by Tamara Gill
Mr. Prescott looked up sharply. “Is it not yet in the papers, then?” he asked.
“No, dear, I have been so distracted, it was not till today that I could pull my wits together enough to write it up. It should have gone in yesterday, I know, but—”
“ 'Tis just as well,” broke in Mr. Prescott decidedly. “It shan't go in tomorrow, either, if you please.”
“But, Joseph, they have been betrothed three days already!” protested his wife. “People like to know these things.”
“People can wait. There are inquiries I wish to make first.”
“Why, Father?” asked Kathryn, her voice sounding stilted even to her own ears. “What sort of inquiries?”
“I heard something today that . . . well, let us not be hasty. I should know something definite by the end of the week. I shall tell you then. It is possible that our Mr. James is not precisely what he seems.”
“You seemed very pleased with him three days ago,” Kathryn pointed out. “Does he turn out to be married after all?” The question successfully distracted Mrs. S-P, who fell back on the sofa cushions with a gasp, seizing the smelling salts that she always kept nearby. Mr. Prescott was not so easily sidetracked.
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” he conceded coolly. “So calm yourself, my dear,” he advised his wife.
“What is it, then?” demanded Kathryn. If she had to wait any longer for the news, she'd become a nervous wreck. “As his promised wife, don't I have a right to know?”
“Yes, dear, do tell us,” added Mrs. S-P faintly, recovering somewhat on being assured that Mr. James was not a would-be bigamist.
Mr. Prescott looked from one lady to the other and sighed in resignation. “Very well. As I was so unwise as to say anything at all, I suppose I must tell you what I know thus far or risk sending both of you off with the vapors or some such thing. The news in town is that James stole one of Allerby's field hands the night before last, presumably to help him escape. There is a witness who claims he saw James with the fugitive. He also claims that James knocked him out cold when he fired on the escaping slave. The man is one of Allerby's white servants, and a less than reliable witness, I must say. Even he admits he was drunk at the time. However, James's disappearance adds color to his tale, I fear.”
“Disappearance?” Kathryn managed to echo.
“He is not in town, and he's not at Fair Fields. The Captain of the Guard went himself to question him after Allerby reported the theft. I intend to give Mr. James another day, at the least, to come forth to clear himself, and to disprove some other rumors implying abolitionist tendencies, before condemning him in my own mind. But now that I know his connection with our family is not yet public knowledge, things are easier for us. Even if Allerby's charges prove untrue, I have no wish to ally my name with that of a rabble-rouser.”
Kathryn struggled with herself to keep from pointing out that her parents hadn't bothered to find out anything about the man except the size of his bankroll. “This sudden concern comes a little late,” was all she said.
“But not too late, thank God,” Mr. Prescott declared firmly. “I'll inform you of my findings when I have them, ladies. Good night.” He rose and left the room, leaving the two women to stare at each other in consternation.
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Sykes-Prescott after a lengthy pause, “we have been a trifle hasty in agreeing to your engagement with a man we know so little about.”
“I believe I'll go up to my room until suppertime, Mother.” Kathryn stood quickly, afraid her tongue would betray her if she stayed to hear any more of this hypocrisy. “I see no point in discussing it until we know more.” She left Mrs. S-P to rationalize her past behavior by herself.
For three more agonizing days, Kathryn kept up a careful pretense of calm. It was abruptly shattered when Mr. Prescott strode into the house on Friday to declare that the wedding was definitely off.
“You can't mean that, Father!” Kathryn stared at him in disbelief. She had nearly convinced herself, during the long, sleepless nights, that Ryan's fortune, and her affection for him, would outweigh other considerations with Mr. Prescott once his temper had a chance to cool.
“I most certainly do. Do you know what James is? A damned abolitionist! I won't have any such kind marrying into my family!”
Mrs. Sykes-Prescott gasped. “Oh, Joseph, are you sure? I'm certain I never heard any such thing!”
“No, he's been damnably clever about it. He even went so far as to have his slaves spread rumors of his harshness. But I've talked at length to Allerby and his man, and spent three days going through the records at the State House, and no doubt remains, no doubt at all. The man's been freeing his slaves almost since he came to Columbia, which is his right, of course, but damned strange to my thinking. But when he tries freeing someone else's, he's gone too far. Slave stealing is a hanging offense!”
“What evidence is there against him?” demanded Kathryn angrily, pushing away the surge of terror those last words evoked within her.
“Evidence? Why, the man was seen! Allerby's undergroom positively identified him. I spoke to the man himself. He has the bruises to prove James knocked him down.”
“Or that someone did!” retorted Kathryn hotly. “No doubt he concocted this story to cover some guilt of his own. You said yourself he was drunk at the time!”
“Being drunk is no crime. What James did is. And that is not all I got from Allerby. It seems our Mr. James was very thick with the Negroes, both slave and free, when he was in Charleston. Allerby even heard rumors he was acquainted with that blackguard Vesey, who masterminded the uprising there.”
“So his crime is in the friends he keeps?” Kathryn fanned her outrage to keep panic at bay.
“The friends a man keeps says a lot about him,” replied Mr. Prescott pompously. “Allerby has influence in this town, and aims to see your Mr. James rot in jail. At any rate, we don't want a stain like that on our family name.”
“Certainly not,” echoed Mrs. Sykes-Prescott from her comer of the parlor. Kathryn shot her an accusing look before turning back to her father.
“You're saying Mr. Allerby has enough influence to have an innocent man arrested?”
“Innocent! Do you still try to deceive yourself? Allerby is a Warden, and a close friend to every powerful man in Columbia, to include Judge de Saussure. He can make life here very unpleasant for James, even if all charges against him are disproved. The Guard has already gone after him, though with his skill in the woods I doubt they'll have much luck. He won't dare return to Columbia, though, so we're well out of it. James may be a knave, but he's no fool, not if I'm any judge of character.”
Kathryn bit back the sarcastic comment that leapt to her lips and wondered how she might be able to warn Ryan, or, if worse came to worst, to flee North by his side.
“I . . . I believe I'll go visit Priscilla, Father,” she said as casually as she could. “She'll want to hear this news, I know.” She rose to leave the parlor, but Mr. Prescott's next words thwarted her plans.
“No, you will remain in the house, Catherine. I wouldn't put it past young James to make some attempt to kidnap you, even by proxy—and, like as not, you'd go along with it, such is the foolishness of youth. I want you here where your mother can keep an eye on you for the next few weeks, or until that rascal is apprehended.”
Kathryn struggled to find some appropriate retort, tears of rage and frustration building behind her eyes. Rather than allow the Prescotts to see her cry, she flung herself from the room, almost colliding with little Alma in her haste.
“Oh! Excuse me, Alma, I must go upstairs.” Her voice broke and she turned quickly away. Alma was the last person she wanted to see right now, since it was through Kathryn's favor to her that Ryan was now in such danger. She felt so helpless!
Alma followed her to the foot of the stairs, however, and put a tentative hand on her arm. “Miss, I . . . I's got somethin' for you,” she whispered. “I know I shouldn't say nothin',
but I wanted to thank you all the same.” She pressed a small square of paper into Kathryn's palm with a smile and disappeared into the dining room.
As soon as she reached the privacy of her room, Kathryn unfolded the note with shaking hands. As she had hoped, it was from Ryan.
Dearest Catherine,
I pray this finds you in time. E. is safe with the Qs for the present, which I knew you would want to know. It appears that my absence will be necessary for some time to come, but I was loath to leave without asking, just once, if you would come with me. If you will not, I perfectly understand and will not love you the less for it. If you wish to join me, I will contrive to be beneath your window at midnight. Were I wise, or even prudent, I would know better than to ask, but when was a man in love ever wise? If you are not there, I will understand and try to forget, as must you.
Ryan
By the time she reached the scrawled signature, Kathryn's tears were falling freely from the fullness of her heart and the relief she felt. She'd always prided herself that she never cried, but all that mattered now was that he'd come back for her. How could he think she might refuse? Cheerfully blowing her nose, she looked around, wondering how much in the way of necessities she could fit into the small suitcase she'd seen in the closet.
Packing would have to wait until after dinner, though, for the clock was already striking noon. With her heart a hundred times lighter than it had been only ten minutes earlier, she thrust the precious note into the top of her corset and left her room to trip happily down the stairs.
On the landing, she paused to look up at the clock, still bonging away. Only twelve more hours, she thought rapturously. Then they'd be safe away from this hateful town forever—together! Maybe in the North she'd be able to help support them by sewing, or by making some novelty that was still unheard of in this age.
Absorbed in her thoughts she noticed nothing out of the ordinary. When she breezed into the dining room, however, she stopped short, frozen in shock.
Only one person was there ahead of her, but it wasn't either of the people she had almost come to think of as her mother and father. Instead, it was the last person she had expected to see—someone, in fact, she had thought she'd never see again. It was . . . Annette.
***
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Catherine, what's the matter?” asked Annette, turning at Kathryn's entrance.
“A-Annette?” whispered Kathryn. “How did you . . .” She looked around her at the room, then down at the turquoise slacks and flowered blouse she was wearing. “I mean, how did I . . . Oh, shit!”
“Kathy?” Annette fairly squeaked. “Here, quick! Sit down. You look like you're about to faint.” She hastily pulled one of the chairs away from the table, and Kathryn slumped into it. “Is . . . is it really you? You're back?” Annette looked almost as shaken as Kathryn felt.
Kathryn nodded helplessly, looking around her again. “It sure looks that way.” She sat up suddenly. “Annette, I've got to go back! Ryan will think I don't want to go with him tonight!”
“Ryan? Go where? Kathy, you just got here!”
“I know, Annette, and I'm awfully glad I got this chance to see you one last time, but—Wait a minute! You knew about the switch? Do my parents know?”
Annette shook her head. “No, only Logan and me. But first, tell me about Ryan and what's been going on with you. Then I'll tell you all about Catherine—I think you'd like her, by the way. She's not a bit like you.” She grinned in sudden delight at her friend. “Oh, Kathy, it's great to talk to you again! But quick—tell me everything, before the others come down.”
Kathryn launched into an abbreviated version of her experiences since that fateful night nearly a month ago, but had by no means finished when steps were heard in the hallway. Her mother and Logan Thorne came in and took seats at the table, Logan smiling at her with warmth that she failed to understand. Had he and Catherine somehow become friends during her absence?
The cucumber-and-cream cheese sandwiches were a far cry from the sumptuous meals she'd been enjoying with the Prescotts, but Kathryn barely noticed, she was so frantic about Ryan. When she responded to a question of Logan's he became suddenly silent, glowering suspiciously across the table at her, but she could not be bothered to wonder why.
Annette managed to dominate the conversation with trivia for most of the meal, but—
“Kathy, have you definitely decided on lavender for your bridesmaids?” asked Mrs. Sykes-Monroe as she rose from the table. Kathryn gaped at her, but before she could respond, her mother continued, “Because I saw the prettiest dresses at Rich's this morning that I think you should see. Let me know if you want to drive over there tomorrow.”
Kathryn nodded dazedly, afraid to say a word, since Annette had said her mother didn't know about the switch. Bridesmaids? she thought wildly as her mother left the room. What had been going on here? She turned an accusing glance on Annette for not telling her, and her friend threw up a hand defensively.
“Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I wanted to break it to you gently, but there wasn't time.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Logan dangerously, “but would one of you tell me what the hell is going on? When did you get back, Kathy? And where is Catherine?”
“Presumably back in 1825,” said Kathryn, more calmly than she felt. “And what is this about a wedding? Whose wedding?”
“Ours,” replied Logan, his forced smile betraying an anguish that Kathryn understood only too well.
“Okay, you two,” said Annette in a rallying tone, “let's all go into the living room and hash out what's happened so far before we do anything else.”
It was well over an hour later before both stories had been told to everyone's satisfaction and all questions answered for the moment. “Now, all we have to do,” concluded Logan, “is reverse this second switch. No offense, Kathy, but I want my Catherine back.”
“None taken, Logan. She sounds like a wonderful girl. And I agree completely. Not only do we have to switch back, we have to do it before midnight tonight, or I'll probably never see Ryan again!” Her eyes misted, to Logan's and Annette's obvious amazement.
“All right, then, let's get to work,” said Logan briskly, though Kathryn could tell he was struggling with strong emotions himself. “Catherine told me she thought the clock was involved. But she had agreed—” He pressed his lips together and glanced away.
“Yes,” said Kathryn excitedly. “The grandfather clock! Both times it was striking the hour and I was standing right in front of it. I assume Catherine must have been, too.”
“Then in order to switch back, you just have to stand in front of that clock exactly on the hour.” Logan's relief was obvious. He looked at his watch. “It's twenty minutes to two now, Kathy. Is there anything you want to do here for the next few minutes?”
She nodded. “I'd like to see Mother again, now that I know what's going on. I'd really like to see Dad, too, but he probably won't be home for hours, and I'm not willing to wait.” She was as relieved as Logan, now that she knew Catherine's motive to return was as strong as her own. “And believe me, once we switch back, I'm never going near that clock again!”
Mrs. Sykes-Monroe appeared surprised and delighted not only at her daughter's unusual affection, but also at her sudden interest in family history after so many years of indifference about the subject.
“I knew one day you'd be glad of all my research,” she said smugly. “It's the idea of getting married and starting your own family, I'm sure. That's when I became so obsessed with our 'roots,' so to speak.” She wasn't able to answer Kathryn's question about the fate of the one ancestor she was interested in, but she referred her to the filing cabinet that Kathryn had always jokingly called “the family jungle.”
“It's all in there, sweetheart, if you really want to know about her. I'm due at the hairdresser's, but if you still haven't found what you need when I get back, I'll be glad to help.”
Kathryn thanked her with a warm
hug and waved her out the door. It was only a couple of minutes until two by then, so she could only glance regretfully at the trove of information in the files as she headed out to the landing. She'd just have to find out what happened by living it.
Logan and Annette were already waiting by the clock when she got there. There were quick goodbyes all around and then Logan began a countdown on his watch. “. . . Three . . . two . . . one. It's two o'clock. Is anything happening?” Kathryn shook her head. “Well, we'll wait five minutes or so. Since this clock is broken, we can't be sure that the one in the past is exactly synchronized with my watch.”
At two-fifteen, they gave it up.
“What we didn't consider,” said Kathryn as they all trooped back downstairs, “is that Catherine has to be doing this at the same time. Maybe she couldn't for some reason. I'll just have to try every hour and hope she does the same.”
She forced herself to speak brightly, trying to convince herself as well as the others. “At least now I'll have time to go through Mother's papers. Who knows? Maybe I'll find something that can help Ryan when I get back.”
With that goal in mind, she spent the next hour, and then the next, poring over her mother's hoarded diaries, notes and documents, breaking at three o'clock and then at four to stand by the grandfather clock. Logan left to meet a prospective client at three-thirty, optimistically bidding her goodbye.
“Don't think me rude when I say I hope you'll be gone when I get back,” he said with a crooked smile. Kathryn met his eyes, which mirrored the frustration of her own.
“You and Catherine have a good life together, Logan,” she said sincerely. They clasped hands briefly, and he departed.
After the four o'clock failure, Kathryn reluctantly went back to the family archives, wondering what she hoped to find there. It was no wonder her mother hadn't been able to remember anything about the early 1800s, since almost no records existed for that period. The only thing she found was that in 1825 the price of cotton nearly doubled. That news might be financially helpful to Ryan, but it would hardly get the law off his back.
