Distant Dreams

by Jenny Lykins

  Griffin leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  “I could blame it on the servants’ grapevine, but Ned’s squeaky wife has been well-oiled. In this case your dear little sister has made the knowledge known. Of course, I’m sure she believed she was being discreet at the time.”

  Molly! The little troublemaker. He would strangle her with his bare hands.

  “Tell me, Alec. If this wife of yours isn’t Phillipa, who is she and where did she come from? I can understand the story about her finding the ring, perhaps even believe it. But why hasn’t her family come to her rescue?”

  Alec cringed on the inside at all the questions he’d meticulously avoided.

  “I don’t know, Griffin. I asked her on that first day, and she gave me a cock and bull story about being a journalist writing a story for a newspaper.” He leaned back in his chair. “An obvious lie. Whoever heard of a female journalist? But I attributed her story to fear. She most certainly is not from the area. Her speech patterns are odd, and her voice holds the lilt of a Southerner. Indeed, she sounds quite a bit like you. Only more refined.” He couldn’t resist that last attempt at humor.

  “You’ve not asked her?” Griffin ignored the goading comment and leaned forward, his shock evident.

  Alec picked up a quill and busied himself with trimming the point.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I’ve not.” He looked up. “There is something about her, Grif. I find myself drawn to her, and at the same time I’ve avoided asking her questions. I fear I don’t want to know the answers. She’s not sent for relatives. She’s not even sent for clothing. She’s wearing a gown today from Phillipa’s trunks.”

  Griffin listened with his mouth agape. “This is not like you, Alec. You never leave a stone unturned, a question unanswered.”

  Alec tossed aside the quill and rose from his chair to pace the length of the library.

  “I know. But I have placed her in this untenable situation. I’ve not felt it right to pry, and I have assumed that she would tell me her history if she chose. I did ask her if she had anyone here she needed to contact; anyone who would worry.”

  “And her answer?”

  The flicker of sadness that had passed across Shaelyn’s face danced through Alec’s mind. A perfect picture of loneliness.

  “No one. She had no one to notify.”

  “Do you not find it strange that she has no relatives, apparently no friends? No clothing, for that matter?”

  Alec rubbed the back of his neck and wished Griffin was the lackwit he sometimes pretended to be.

  “Yes, it’s strange. Damned strange. But I put her in this position, and she has a right to her privacy. Besides, as soon as the marriage is annulled and she gets that ring off her finger, she shall be on her way and I will never see her again.”

  He refused to even begin to consider why that statement left him feeling so empty. He felt sorry for her. Of course. He simply felt sorry for her.

  Griffin studied Alec for a moment, then started scratching at another sore spot.

  “Molly tells me that Faith Almany is to be your next wife.”

  Alec stopped pacing. As much as he loved his baby sister, he would squeeze the life from her, and he would smile as she gasped her last breath.

  “Oh, come now,” Griffin said, reading Alec’s mind. “She’s but a child.”

  “Did she glean what I consumed for breakfast and pass that information to you as well?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Griffin smirked and made himself more comfortable. “Your eating habits are not nearly as interesting as your mating habits.”

  Alec glared at his cocky friend and continued pacing.

  “Well, are you going to comment on this business with Faith? Is she to be the next Mrs. Alec Hawthorne?”

  Alec fell back into his chair and massaged his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Oh, for the days when his life had been simple.

  “I have not seen Faith in more than a decade. No doubt her husband left her with more money than she can spend in a lifetime, or a business which Father covets, else he would never have considered her. But Father is in for a rude awakening. When Faith arrives, we shall talk, and we will marry only if she and I agree. I have played the obedient son for thirty years, but I do not intend to allow my father to pick yet another wife for me, no matter who she may be, nor what my duties to my father are.”

  Griffin stretched and yawned, then shoved himself from the chair.

  “Can’t say that I blame you, old man. But enough talk. If we are to set sail for Maryland tonight, we both have things to attend to. Not the least of which, no doubt, is your present wife.”

  After Griffin left, Alec remained sequestered in the library until he could no longer deny he was putting off the inevitable. With a sigh, he rose and went in search of Shaelyn. He would decide what to say when he found her.

  *******

  Shaelyn picked her way along the rocky beach, trying not to think about Alec’s vague, stilted explanation of having to leave on a business trip the night before. The early morning sun glistened off the crystal water as it curled across the pebbly sand before retreating. A gull squawked in the distance.

  Even the most peaceful moment in her own time seemed hectic compared to the atmosphere now. It seemed she and everyone she knew had been in a race to see who could burn out the quickest. Until a few days ago, she had certainly been in the lead. When she got this ring off her finger, would she go back to the same break-neck pace she’d left? Did she want to go back to that pace?

  She tugged on the ring subconsciously, but it showed no sign of budging. Would it ever come off? Would she be stuck in the past forever? Would Alec ever let her go if the ring didn’t come off? She wasn’t ready to listen to the voice that said she hoped not.

  She sank down onto a boulder and watched the morning light dance on the water. The prospect of staying in 1830 terrified her, yet somehow beckoned her. Though Alec had frightened the daylights out of her at first, she’d soon realized what a good and gentle man he was. But would he want to spend the rest of his life with someone he’d married by mistake? If not, what would she do if the marriage was annulled and she still couldn’t get home?

  And what of her family and friends in her own time? Were they frantic? Did they know what had happened to her? Her parents had loved her, raised her as if she was a child of their blood. They would grieve for her no less if they thought she was gone. And she would grieve at losing them just as much. As for her friends... She had only one true friend. The others were all acquaintances collected during her travels on the job. But she and Brianne had ended up in the same class together in second grade, and they had been steady friends who counted on each other for the past twenty-three years. Bri would miss her. Everyone else would probably just eventually wonder what ever happened to Shaelyn Sumner.

  One thing was certain. Aaron and Rachel would never miss her. Just the thought of her so-called friend and her fiancé eloping had her reliving the pain of their betrayal. But she’d put that all behind her years ago. She no longer hated them. She pitied them for their lack of humanity.

  “Hello.”

  Shaelyn jerked, then slapped a hand over her racing heart. A girl - or rather a young woman - strolled toward her with a frilly yellow parasol matching her gown propped against her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. But I saw you sitting there and I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Molly Hawthorne. And you must be Shaelyn.”

  The girl, a female version of Alec, could have been anywhere from sixteen to twenty.

  “Yes, I’m Shaelyn. And you’ve got to be Alec’s sister.”

  The breeze lifted perfect dark curls to swirl about a long ivory neck. The girl giggled and shook her head.

  “His baby sister, according to both him and Charles. Has he not mentioned me?”

  Shaelyn shook her head. “No, but then he hasn’t really talked that much about himself.”

  Molly smiled and
twirled her parasol. The girl would break a lot of hearts. “No, he wouldn’t. Alec loves to be mysterious. And the rest of the family tries to forget me, I think. You see, I am what Mother calls ‘a chore.’ But, actually, I’ve simply learned from my brothers’ mistakes.”

  Shaelyn felt an immediate rapport with this outspoken young woman of the 1830s. She scooted over on the rock and patted the warm stone beside her.

  Molly picked her way across the rocks and settled her skirts around her as she seated herself next to Shaelyn.

  “So, you are my new sister-in-law. It’s not like Alec to bring home someone we’ve never met. Father is in a tither, of course. He cannot abide it when his children do not bow to his wishes.”

  Shaelyn had already pegged William Hawthorne as a dictator. She even thought as him as Der Fuehrer, when she bothered to think of him at all.

  “Are you married?” Shae asked. The girl seemed much too cheerful for anyone living under Der Fuehrer’s roof.

  “Oh, heavens, no!” she laughed. “I do not intend to ever marry, though Father has not yet accepted the idea. He continues to promise my hand in marriage, and I continue to develop diseases or mental disorders or undesirable personality traits, until the weak-kneed sons of Father’s business associates cannot withdraw their offers quickly enough. I can even chase away the fortune seekers, which is no small task.”

  Shaelyn smiled. She could well imagine this spirited young woman babbling like Dustin Hoffman in “Rainman,” or languishing with a mystery disease that would do any soap opera proud.

  “Are you and Alec truly having the marriage annulled? You are so perfectly suited for each other.”

  Shaelyn quirked a brow at Molly and studied her for a moment.

  “You’ve just met me. How do you know I’m perfect for him?

  “I just know. I wouldn’t like you if you weren’t. And I liked you the moment I saw you.” Her smile spread all the way to the golden brown eyes so like her brother’s. Eyes fringed with inky black lashes that matched her hair.

  “Well,” Shaelyn smoothed a few wrinkles from the white gauzy skirts of the latest gown she’d borrowed from Phillipa’s trunks. “Marriages due to mistaken identities don’t usually make the strongest relationships. Besides,” she looked back at Molly, “the whole thing was just one big mix-up. I have a life I need to get back to, and I’m sure Alec does too.”

  “How very odd your speech is. Where do you come from? Certainly not from this area.” Molly studied her, as if trying to place the accent. Shaelyn wondered if the sudden warmth she felt in her cheeks showed on her face. What would Molly say if Shaelyn told her when she’d come from, as well as where.

  “I’m originally from a small town in southern Louisiana, near Baton Rouge. I guess I still have a hint of the southern drawl.”

  “Yes, most definitely. But I was referring to your speech patterns. You have a very...colorful way of expressing yourself.”

  “Oh. That.” She made a mental note to watch how she phrased things around people. The last thing she needed was to be carted off to the loony bin. “I guess that’s just my journalistic style coming out.” She shot Molly a lame smile.

  “A journalist? Truly?” The young woman sighed and scanned the powder blue sky above her. “How I love to write. I would be most pleased to publish a book someday. I read Jane Austen’s works at night when Father thinks I am asleep. He would fair have a fit if he knew I read such ‘trash,’ as he calls it. Or that Alec smuggles it to me.”

  Too bad Herr William couldn’t peek into the future and see what respect would be given to the classic “trash” he so disdained.

  “Have you tried to write anything?” Shaelyn asked, steering the conversation away from herself.

  Molly shrugged and sighed. “I have dabbled. I write volumes in my journal.” Suddenly she brightened. “Perhaps I shall write yours and Alec’s story!”

  Shaelyn stood and shook out her skirts, smiling to herself at this hopeless romantic. “Then it’s going to be a short story. The marriage was a mistake. An accident. It will be over as soon as I get this ring off and Alec sees his attorney.”

  Molly scooted from the rock and strolled beside Shaelyn, ignoring her words.

  “Perhaps I shall write how he will sweep you off your feet at the masquerade ball. You cannot help but swoon when you see him in costume. And balls are so romantic, especially when everyone’s identity is hidden.”

  Shaelyn rolled her eyes while Molly blissfully wove a fairy tale. Had she ever been that naive?

  “I’m not going to the ball, Molly.”

  “Not going to the ball? But you must!”

  “Why? I don’t know anyone. No one will know me. I’ll just be an embarrassment to your father and mother.”

  “But if you do not - ” Molly turned and grabbed Shaelyn’s hands. “Please say you’ll come! No one will know you anyway. You’ll have on a mask. I shall procure a costume for you. You can be the mystery woman who never removes her mask!”

  Shaelyn couldn’t help but smile at such enthusiasm. And, heaven help her, she was actually considering it. What a chapter it would make when she made it home to write down her experiences. Alec wouldn’t be there anyway. When he’d informed her yesterday evening of his business trip, he hadn’t sounded like he would be home any time soon. Although, she thought to herself, the ball might be imminently more entertaining if he did get back in time.

  Molly sensed her weakening. “Please say you’ll come!”

  She thought about it for a moment more, picturing the article. A first hand account of a nineteenth century ball!

  With a grimace, and a prayer that she wasn’t making one more hare-brained mistake, she nodded.

  *******

  Alec stood on the bridge of the three-masted ship while the deck beneath his feet rolled and pitched, swelled and ebbed, soared and fell. As always, his queasy stomach matched the movements, and once again he turned to the varnished wooden rail and emptied that stomach over the side. The night sea looked more like a black abyss than an expanse of ocean.

  Jimmy, the slip of a cabin boy, appeared beside him with a ladle of fresh water. While the tow-headed youth rose and fell with the deck, Alec growled a thank you, rinsed his mouth, then spit the water into the dark rolling waves. With the back of his sleeve, he wiped the sweat and saltwater from his face.

  “The Puking Puffin, perhaps.” Griffin strolled up, whipped a linen handkerchief from his pocket, then presented it with all the finesse of Beau Brummel before his fall from grace.

  Alec turned and glared, knowing his face, undoubtedly a sickly green hue, looked only slightly more healthy than a corpse.

  “One more comment about any kind of puffin, and I will beat you to within an inch of your life.”

  “Ah. The Pugilistic Puffin.”

  With a strangled roar, Alec grabbed two fistfuls of Griffin’s pristine white shirt and hauled him up onto his toes.

  “Mr. Hawthorne, sir, the Cap’n says there be a ship sighted off the port bow.”

  Alec cursed at his smirking friend. “Lucky bastard,” he growled before shoving him away and stalking to the helm. On his way, his roiling stomach forced him to make another deposit over the heaving side of the ship.

  “Ah, laddie. In the light of day, I’d wager you’re as green as the coat of a wee leprechaun.” The captain slapped Alec on the back when he finally arrived at the wheel.

  Though his penchant for mal de mer was well known to all of the crew, Alec was in no mood to trade witticisms about his malady.

  “Where’s the ship?”

  Captain Finley handed him the spyglass and pointed due west. The faintest pale shadow of ghostly gray sails skimmed across the black waters.

  “She be the one we’re looking for, laddie. Do we take her now or wait ‘til she drops anchor?”

  Alec raised the glass to his eye, then handed it back to the captain. His stomach tightened, but this time the sensation had nothing to do with the peaks and valleys o
f the waves.

  “We wait.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Shaelyn stood in the shadow of a huge potted plant, trying to make herself invisible while she watched dozens of kings and queens, fools and fairies, Caesers and Cleopatras, circle the room in one of the intricate dances of the nineteenth century. Chandeliers threw rainbows of light around the room, reflected a thousand times in the matching mirrors on opposite walls.

  She had already given more lame excuses to potential dance partners than she could count, and now she just wanted to avoid being asked at all. No way was she going to venture onto that dance floor. Her specialties ranged more with the Texas Two-Step or the latest line dance. Or maybe a leftover disco step from the eighties.

  What she wouldn’t give for her mini-recorder or notepad. She’d have even settled for a piece of vellum and a quill pen, if she could have figured out where to hide them in that costume. The minute she got back to her rooms, she would write every electrifying moment down on whatever paper she could find. Imagine! Attending a true nineteenth century masquerade ball! She planned to absorb every detail, every color, every movement, every moment. If only Alec were here to -

  She stopped the thought before it had a chance to be fully born. Any involvement with Alec would only complicate matters when she finally managed to coax the ring from her finger. No sense letting a few over-active hormones make life harder on her when it came time to return to the future. She shook away the memory of his kiss - the one she’d all but forced on him when he thought he was marrying Phillipa Morgan. The way his lips had slid over hers. The taste of his tongue. The way she fit perfectly against his -

  “I’ve not seen you dance once! Did I sneak you in here so that you could hide behind the potted palms?” A raven-haired gypsy with Alec’s eyes pirouetted up to her as if on a cloud. Gauzy scarves draped over the lower half of her face lent Molly the perfect air of mystery.

  “Better to not dance than to go out there and make a fool of myself.” For the hundredth time that evening, Shaelyn tried to sigh, and for the hundredth time she failed to expand her lungs enough within the confines of the tightly-laced torture chamber. “And why did you get to be the gypsy and I have to wear this iron maiden?” She tugged at the squared-off décolletage on the seventeenth century gown of a French aristocrat...or courtesan. It was hard to tell the difference. One more time, she tried to stuff her overflowing breasts back into the scant bodice, but the prehistoric push-up bra kept shoving all that skin right back out. Even if she did manage to take a deep breath, Shaelyn feared the unthinkable might happen.