The Time Travelers: Volume One

by Caroline B. Cooney

  The maid drooped. “Bleeding of the lungs. Of course she couldn’t stay here and make everybody else sick. They looked in the Blue Ridge Mountains for better air, but the towns there don’t take lungsick. It ruins a town’s looks, you know, to have all those thin, dying people around. Up in the Adirondacks, though, it used to be just for hunting and fishing and men who like that kind of thing, getting wet in their canoes and making campfires, but now of course it’s for cure cottages, and I understand the mountain air cleans out the lungs.” Schmidt took away the tray. “Sometimes, anyway,” she added, striving to be precise. “Mostly they die.”

  Time, you monster! Why didn’t you tell me to bring medicine? You brought me here to see the end of Strat and Harriett both?

  I’m a lunatic myself, Annie realized. Look at me, addressing Time as if he exists and he’s the bad guy.

  Annie told the maid to let her sleep. “When Miss Devonny and Mr. Walk come in, Schmidt, please don’t tell Mr. Walkley I’m here.” How to keep him out of the picture? Walker Walkley had been rotten then and no doubt he was rotten now, or Devonny would not have kept his eyes cupped in her hands to prevent him from seeing Annie.

  Possibly a half-truth would do. The sort they used in this century. “Once Mr. Walkley was forward with me,” she murmured, “and I am uncomfortable in his company.”

  “I’ll be ever so careful, miss, don’t you worry.”

  Don’t worry? thought Annie Lockwood. I changed Time to find Strat, and he’s hundreds of miles away, locked in an asylum, and Devonny is dating Walk, who put him there?

  On the bedside table was a lovely little calendar, painted by hand with cherubs and roses. February, it said. 1898, it said.

  “1898?” she cried.

  Schmidt stared at her.

  “I mean, I’m really so tired, Schmidt,” said Annie, who felt herself unraveling like an old towel, “you are so good to me, thank you so much.” Only nine months passed in my century. How could three years have passed here? What is Time doing?

  “Shall I sit with you until you are asleep, miss?” asked Schmidt, and Annie thought of her mother, who sat with Annie or Tod whenever they didn’t feel well so they’d have company for falling asleep.

  What is it about sleep that makes us afraid to fall alone? Where have I fallen … alone?

  In the shanties north of Central Park, immigrants shuddered with cold and postponed as long as possible a trip to the outhouse.

  But at the Vanderbilts’, guests dined among real grape arbors, brought at great expense from southern greenhouses. At each place, tucked among fresh flowers rushed north by train, were gifts. The men received engraved silver boxes, whose round lids hinged up to take wooden matchsticks for lighting cigars; the ladies were given crystal perfume bottles, their stoppers encrusted with diamonds.

  The soups were duck and turtle, the dinner was roast mountain sheep with puree of chestnuts, and wines of superior vintage accompanied the meal. An opera singer and her orchestra entertained.

  Walker Walkley regarded opera as a series of Indian war whoops, and he would have preferred the Indians.

  During the boring recital, he looked with approval at Devonny’s friend Flossie. How refined she was! So thin that she literally could not support herself, but must lean upon her escort. Naturally Flossie hardly looked up and hardly spoke, and it was so beautiful, such weakness. This was how women should be.

  Devonny, whose behavior could be quite unbecoming, went horseback riding every day when the weather was good and ice skating when it was not. After their marriage, he would put a stop to it. Walk would keep her in the house for a year, no exercise and no sun, because the girl was practically brown from being outdoors, and because restraint would calm her down.

  When Devonny smiled at him, the usual surge of desire swept over Walk. He—he alone—was going to have that Stratton money. And if he could engineer it, he would also have Harriett Ranleigh’s money.

  Walk liked the finer things in life. He did not have enough of them. Soon that would change.

  He smiled back at Devonny, but of course did not cease his conversation with Mr. Astor. Whatever it was that Devonny wanted to say would keep. (Anything any woman wanted to say would keep.)

  Walk was content, thinking of putting Devonny where she belonged.

  All day Harriett had been beautiful. Fever brushed her pink, accented her pallor and made her lovely.

  The same fever had delivered night sweats so bad the entire bed was soaked and had to be changed in the dark. How could there be any liquid left in her? She was going to dry out and die a crisp little wafer.

  “Now, dear,” said Moss, “let’s have a smile on that beautiful face, and then a glass of milk.”

  Six glasses of milk had to be swallowed every day. Harriett hated anything to do with cows now. “When I am well, I will go to the South Seas and eat mangos,” she said to Moss.

  Moss’s assistant, Mario, a skinny boy who carried, emptied and lifted, changed her again. Consumption was a filthy disease. Nobody talked about that. It was important not to refer to the actual squalor of the sickroom. It was important to maintain the fiction that one died gently, setting an example, and going willingly to God.

  But coughing hurt so much. Her whole body hurt. For the first time, Harriett was willing to give up her body. It was too hard to live in it.

  I am so afraid, thought Harriett. And so cold.

  Devonny had soaked her pillows many nights with her tears and fears. She had wept for her dearest friend, Harriett, whose decline had turned out to be consumption, and for her beloved brother, Strat, when Father turned against him. Now she soaked the pillows in her bedroom with tears of rage and frustration.

  One of the problems here was that just because Father was in California did not mean that Father was out of reach.

  In this dreadful new world, people were never out of reach. There were telephones and telegraphs. It was hideous. You could have Father on the opposite coast of America—with thousands of miles in between—and still, bad people like Walker Walkley could get in touch with him that very day.

  Walker Walkley came into everything.

  Suddenly Devonny realized that it was Walk who had taken the mail to the post each morning. The footman had always done it, but Walker insisted that he needed the exercise.

  He didn’t mail our letters, thought Devonny. Strat does not know we’ve been writing. Maybe even Harriett does not know we’ve been writing. Maybe they are both alone, without knowing they are loved and missed. All my letters of encouragement … they were never mailed.

  Forget mummies. Devonny wanted Walker Walkley to kneel down with Marie Antoinette. A guillotine would improve him.

  Exhausted from the party and the constant need to be helpless and clinging, Devonny was now far too close to sleep. Sleep would be a grave error. Devonny got out of bed and paced the hot room to keep herself awake.

  Walk simply would not go to bed. What was the matter with that man? He was down there in Father’s smoking room, striding back and forth as if he owned it.

  Walker Walkley, you toad. It’s good I’m going to California. I will find somebody to marry. Anybody. Anybody at all. As long as he’s tall and handsome, of course, and speaks beautifully and is educated and well traveled. I’ll marry him quickly and that will serve Walker Walkley right.

  Her vision of California was wonderfully sunny, full of orange and palm groves, and rows of flawless men to whom she would be introduced.

  Meantime, there was work to be done.

  She ran her mind over the battalion of servants in the house. Naturally one didn’t know them personally, and after the Lockwood problem at the summer cottage, Father had dismissed everybody and replaced them with strangers.

  Devonny was going to have to entrust one or more of these strangers with the safety of Anna Sophia.

  It would have to be Schmidt. Devonny was not fond of Schmidt, who talked steadily and boringly, but the woman had already let Miss Lockwood in
and given her a bath, and unless Miss Lockwood had improved, Schmidt had probably already learned secrets a servant should not possess.

  It was two in the morning.

  Schmidt had gone to bed.

  Devonny was annoyed. Servants had minds of their own these days. Father was right. A person had to be strict with them.

  She buzzed Schmidt.

  Katie had known, of course, that the truly insane at Evergreen were the attendants: men and women who loved to hit. Violence was constant. They would kick a person over any excuse or none. With those heavy key rings they liked to hit patients in the face. They told Katie they didn’t hit her in the face because she was so ugly the scars wouldn’t show. They struck her hands instead.

  Poor Strat.

  If he had been poor all his life, perhaps he could have completed his escape. But he had behaved like a rich man, expecting to be welcomed at an inn in the village and given a room with a hot bath. The innkeeper simply summoned the staff from the asylum.

  Strat had fought, and now had no chance whatever of getting out of Evergreen. He truly was dangerous. He had broken a man’s arm and knocked a tooth from another man’s jaw, and as for Ralph, Ralph’s head still rang from the collision of that door against his nose and eye sockets, and Ralph was not a forgiving person.

  They put Strat in the straitjacket: a canvas shirt whose arms were mittened at the tips, with straps that tied Strat’s arms to his chest. Then he was given treatment. The treatment consisted of reducing him to a mass of bruises.

  From the only kind attendant at Evergreen, Katie obtained a cup of warm water and a relatively clean cloth. She bathed Strat’s wounds when Ralph finally quit, and talked to Strat constantly, to keep him calm. When he swore or talked back, they simply hit him again. It was a very long night. Actually, it could have been day by now; Katie had no window and no sun by which to gauge.

  “Katie,” said Strat, through swollen painful lips, “why? Why doesn’t even my mother come?”

  Katie began working the knots out of his hair. She felt that Strat could not go on if he believed his mother did not love him, so she said, “Your dear mother loves you, but has never been told where you are. I expect your dear sister loves you, but has also been kept unaware. Or else they truly believe you are in some pleasant place receiving kind treatment.”

  Katie, who had never received kindness, knew how to give it.

  “If they’d just let me out!” cried Strat.

  Since they were not going to let him out, Katie continued to say nothing on that subject. She felt terribly sorry for him. It was easier for her, because she had not known much else.

  “Katie, if you could get out,” asked Strat, “where would you go?”

  Katie did not laugh bitterly. She simply heard his question. “I have nowhere to go. I am deformed. I will always be deformed. No one would want me.”

  Douglass snuffled, making his “read to me” sound. Katie picked up her Bible and read.

  “They’d have put Jesus in an insane asylum,” said Strat.

  “No, said Katie, “because he was beautiful. And so were his disciples. To be ugly is the worst thing. Nobody forgives you for that.”

  “We have very little time,” said Devonny, giving the sleeping Miss Lockwood a rough shake, “and we must accomplish a thousand things before Walk appears in the morning. Noon, actually. He’s never up before noon.”

  Annie struggled to wake up. She had centuries to cross and bad dreams to throw off.

  “First of all,” said Devonny Stratton to Annie Lockwood, “I want you to admit that this is All. Your. Fault.”

  Annie wished she were a hundred years later, safe in her own time, when people let you use any excuse at all. You never had to be responsible for what you did, because it could always be somebody else’s fault.

  “Listen to me, Miss Lockwood,” said Devonny Stratton sharply. She did not look forgiving. “Because he wept for you—because he wrote an essay at Yale describing your century—because he wandered around the mansion grounds calling for you and looking behind trees for you—my brother looked insane.”

  How could such a perfect love have such a horrible result?

  Oh, no, thought Annie, please no! It was true love, not insanity.

  “Walker Walkley,” said Devonny, as harsh as winter, “found out about that essay and weaseled himself back into our lives, telling lies and more lies and greater lies to Father. Father believed him, and the ministers at Yale thought that Strat was godless and … well, it’s all your fault, Miss Lockwood. My brother is not insane. But knowing you made him appear insane.”

  If only the lights were not on. In soft, cozy dark this would not sound so horrible. If she were under the covers it would sound like a scary bedtime story, not a death sentence.

  “Everything is my fault,” said Annie. Her heart wrenched apart, separated chambers beating against each other. It hurt terribly.

  Such a beautiful room for such a confrontation. And even in the middle of the night, all three women were beautifully clothed: voluminous white gowns, with lace and ruffles and embroidered flowers. In contrast to daytime, they wore their hair down: Devonny’s actually reached her waist, and Schmidt’s reached below hers. Schmidt’s was streaked with gray and Devonny’s with gold. Even their hair said who they were in life, and what they owned.

  Annie’s hair, which once Strat had threaded through his fingers and made into horsetails, lay straight and dark on her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t go through Time on purpose. I didn’t choose your family. Time chose you.”

  Schmidt was gaping at them. High and broad in her heavy nightgown, she looked like an overweight Statue of Liberty.

  “However, Anna Sophia …,” said Devonny. Her voice cracked. She was only a teenager herself, no older than Annie. (Annie was so completely her name: Anna Sophia felt like somebody else.)

  Devonny soldiered on. “In spite of the terrible things you did to us, Anna Sophia, we loved you.”

  They loved me, she thought. And I loved them. But I loved Strat the most. Strat, what have I done to you? How can I make up for it?

  “Even Harriett loved you,” said Devonny, “and you were such a threat to her future.”

  Does Harriett even have a future now? thought Annie. Surely they can’t blame me that she got sick.

  “But now,” said Devonny, “now you must prove your worth, Miss Lockwood.”

  Prove her worth?

  Right.

  Annie wasn’t worth anything even to her own father.

  How glad she was to be lying among soft pillows. You could count on pillows to comfort you, even when everybody in your life turned against you. Annie hugged a pillow.

  “Repack the trunks, Schmidt,” said Devonny, stabbing a finger toward the proper clothing. “Silently. Nobody must hear a sound from this room. Miss Lockwood is heading north. Find warm things for her. She must be stylish. Fashion will be important. She must impress people in order to get my brother out of Evergreen.”

  Oh, good, thought Annie. I get to live.

  Schmidt chose a trunk so large you could carry a bodyguard in it, or enough clothing to last a generation.

  “Schmidt will order a cab to take you to the Hudson Nightline Pier, whence you will take a steamboat to Albany. From thence, the Delaware and Hudson train, disembarking at Evergreen, New York. This is the site of the asylum to which my brother has been confined. I do not know the exact address, but I presume the natives keep track of their lunatic asylums and will guide you.”

  Annie was stunned. Devonny was sending her out into some wilderness to a lunatic asylum? “But Devonny, how can I possibly do that?”

  “You’ll behave yourself like a proper lady. You won’t talk to people,” explained Devonny. “It isn’t ladylike to address strangers. But you’ll use feminine wiles, of course.”

  “No, Devonny, you have to go with me!”

  “I cannot. Walker Walkley reports to Father. Walk will put me o
n the train to California tomorrow and I must take it. If I don’t, he will know something is happening and he will stop it. You must be very careful of Walker Walkley, Miss Lockwood. He will stop at nothing. There is so much money at stake.”

  “What do you mean, he will stop at nothing?” said Annie. “Do you mean he’s a murderer or a kidnapper?”

  “He’s a kidnapper anyway. How do you think they got Strat to an asylum? They tricked him and kidnapped him.”

  Annie flopped back on the pillows as if she were Raggedy Ann.

  Schmidt filled a hat box: towering impossible hats, with built-in neck scarves and posturing feathers and hanging beads.

  Fashion is supposed to get me in there? Annie wondered about this theory. I’m supposed to use a hat to break down locks?

  “You must address the situation there,” said Devonny, kneeling on the bed. “I do not know what Father has set up.” Devonny bounced angrily. “Your job is to make it clear to the authorities that my brother is not a lunatic! You must substantiate that you exist.”

  Schmidt, folding gowns, paused.

  “This is not your affair, Schmidt,” said Devonny severely.

  “Yes, miss,” said Schmidt.

  It seemed to Annie that Schmidt was packing an excess of nightgowns and not enough morning, afternoon, and evening gowns, but if she were overhearing this conversation, her packing skills might be off too. “What if they don’t believe me, Devonny? I’m a good liar, and I’ve had lots of practice lately, but what if I don’t pull it off?”

  “Then you will have to take Strat with you into your own Time. I have given this a great deal of thought, Anna Sophia. What matters is my brother.”

  Take Strat back into her own Time.

  What an astonishing thought. Whisk him over the decades, holding his hand as they fell up a century. There he would be—handsome, funny, sweet strong Strat.

  And then what? Annie couldn’t manage a father and mother, or friends, or school trips, or even a purse. She was too dizzy to move Strat to the twentieth century. And yet … how lovely it would be.