but said nothing, in keeping with her plan to leave him guessing.
Ryan came in for tea when they reached the Prescott house and was completely charming to his host and hostess. Kathryn was more drawn to him every minute and had to force herself to dwell on the more unsavory aspects of his reputation—the womanizing, the dueling, his apparently legendary temper. It was hard to do, since beyond some innocent flirting, she'd seen no evidence of any of these things. The rumor of his cruelty to slaves had proved false. Maybe the others were, too. Guiltily, she thought of the rumors she herself had begun.
He left after half an hour and Kathryn resigned herself to the inevitable sewing session with Mrs. S-P. She finished adding the last of the lace she'd bought to Catherine's dresses and was forced to finish out the time with another wretched attempt at embroidery. “What the hell good is embroidery to anyone, anyway?” she muttered to herself, tearing out everything she'd done for the third time.
“What was that dear?” asked Mrs. S-P, her needle never stopping its rapid motions.
“Oh, nothing. I'm just tired, I suppose. I believe I'll go upstairs and rest until supper.”
“You do that, dear.”
Though she didn't sleep, Kathryn felt more refreshed when she joined the Prescotts at the supper table. She ate slowly, ignoring her parents' talk of politics and remembering instead her picnic with Ryan that afternoon. Suddenly, Mr. Prescott's words jolted her out of her reverie.
“If Ryan James murdered a wife in Charleston, it couldn't have gone undiscovered for this long. And if he had another, she'd have come after him. Mind you, I don't give the slightest credence to this rumor, but Jonathan Allerby has always been a slave to his wife's whims.”
“What . . . does Mr. Allerby plan to do?” asked Kathryn, striving to keep her voice level.
“First, he was simply going to write to an acquaintance there, asking a few questions about young James, but that did not satisfy Joanna. No, she insists that he go himself to ferret out anything he can.”
“Sour grapes, if you ask me, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Sykes-Prescott.
“Precisely,” agreed Mr. Prescott. “I've no doubt you have hit the nail on the head, my love. She recognizes that her own daughter is unlikely to shackle him, and so wishes to tarnish your victory, Catherine.”
Kathryn tried to smile, but she knew it was a feeble effort. Her thoughts darted this way and that like a trapped animal, remembering what Ryan had told her that afternoon.
A capital crime! If his part in that abortive uprising in Charleston came out, which it might, Google or no Google, he could be hanged—all because of some stupid scheming on her part.
What have I done? Oh, dear God, what have I done?
Kathryn found it impossible to fall asleep that night, worrying about the consequences of Mr. Allerby's inquiries. She began to suspect, as well, that she might possibly be falling in love with Ryan James. The irony of timing did not escape her, that she should discover her feelings just when she'd done something for which Ryan might reasonably despise her. The only thing more ironic, she thought, would be for the switch back with Catherine to occur now.
On that thought she began, almost involuntarily, to pray.
Not yet! Don't send me back yet!
***
CHAPTER EIGHT
By suppertime, Catherine had read nearly all of the U.S. history book and at least scanned the other books Annette had brought her, and felt more confident of her ability to conceal what had happened from Kathryn's parents—and Logan. Some of what she had read shocked her, like the wars where bombs were used to kill thousands of people at once, and the assassination of two presidents. Still, she found herself beginning to hope that somehow she might be able to remain in this new time. There was more to be afraid of here, but there was also much more to experience, and to aspire to, especially as a woman.
And, of course, there was Logan.
Catherine consulted with Annette about the proper attire for supper and was surprised to hear that she could wear the slacks she had worn all day. “At least, that's what I'm going to do,” Annette told her. “It's just family tonight, not like going to a fancy restaurant or anything.”
It seemed inappropriate, almost disrespectful, to Catherine not to dress more formally for the evening meal, but she had to admit it was nice not to worry about clothes the way she'd had to since being declared a young lady at sixteen. Remembering that Logan might be at the table, she compromised by changing into a pretty, but hardly formal, flowered dress. Touching up her makeup with only minor supervision from Annette, she knew she looked her best.
“Daddy called to say he and Logan won't be back until late,” said Mrs. Sykes-Monroe when they came downstairs. “They couldn't schedule a meeting with the property owners until eight, so it's just us girls for dinner.” She beamed at them. “This will be our first chance for a cozy chat since you got home, Kathy.”
Catherine cringed inwardly, hoping she would not give herself away during this “cozy chat.” She knew enough history now not to sound like a complete idiot, but what about personal details? Her mother wasn't likely to ask who the last president was, she suddenly realized. Annette helped her, to her relief.
“I'd love any advice you could give me about babies, Mrs. Sykes-Monroe. I haven't even picked out names yet.” This was a masterful move, diverting Mrs. Sykes-Monroe throughou
t the salad and chicken Kiev.
It wasn't until they all decided to forgo dessert for the sake of their figures that she turned to Catherine, saying, “Well, darling, have you decided on your plans for the future yet? I hope you can stay in Columbia for a while. I read in The State today that Town Theater is auditioning for A Midsummer Night's Dream. It's not Broadway, I know, but any acting credits are worthwhile, aren't they?”
Catherine glanced at Annette, remembering what she had told her about Kathryn's plans, before saying tentatively, “I . . . I really came to Columbia to rest, Mama, and to . . . think things over. To be perfectly honest, I'm not certain that acting is what I want to do with my life.” That much was true.
Mrs. Sykes-Monroe's face lit up. “Why, that's an excellent idea, darling, to take some time out to 'find yourself,' as they used to say. Your father always thought you had a wonderful head for business, and you did well in the economics courses you took in college.”
“Well, that is something to consider,” Catherine agreed. She would doubtless make a better businesswoman than an actress, at any rate. But first she would need to do an enormous amount of studying. Business had probably changed as much as everything else since 1825, and her father's tutoring on plantation management would likely count for little here. “I haven't decided on anything yet.”
“Well, since you want to rest, Kathy, I won't drag you around the entire Columbia social circuit. I do want to show you off to a few of my friends who weren't here last night at the party, though, so I hope you won't mind a brunch or two.”
“Not in the least, ma'am,” replied Catherine graciously. “Indeed, I'd be flattered.” Mrs. Sykes-Monroe blinked as though in surprise and Annette was suddenly seized by a fit of coughing. Had she said something wrong?
But her mother was smiling again now. “Very nicely put, sweetheart. One thing I'll say for the political scene in Washington, it's given you class. No wonder you're making such a name for yourself there.” As they left the table, she added, “I have to make a few phone calls. I'll be down in a while.”
“Great! “ exclaimed Annette as soon as she had gone upstairs, and before Catherine could ask what “phone calls” were. “We can just catch the start of a new comedy I wanted to see—but I'll bet your face will be funnier!”
Motioning Catherine to follow her, she led her to the front parlor—the “living room,” as it was now called—and made her sit on the sofa. Catherine watched, mystified, as Annette picked up a small black box and sat down next to her.
“No, don't watch me, watch the television,” said Annette, pointing to a large rectangle of black glass that was hung on the wall like a picture, though without any painting behind the glass.
“Is that some sort of display case?” asked Catherine.
“Something like that,” said Annette with a mysterious smile. She pointed the little black box at the television and pushed a button. At once, a man's voice emanated from the case. “—For a limited time only, so order today!” Catherine jumped and stared, first at the television, then at Annette.
“How . . . ?”
“Just watch!”
Catherine did. After a brief silence, another voice began speaking and the glass screen lit up. A display case indeed! A man's face materialized, his mouth moving along with the words. “. . . and the school board will meet to discuss the plan. In the weather, we'll hear whether this sunny spell will last. Join us at eleven.” Another brief silence, then a new picture came on, along with sprightly music. Bright, confusing images flashed across the screen in rapid succession, then the scene stabilized into one room—a “living room” of a house. People began talking to one another and she realized that the “show” had begun.
“I see!” she said excitedly. “It is like a play, is it not?”
“That's right,” said Annette. “I didn't think to explain it like that. Let's watch the show and see if we like it.”
Catherine found the dialogue and action, especially the instantaneous scene changes, hard to follow at first, but after a few minutes, she was following the plot almost as well as Annette. Much of it seemed improbable to her, but she had seen plays where that was so also. Some of the lines Annette chuckled at eluded her, but she found others funny and remembered Annette had said it was a comedy.
She was just deciding that this was a fun, and incredibly convenient, form of entertainment, when the action stopped and a woman who had not been in the cast began to speak matter-of-factly about something called “denture adhesive.” Annette pushed another button on her small black box which caused the sound, but not the picture, to cease, and turned to her.
“Well, what do you think?”
“It is amazing—wonderful! Is this not part of the show?”
“No, this is just a commercial. That's where the companies who pay for the show break into it to advertise their products.”
“Oh. I suppose that makes sense. You mean that they make these shows so that people will watch them and see demonstrations of new products at the same time.”
“Pretty much,” said Annette. “There are movies, in theaters, which are even more like plays. They don't have commercials but you have to pay to see them. I'll take you to one soon—or maybe Logan will.” She winked.
Catherine blushed and changed the subject. “How do you control the . . . the television set with that little box?” She indicated the one Annette held.
“This is a remote control. It sends some sort of beam to the TV that tells it what to do. See? This button turns it on and off, this one controls the volume—that's how loud it is—and these numbered ones change the channel.” She demonstrated.
“All of those shows are being performed at once?” asked Catherine in amazement. “No wonder there is such a demand for actors!”
“Most of these shows are actually taped. That means they were filmed earlier to be shown later.” Catherine's confusion must have shown. “I'll try to explain it better later on. The show's starting again.” She restored the sound with the remarkable little box and they fell silent to watch.
The show was just ending when Mrs. Sykes-Monroe joined them. “I expect the men will be here soon,” she said, “but if they're not, we won't wait up. You need your rest now you know, Annette.”
“Thanks, but even I don't need to go to bed at nine-thirty. You missed a halfway decent show, by the way.”
“Decent? I didn't think anything on television was that, nowadays.” Her hostess laughed.
“Well, maybe not in the moral sense, but it was pretty funny. Was there anything special you wanted to watch?”
Catherine was surprised and disappointed that the show was over already. Who ever heard of a play that lasted only half an hour? It hardly seemed worth the trouble of costuming the actors.
“Not until ten,” answered Mrs. Sykes-Monroe. “I've gotten addicted to 'Heinous Housewives,' and tonight they're showing an episode I missed last fall.”
Catherine opened her mouth to ask what “Heinous Housewives” was, but caught herself in time. She'd find out soon enough.
Annette pushed two of the buttons on the remote control box. “Let's see if anything important happened in the world today. I usually trust Dave to tell me the news, but when he's gone I like to check on it myself.”
She and Mrs. Sykes-Monroe made comments, both about the program and other topics during the show that followed, but Catherine was too intent upon the events pictured on the screen to pay much attention to them.
Both from Annette's comments and from the seriousness of the faces on the television she understood immediately that this was no fictional drama being portrayed. The things being shown and discussed were real happenings in the real world, and apparently all were things that had happened just today. Even a bombing—she remembered bombs from her history book—in a country across the Atlantic was known here, in America, almost as soon as it had occurred. How could that be? She longed to ask.
The content of the stories was just as st
artling, not to mention alarming. Murders were mentioned casually; even a man who had been arrested for killing twelve people seemed to evoke no emotion in the woman—the woman!—who told about the incident. How could these people be so calm about such terrible crimes? Could she get used to such a world? She remembered how offhand Annette had been that morning about having her reticule—no, her “purse”—stolen. Was crime so commonplace?
Of course, there were areas in London, even in 1825, where it was by no means safe to venture. Cutthroats and cutpurses abounded in the unsavory quarters of the city.
Only in and around elegant Mayfair could a well-dressed person safely walk the streets. Perhaps things had not changed so very much, after all. The only difference now was that one heard instantly about the terrible things that had always happened. The thought gave her an odd sense of comfort.
After shifting to less serious matters, such as the outcomes of various sporting events and the making of a new movie, the news program ended. Annette changed the channel again, presumably to the one Mrs. Sykes-Monroe wished to watch. Catherine wondered whether present-day Americans spent all of their evenings in front of this marvelous new invention. If so, it might account for the ladies' obsession with watching their diets.
“Previously on 'Heinous Housewives,'“ a voice announced importantly, and a few scenes followed that involved various people kissing, crying and shouting at one another. After some music, the show began in earnest, and Catherine realized that the plot must be picking up where it had ended the week before. So that was why the programs were so short—they continued from week to week. No wonder people were so eager to see the next show in such a series—it would be like picking up a book to read the next chapter.
