by Amii Lorin
“Yes, I know.” Faith managed a faint smile. “If I really have traveled through time, then Mr. Shelby and his wife Emily are my umteenth-great-grandparents.”
“Umteenth?”
Faith sighed and nodded. “I’m too tired to figure it out,” she said, crushing her napkin with nervous fingers. She jumped when his larger hand covered her fingers, stilling them.
“You genuinely believe all you have told me,” he said. “Do you not?”
“Yes.” Faith heaved another deep sigh. “Just as I genuinely believed that you, and the others, had taken over my inn to recreate a portion of history.”
“We have not.” He hesitated, then continued, “At least, I have not. I cannot speak for the others, this being the first time I have stopped at this inn on my way home to Philadelphia.”
“Your home’s in Philadelphia?” Faith didn’t know why she asked the question; it had nothing to do with her predicament. But she was suddenly interested, in his answer... and, more than ever, in him.
“Yes.” He smiled.
She caught her breath. “And... ah, are you a Tory?” she blurted out shaken by the stunning effect of his smile, and referring to the appellation one of the men had muttered when Pres had made his presence known.
He seemed to withdraw into himself. “My family are known for their support of the crown,” he finally replied. “In fact, they felt so strong in their loyalty, they have removed back to England.”
“But not you?” she said, grimacing at stating the obvious.
“Not I,” he concurred. “I have holdings in Lancaster and Reading to attend to.”
“I see,” she murmured, noting that he had neither denied nor admitted to being a Tory himself. Faith was on the verge of questioning him further, wanting to hear him tell her he was for the cause of freedom, when she realized the utter ridiculousness of her pursuit.
What in heaven’s name did it matter? She asked herself. Unless she was seriously crazy, she was very likely dreaming or hallucinating, and Prescott was nothing more than an illusion, a creation of her tired and overactive imagination—a handsome, sexy illusion, maybe, but an illusion nonetheless.
She slid her hand from beneath his and slipped it into her apron pocket. A feeling of relief swept through her as her fingers curled around the cigarette case. Solid proof of her origins in the twentieth century.
“Where have you gone now?”
“Huh?” Faith started. “What did you say?”
“You seemed so far away,” he said. “I merely asked where you were.”
“You think I’m completely bonkers, don’t you?”
“Bonkers?”
“Mad,” she said impatiently. “A raving lunatic, or the witch that nasty man accused me of being.”
“No,” Pres denied at once. “I think perhaps you are confused or ...” His voice appeared to fail him.
Faith laughed, but the sound held no humor. “Or what?”
He shrugged. “I am not quite sure.”
“Join the club,” she muttered. “I’m not quite sure either.”
“A tangle, to be certain,” he said, reaching for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. “Join the club,” he murmured. “Ah, yes, I understand.” Replacing the bottle on the table, he tilted his head and smiled at her. “You have very colorful, descriptive expressions.”
“Damned straight,” Faith rejoined, trying out another one of her colorful expressions on him.
Pres looked astonished for an instant, then he laughed. “I would suggest you not use that particular expression whilst speaking with anyone other than me,” he drawled. “Unless, of course, your aim is to shock.”
“My aim is to go home,” she retorted.
“But, my dear,” Pres murmured around the rim of the glass he had raised to his quirked lips, “did you not moments ago tell me that this is your home?”
“Yes, but...” Faith broke off in frustration, and glanced around the room once more. “I mean, I want to go back — forward... dammit! I want to go where I belong, in the twenty first century.”
“Umm.” Pres took another swallow of his wine and closely observed her while she sipped hers. “As I entered this establishment,” he said, very casually, “I could not help overhear the discussion. Please, correct me if I am wrong, but did I not hear you say that Washington will be defeated by Howe at Germantown in early...” He broke off as Mr. Shelby strode into the room.
“A chamber has been prepared for you, sir,” he said, shifting a frowning glance at Faith. “You, missy, if you have finished your meal, thank the gentleman, then go help Mrs. Shelby in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said at once, jumping up.
“Hold a moment,” Pres ordered, reaching out to grasp Faith’s wrist to keep her from rushing away. “I wanted to inquire if ...”
“Please,” Faith whispered, pulling against his loose but firm grip on her, “I must earn my keep.”
“If you will follow me, sir,” Mr. Shelby inserted, “I will show you to your room.”
“Yes, yes.” Pres scowled his impatience, but relented and released her arm, whispering, “I must speak with you again.”
Faith started for the kitchen. “Sure,” she muttered, tossing a wry smile at him over her shoulder. “Sometime. That is, if I’m still here.”
Chapter 3
Three weeks had passed, and faith was still there, at the inn, in the eighteenth century.
Faith sat cross-legged on the narrow bed she had slept in each night of those three weeks, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the damp cold seeping into the tiny bedroom at the very back of the second story of the building. Bedroom? She had to smile as she glanced around; the room had been converted into a walk-in closet years before she was born, and was located near the top of the enclosed back staircase in the dining room.
The only warmth afforded to the room was the heat that radiated up from the large cooking fireplace and ovens in the kitchen directly below.
Kitchen! Faith’s smile curved into a grimace; there was no resemblance between the kitchen of her own time and the room below. Instead of restaurant-sized stoves complete with grills and griddles, this kitchen contained a huge fireplace and two brick wall ovens. There were no microwave ovens, no food processors, no blenders, no freezers, no double refrigerator, no central island counter... no running water! All the room contained was a long table, and room to do a lot of work.
But, although Faith was expected to earn her keep, the Shelbys—she still found it difficult to think of them as her antecedents—were kind to her, treating her more like a daughter of the house than a stranger found weeping in the stable yard.
As to the Shelbys’ own offspring, Faith had yet to meet William Jr. and James, who were thirteen and twelve respectively, as their parents had packed them off to Emily’s parents’ farm near York to keep them from harm’s way when Washington marched his army into Pennsylvania from New York.
But three weeks of toiling in the kitchen from dawn until noon, serving in the common room until closing, then dragging her tired body upstairs to sleep in the cold room, had instilled in Faith a yearning for her own twentieth century bedroom, centrally heated and toasty warm. Though the luxury of central heating wasn’t at the very top of her wish list.
First and foremost, Faith longed to submerge her body in a tub of scented water, or at the very least, stand beneath a revitalizing shower spray. She pined for her moisturizing bath soap, shampoo, conditioner, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a blow dryer, jeans, a sweatshirt, her brief but comfortable lingerie and, after her repulsive experience last week, modern personal sanitary products.
Of course, Faith reminded herself, she did have the undies she had been wearing beneath her costume on Christmas Eve, the night of her journey into the Twilight Zone of time travel. But since she had no way of figuring how long she would remain in the past, she hesitated to wear the delicate bra, panties, and sheer French-cut black pantyhose for fear of wearing them out.
/> The pinging sound of a wind-driven rain mixed with sleet striking the pane in the room’s one small window drew Faith to a sharp awareness of her surroundings. Hugging the warmth of the wool shawl to her breast, she turned her head to gaze at the old armoire set against the wall inside the door. Her filmy lingerie was secreted underneath her folded costume inside the ornate cupboard, alongside the few articles of clothing Mrs. Shelby had kindly provided to supplement Faith’s meager wardrobe.
After three weeks of wearing the sturdy clothes, handmade of heavy, scratchy wool, and the thick, prickly hose, Faith vowed she would never again complain about the quality of American mass-produced merchandise. About the only item she did find comfortable was the long-sleeved, high-necked, soft cotton nightgown Mrs. Shelby had hand sewn for her.
Three weeks. Faith sighed. Even after twenty-odd days, she was still having difficulty acclimating herself to her unreal predicament. When she crawled into bed every night, she shut her eyes tight and prayed that when she opened them again, she would find herself at home in the twenty first century, where she belonged.
There was one tiny problem with her prayer— unstated, but at the edge of her consciousness. Faith wanted to waken to find Prescott Carstairs there, too, in the twenty first century with her.
The thought of his name brought a sad, self-derisive smile to Faith’s soft mouth. Of all the idiotic stupid things to do, she had gone and fallen head over heels in love with Prescott Carstairs.
And it wasn’t even as if she had spent much time in his company, either. Faith had seen him only twice since that first night. Despite his whispered urging to speak with her again, over a week had passed before he had returned to The Laughing Fox.
“Pres.”
Whispering his name caused a twinge in her heart. Did he feel a similar attraction to her, Faith wondered—not for the first time. She thought, hoped, prayed Pres felt the same, but it was difficult to tell; the man was so darned enigmatic.
And yet...
Shivering, more from an inner thrill than the surface chill, Faith recalled the two occasions on which Pres had stopped at the Inn during the intervening three weeks ...
* * * *
“Good day, Mistress Faith.”
Smothering a shriek of surprise, Faith spun to face the man who had appeared so suddenly and silently in the dining room doorway. “Good grief, Pres!” she exclaimed, giving him a stern stare. “You startled me.”
“I do apologize.” Pres made a quick bow, his lips gave a small quirk as he raised an eyebrow questioningly, glancing around the empty room. “You are alone here?”
“Yes.” Faith indicated the room with a quick gesture. “Mrs. Shelby is in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.”
“I pray not rabbit stew,” he drawled, sauntering across the room to her.
Warmed by the idea of sharing something with him, even something as insignificant as a mutual dislike for rabbit stew, Faith smiled and shook her head. “No, not today.”
“Thanks be.” Pres grinned as he shrugged off his long cape. “I was anticipating a substantial meal.”
“You’ve been traveling long?” Faith asked, noticing his mud-spattered boots.
He nodded. “Since first light.”
“Then you must be starving!” she exclaimed, turning toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring you something to—”
“Hold,” Pres ordered, reaching for her hand. “I can wait until the meal is ready.” Lacing his fingers through hers, he drew her toward the rough-hewn parson’s bench placed near the fireplace. “Come, sit and talk with me while I warm myself.”
“I really shouldn’t,” Faith said, glancing at the kitchen doorway. “I should be getting on with my work,” She inclined her head to indicate the bucket of steaming water and cleaning cloths she had gathered to scrub the tables and benches.
“That can wait, also,” he said, tightening his fingers around hers. “Your duties include serving the customers,” he went on, seating himself and urging her onto the bench beside him. “You can serve me with your charming companionship and conversation.”
The warmth of his hand caused a tingling sensation to skitter from Faith’s fingers to the nape of her neck. The intensity of his dark eyes, his soft voice, caused a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to believe that Pres was interested in her as a woman, but...
The talk in the inn the night before had revolved around the renewed sightings of the shadowy figure stealing back and forth through the vicinity. And now, here was Pres, appearing suddenly, out of nowhere.
Was he a patriot or a Tory? Faith bit back the question and instead asked, “What do you want to talk about?”
“You.”
Faith glanced away from his probing gaze. “What about me?” She stole a quick look at him, then went on before he could answer, “I mean, what do you want to know?”
“Many things.” Pres smiled. “Will you take offense if I ask your age?”
“My age?” Faith stared at him in astonishment, then laughed; and she’d been afraid he would grill her about the future! She shook her head. “I don’t mind telling my age, Pres. I’m twenty-four.”
‘Indeed.’“ Pres gave her a look of disbelief. “I thought you were older.”
“Older!” Faith frowned. “Well, thanks a heap.”
“Not because of your appearance,” Pres hastened to assure her. “But you have a certain maturity, a presence about you.” He shrugged. “I cannot quite explain what exactly it is, but you seemed so much more...”
“Independent?” Faith finished for him.
“Precisely.” Pres gave a sharp nod of his head. “You possess an air of independence far exceeding that of other females of your age.”
“Maybe because I’m from a different time, Pres,” she reminded him. “The women of the twentieth century are independent and self-sufficient.”
“Are they, really?” His voice held a note of wonder. “Tell me about your life there, the things you do, how you live ... everything.”
“Everything!” Faith laughed. “I’m afraid it would take hours for me to do that, because everything is so very different.”
Pres glanced around the room, then brought his gaze back to her. “Are people from your time so very different, as well? Do they not laugh, cry, love?”
Faith felt herself leaning toward him, wanting to drown in the depths of his dark eyes; she caught herself up short when her mouth was mere inches from his. “Ah... yes!” she blurted out, her face hot from embarrassment. “People are much the same. It’s the lifestyle that’s changed.”
“And you, Mistress Faith, do you love?” His voice was a caress, so low she had to strain to hear him.
“Love?” she repeated, confused.
Pres moved closer, so close his breath feathered over her suddenly dry, parted lips. “Yes, love, Mistress Faith. Do you—”
“Faith.” Mrs. Shelby’s raised voice cut off whatever Pres was going to say. “Have you finished scrubbing the tables?”
Rudely jolted from her bemused state, Faith blinked and frowned, then jumped to her feet. “No, ma’am,” she called, casting Pres an imploring look when he continued to maintain his hold on her hand.
“Well, make haste, girl,” Mrs. Shelby ordered. “I need your help out here in the kitchen.”
A rueful smile curving his lips, Pres allowed her hand to slip free of his. “Later, perhaps?” he murmured on a hopeful note.
“Perhaps,” Faith replied on a sigh of regret. Would there be time later? She strongly doubted it, as she suspected she would probably be kept busy serving the customers.
Faith’s suspicions proved correct, as the evening business was brisk.
Positioned near the wide doorway between the bar and the dining room, Pres didn’t miss a word of the discussion amongst the customers, though he gave the appearance of bored disinterest.
Other than exchanging a few hurried words when Faith served Pres his dinner, they had no other opportunit
y to engage in a real conversation.
Faith went to bed that night still wondering if Pres was truly interested in her, or only in the information he could garner from her.
She would have believed the latter, if it were not for the tantalizing memory of his eyes. Pres’s eyes, dark and intent, had followed her every move, remaining cool so long as she was left undisturbed to go about her work, flaring with an inner flame whenever a male customer evinced the most casual interest in her.
* * * *
Faith smiled with remembered disbelief tinged with compassion as the memory of another customer came to mind. In truth, the incident stretched credulity.
The man had arrived at the inn a few nights after Faith’s own sudden appearance there, and on the same night as Prescott’s second visit.
The man was nondescript, average in height, skinny, somewhat delicate in appearance, harried-looking. To the rapt attention of every person in the place, the man recounted his tale of woe.
It seemed the man was a struggling artist who maintained a small gallery and framing shop in Philadelphia. As he was also a known supporter of the cause for independence, he had decided to choose the path of prudence and had fled the Philadelphia area when General Howe took command of the capital city.
Loading what supplies and stock he could pile into a two-wheeled cart, the man set out, heading for safety with relatives in Lancaster. Since it was common knowledge that Howe’s army was ravaging the countryside, the man had taken a circuitous route, sleeping wherever he found a modicum of shelter. After a week on the road, the man felt sorely in need of a roof over his head and a bed, if only for a night or two.
It was at this point of the man’s story that the kicker came for Faith.
His soulful eyes pleading, the man prevailed upon William Shelby to give him a few nights succor in exchange for portraits of the innkeeper and his wife, since the artist had no hard cash to pay for lodging.
“Portraits, you say?” William Shelby repeated, snorting. “I’ve little time for such fancy doings.”
“Your good wife, then,” the sorrowful man said with a note of desperation.
