They nodded. Hannah wiped her eyes, but she still looked as miserable as she felt.
Brandon and Alex had always argued that the Professor would protect them from serious harm while they traveled in time. Hannah had always thought that they were both seriously naive. And where, she thought, was their precious Professor now? But she was not glad to have been proved right.
On this night, Hannah lay on her bed, fretting in the dark. Mrs. Jenkins had made a big deal about giving her a single room, but the room had turned out to be the size of a closet. Hannah, having lived in crowded conditions on other adventures, wasn’t too surprised. Regardless of the room size, she was depressed.
Random thoughts flitted by: her misery at Snipes Academy . . . how much she hated Snipesville . . . how much she missed San Francisco . . . her mother . . . her mother’s death . . . her mother again, ignoring Hannah . . . how much she hated San Francisco . . . The thoughts were becoming more and more painful, and Hannah rubbed at her face, as though she were trying to rub clean her mind.
She tried to recall happy memories: shopping with her grandma in London . . . going with Grandma to Starbucks in Sacramento . . . baking scones with Mrs. Devenish in 1940 . . . watching movies with Verity . . . The terrible sadness of saying goodbye to Mrs. Devenish . . . The Professor has disappeared, and so has Alex. What am I going to do?
Hannah angrily rearranged her feather pillow, and tried to settle, but all she could think about was Alex, the Professor, her mother, and losing Mrs. D. Finally, she could stand it no longer, and burst into tears.
The night stretched out before her, full of visions, nightmares, dread, and phantoms. Curling up in the cold bed, she sobbed in despair.
Hannah awoke the next morning to the raucous sound of a young woman’s angry shouts, followed by a slamming door. Bleary-eyed, she opened the heavy drape, and peeked outside, just in time to catch sight of a girl storming out of the building, then turning back only to hurl more insults at someone standing in the doorway.
Curious about this drama, and hungry for breakfast, she dressed quickly and ran downstairs. Brandon sat alone at the table eating a simple meal of bread and butter with the inn’s awful coffee. Hannah took the seat across from him.
“What was that about?” she asked, reaching for a cut slice of bread. “All that yelling?”
After taking a swig of coffee then wiping his mouth on his hand, Brandon explained. “The maid had a big falling-out with Mrs. Jenkins. She just quit, said she was going home to her parents’ farm. From what she said, Mrs. Jenkins kind of nags a lot.” He grinned. “Sound familiar?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Hannah, smiling. “Reminds me of Mrs. D., of course. I guess being a naggy old bat runs in the family.” She felt better now. At least she had Brandon for company. She picked up the breadknife and began to saw herself another slice.
But then she stopped, furrowed her brow, and laid down the knife. She had an idea. Scraping back her chair on the flagstone floor, she jumped up and slipped into the kitchen, where Mrs. Jenkins was supervising preparation of the midday meal.
“Excuse me? Mrs. Jenkins?” Hannah said brightly. “I hear you need a new maid?”
Mrs. Jenkins looked at her skeptically. “You?”
“Yeah, me,” said Hannah, feeling slightly insulted. Talking quickly, she went on, “I’ve got experience, okay? I worked as a chambermaid.”
Mrs. Jenkins looked carefully at Hannah. There was a long pause. Finally she said decisively, “You may work on trial. If your work is pleasing, you may stay on. What is your name?”
“Hannah,” she replied. “Hannah Dias . . . I mean, Hannah Day.”
Hannah Day, the closest thing in English to her Portuguese last name, was always what she went by in the England of the past, a much less diverse place than the England of the present. Using an English name saved awkward questions. “Very well, Hannah Day,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “You will take the maidservant’s room upstairs.” Her eyes twinkled. “Only be sure to watch out for Jack Platt.”
Hannah was puzzled by the warning. “Jack who?”
“Our ghost,” said Mrs. Jenkins, putting her hands on her hips. “They say he was murdered in his bed by his traveling companion, and on occasion he appears in the maidservant’s room, wringing his hands and begging for help. Sometimes, he only shakes the maid awake, and then disappears.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Hey, do you have a job for my friend Brandon, too?”
“No, I do not,” Mrs. Jenkins barked, irritated by Hannah’s lack of gratitude. “I require only the services of a maid.”
When Hannah’s face fell, the landlady relented a little. She sighed. “But I will allow your friend to remain on the premises until he finds a new master. However, he must sleep in the hayloft, above the stables. Balesworth is very busy at this time of year, and a position may present itself at one of the inns, if he does but enquire about town.”
Hannah grinned, and almost hugged Mrs. Jenkins. But then she thought better of it, and instead she dashed off to tell Brandon the good news. Life was looking up again.
In the bleak small hours of the next morning, Hannah was dragged from bed by a powerful force. But her assailant wasn’t the ghostly Jack Platt. It was Mrs. Jenkins who ripped away the blanket in which Hannah had wrapped herself, and who pulled her upright by the arm.
“Rise, you lazy little miss,” the landlady cried cheerfully, her gray hair flying from beneath her cap as she yanked Hannah to her feet. “Robert knocked on your door a quarter of an hour ago. See and you be downstairs in the next two minutes, or I shall come and fetch you.” She left the tiny room, and Hannah heard her shoes on the stairs.
Groggily, Hannah pulled her petticoat, pocket, and skirt over her shift, and crammed her feet into her leather shoes. Glancing outside through a gap in the curtains, she saw that it was barely dawn, and she shuddered.
Hannah found Mrs. Jenkins in the kitchen, expertly slicing a huge hunk of raw ham with an enormous knife. She nodded to Hannah and said, “Know you how to cook?”
There was no point in lying. Hannah shook her head.
Mrs. Jenkins didn’t seem at all surprised. She laid down her knife and wiped her greasy hands on her apron. “Very well, you shall learn from me,” she said, in a tone that did not invite argument. “You can help me make the breakfast.”
First, Mrs. Jenkins had Hannah collect bread dough from a cupboard next to the fireplace, where it was rising under a towel. They set about making rolls. Mrs. Jenkins demonstrated how to squeeze a fistful of dough between thumb and forefinger to produce a perfect bubble of bread. But when Hannah tried to make all the rolls exactly the same size, her mistress accused her of wasting time. Hannah couldn’t help wondering where she had got the idea that all rolls should be exactly the same? Then again, she didn’t think she had ever eaten a homemade roll. Maybe she was just too used to the ones from the supermarket.
Over the next hour Hannah cooked goopy oatmeal in a massive black cauldron, and carved a large chunk of boiled beef. It made her nervous to wield a huge knife, even though she followed Mrs. Jenkins’ instructions precisely.
Still, when breakfast was ready for the serving boy to carry into the dining room, Hannah felt strangely proud. This job, she thought, was shaping up to be pretty cool. And working with Mrs. Jenkins was wonderful: Her mistress knew so much about cooking, and she was a patient tutor. Best of all, she was warm and attentive toward Hannah, and that made Hannah happy.
And then Hannah remembered that nothing made sense, nothing at all. Why were she and Brandon here? Why was Mrs. Jenkins acting so kindly to a pair of strangers? Brandon had already asked that question. “We’re lucky,” he had told her. “This is a brutal time in English history. There are lots of desperate unemployed people wandering around, lots of crime, and people don’t trust strangers. Mrs. Jenkins is a pretty special lady.”
Why, Hannah wondered, would Mrs. Jenkins trust her?
Despite Mrs. Jenkins’s prediction,
Brandon did not find work that day, even though he visited every business in Balesworth. When Hannah visited him in the stables that evening, she found him exhausted and discouraged.
“No luck?” she asked, plopping herself next to him on a pile of dry and crunchy straw.
He shook his head, drew his knees up to his chin, and grunted, “Nah.”
Hannah looked at him with sympathy. “Are people being racist at you?”
He shrugged. “Probably. Maybe. Thing is, nobody who sees me seems surprised to see a black person, even though everyone in this town is white. They all say they don’t have any jobs going right now, but it doesn’t seem personal.” He felt uneasy, but he wasn’t sure why. People had acted so normally toward him this time around, it was bizarre. In his past time-travels to England, his skin color had made him a novelty.
Hannah changed the subject, and told him about her day, and how she and Mrs. Jenkins had got along so well. Then, suddenly, she slapped her forehead. “Oh my gosh, I almost forgot to tell you. Mrs. Jenkins says the . . . what did she call him? . . . like, the vicar . . . anyway, the guy up at the church, whatever you call him, he’s looking for a servant. It’s worth checking out. Except . . .”
“Yeah,” Brandon interrupted wearily. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
Hannah shook her head. “No, let me tell you something first. Listen to this. He’s interviewed almost every servant in town, and they all turned him down.”
“Maybe they’re pickier than me,” said Brandon, running his fingers through the straw.
“Not exactly,” she said. “They just don’t want to go to America with him.”
At the mention of America, Brandon abruptly sat up straight, and his eyes connected with Hannah’s.
“Hannah, don’t you see?” he said excitedly. “This is my sign to go. This is always how it seems to happen. When we’re supposed to do something in the past, we just know. Maybe we don’t even need the Professor to tell us what to do. Don’t you get a funny feeling inside when you have to make a big decision while we’re time-traveling?”
“Yes . . .” she said reluctantly. “Yes, I do. But what will happen to me if you leave, Brandon?”
He beamed an encouraging smile at her. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll both be fine.”
“Says you,” said Hannah crossly.
The church was a typically English stone building, beautiful and ancient, but it was oddly situated on the far outskirts of town. Standing in the drafty stone porch, Brandon gingerly pushed at the great wooden door, opening it with a very loud creak.
Inside, it was profoundly silent. It had a musty smell. But the church was well lit, for this was a sunny day, and bright rays poured into the interior through the plain glass windows. It did not look like it had in 1940. Now, in 1752, most of the pews were enclosed on four sides by low wooden walls, forming boxes in which the congregation would sit.
Brandon crept into the aisle, nervously looking about him. Suddenly, a booming voice rang out from on high, saying “Is it me whom you seek?”
Brandon’s first thought was that God was speaking to him, and he squeaked in fright. But the voice actually came from a man in his twenties who was stationed high up in the wineglass-shaped pulpit. He wore a black academic gown, a short white wig, and a very serious expression on his face.
“Hi, Vicar, sorry to bother you,” said Brandon breezily, relieved to see the very mortal young man who was descending the steps.
“I am not the vicar,” the man replied haughtily, “And I am certainly not the rector. I am merely the curate, and my name is Mr. Osborn. Now, how may I be of service?”
“You’re the preacher, right, sir?” Brandon wondered why Mr. Osborn had made a big deal out of his job title: Whatever he was called, he was obviously a pastor.
Mr. Osborn nodded. “I preach from the pulpit here at St. Swithin’s, yes,” he said.
“Great,” said Brandon. “Well, I hear you need a servant. I’m Brandon Clark, and I want to apply for the job.”
Mr. Osborn brightened. “I do, I do indeed need a servant. Come, let us repair to the vestry, and we shall talk. Your name is Brandon, did you say?”
In the tiny office, Mr. Osborn pushed back on his gown with a great billowing flourish, as he took his place at a small desk. He did not invite Brandon to sit down.
As the curate shuffled a few papers laid out in front of him, looking for something, Brandon glanced around the room. High on the wall, he could see graffiti: deeply scratched writing in some language he didn’t understand, and a crude drawing of a man’s face, framed with leaves.
Mr. Osborn exclaimed in satisfaction as he picked up a folded letter with a broken blob of red sealing wax on the back. He flourished the letter at Brandon. “I have recently received this license from His Grace the Bishop of London. It authorizes me to bring the word of Christ to His Majesty’s Colony in Georgia. Brandon, this is a high honor, and I flatter myself that His Grace was impressed by the book I wrote, an inscribed copy of which I had the honor of presenting to him some months ago . . .”
Just as Brandon started to wonder why Mr. Osborn was telling him all this, he realized he had just heard the magic word: Georgia.
Then a terrible thought struck him, and his hopes deflated.
“I’m sorry, Reverend, but I can’t go to Georgia,” he said apologetically. “They would make me a slave.”
Mr. Osborn laughed. “No, no, foolish boy. Of course they would not. Only negroes are slaves.”
Brandon was baffled. “But, sir, beg pardon, I’m a, um, negro.” It felt weird using that old-fashioned word, almost like he was insulting himself.
Mr. Osborn smiled indulgently, shaking his head at Brandon’s foolishness. He stood, and opened a closet in which his vestments hung, to reveal a small mirror. He beckoned to Brandon to stand before it, and then stood behind him with his hands on Brandon’s shoulders. Brandon gasped at the reflection of his face. A strange pale boy stared back at him. A white boy.
Chapter 3: CHANGING COLORS
A boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles gazed out from the mirror.
Brandon was so freaked out, he thought it was a trick. He touched the boy’s face to see if it really was a reflection. As his hand slid across the hard glass, he saw that his fingers were still black, while the mirror showed white skin. He felt his guts dissolve.
Meanwhile, Mr. Osborn was rambling on, although Brandon could scarcely begin to take in what he was saying. “So, you comprehend, those poor unfortunate creatures known by the name of ‘negro’ are former inhabitants of Africa, and it is their lot in life to be enslaved on the plantations of America. However, their souls are as eternal as yours and mine, and it is within our power to lead them to Christ. And so I intend to minister to those unfortunate creatures in my parish in America.”
Mr. Osborn continued to hold forth on his plans to bring Christianity to slaves while Brandon, shaking, stared at the mirror. Finally, the curate realized that his sermon was falling on deaf ears. “Come away from the looking glass,” he said irritably. “I offer you a great opportunity, Brandon. The Government will pay your passage, for they are desirous of white settlers, lest Georgia become a place of slaves only. You see, the Board of Trustees of Georgia first declared slavery to be against the law, but they rescinded their decision two years ago. Now that slavery is legal, slaves have poured into the colony. Therefore the Government has agreed to offer recompense to any who bring white servants with them to restore the balance. I will use that compensation to pay your passage. In return, you will work on my land for five years thereafter, and thenceforth you would be in good stead to become a landowner yourself in the colony. What say you?”
Brandon was not listening at all. He was staring at his new face. “Yeah, um, great,” he muttered faintly. “I’ll take it.”
Mr. Osborn’s eyebrows shot up. He had not expected the boy to agree so readily. Every other young person he had interviewed had politely refused him, or eve
n laughed at his plans. They had told him that while the free land sounded good, America was a savage country, only reachable by a perilous sea voyage. Yet this boy made no objections. Perhaps he was an idiot? Or perhaps he had some reason to wish to flee the country?
Mr. Osborn plowed on. “I shall need to speak with a man who will attest to your good character. Will your former master be pleased to speak with me if I should correspond with him?”
“Huh?” Brandon said. He could not take his eyes off the mirror, and the stranger’s face that stared back at him.
Mr. Osborn sighed heavily. Apparently, the boy was an idiot. He stepped forward, and firmly turned Brandon around to face him. “One would think that you had never cast eyes upon a looking-glass before.”
Now, Brandon came to his senses. “That’s . . . That’s right, sir,” he stammered. “I’ve never seen a mirror before. I’ve only seen my reflection in ponds and things.”
“Come,” said Mr. Osborn impatiently, moving back to the desk. “We must attend to your employment ere the day is ended. Let us make haste.” He picked up a sheet of paper and a stubby quill pen with all its feathering stripped away, and pulled the cork stopper from a tiny glass ink bottle.
While Mr. Osborn wrote, Brandon remembered Hannah. “The thing is,” he said tentatively, “I have this cousin, and she has to come with me. She would be a lot of help to you. She’s got a bunch of experience as a maid, and she’s working at the Balesworth Arms right now. I can’t go to America without her.”
Mr. Osborn looked conflicted. “It would be very expensive for me to bring another servant to Georgia . . . . But I suppose my wife could make use of a girl to help her. Does your cousin know anything of cookery?”
Brandon nodded frantically and said, “She’s an awesome cook, and she loves kids.” This was a total lie. So far as Brandon was aware, Hannah hated babies and barely knew how to make toast.
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 5
