Lost Yesterday

by Jenny Lykins

  "Ok. Then I must be in a coma."

  The doctor's indulgent chuckle didn't match his looks. He shook his head.

  "My dear, one needs to be unconscious in order to achieve a coma." He picked up a towel and wiped his hands. The white linen came away with bright red smears on it. "No, little lady, you will have a doozy of a headache, but I see no reason to worry. You did, however, crack your head a good one on that rock, so we will need to keep you awake for several hours today in case of concussion."

  He turned back to studying her forehead.

  "I did a fine job with those stitches, if I do say so myself. Here, have a look see. I doubt if there will be much of a scar, if any."

  He picked up a shaving mirror and held it for her, but stitches were the least of her worries right now. She glanced at the mirror just to satisfy the doctor.

  "Oh my God!" Marin screamed. She grabbed the mirror, denials ringing in her brain as she looked again, then jumped from the bed and staggered to the cheval glass in the corner.

  Gas lamps on the wall threw a dim glow over her features as she stared into the full length mirror. She started to shake and would have crumpled to her knees if Hunter hadn't caught her. She continued to stare at the reflection in the mirror, shaking her head, fearing for her sanity.

  The face that stared back was not hers.

  *******

  "What in blazes is wrong with the woman, Doc?" Benjamin Hunter Pierce sat behind his desk and tapped a letter opener in maddening repetition. The doctor picked up his brandy and sank back into the wing chair.

  "The gal is just in shock, Hunt. To tell you the truth, I am surprised she lived through the incident. She must have one solid constitution, surviving that blow to the head the way she did. Or else she has a guardian angel looking out for her."

  A guardian angel indeed. Hunter had a feeling he would be needing his own angel before this was all over with.

  What had he gotten himself into? All he'd done was hire a companion for his mother; someone who could keep her company and act as a social secretary for himself. And now look at what he had. An invalid with a concussion and his mother spitting like a cat.

  It was his mother's doing that he'd had to go out of the area to find someone for the position. No one living anywhere near Memphis who had ever gotten wind of Lucille Pierce's irascible nature would take on the job. He'd finally had to advertise in other cities.

  The letter that drew his attention came from St. Louis. The young lady wrote eloquently in a rather flowery sort of script - so flowery as to be almost undecipherable. But what he could read was intelligent, and she very clearly needed the position. That meant she would probably not be wont to leave, even after meeting his mother.

  He'd wired her the money for travel, and now here she was, babbling about being in someone else's body and that the time was wrong. How could the time be wrong? There weren't even any clocks in that room.

  He shook his head and looked back at the doctor. He stopped drumming the letter opener and tossed it aside.

  "How long will she be like this? Or is it permanent?"

  "Oh, no, it's not permanent, though it is hard to say how quickly she will recover completely.

  "I must say, though, it was good fortune you saw the boat dock and went to see what was keeping the carriage you sent. She might have bled to death if you'd gotten there later, considering your driver was knocked unconscious, too."

  Hunter stood and paced the length of his study. Now, not only did he have his prodigal mother to put up with, but he had an invalid who thought she was inhabiting someone else's body.

  God's sense of humor was questionable.

  "I have another call to make, but I'll return to check on our little patient first thing in the morning." Dr. Ritter gathered up his paraphernalia and stood.

  Hunter walked him to the door and saw him off. After distractedly watching the buggy disappear down the drive, he turned and stared up the length of the staircase, wondering what in the world the woman had been talking about with all that nonsense about being in someone else's body. Just exactly how hard had she hit her head? Maybe she was calmer now that she'd had some time alone.

  He started up the sweeping staircase before he heard the purposeful click click click of feminine heels on the hardwood floor. A groan rose in his throat.

  "Well, I see your new employee has arrived in fine form. She has managed to begin her job as a burden and will no doubt continue to be one until you come to your senses and throw her out."

  Lucille Pierce pursed her mouth as if she'd just smelled a foul odor. Hunter stared at the vertical lines etched along his mother's lips and wondered if her mouth had ever seen a soft, smiling day.

  "Of course, Mother, you are right. I am sure Miss Sander endeavored to arrive here an invalid, and when it became apparent she was altogether too healthy, she called down the lightning that caused the horses to bolt. I am truly surprised she settled for nothing more than a severe concussion and stitches."

  "You will remember I am your mother, young man, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner."

  "And you will remember, Mother, that I now own Pierce Hall and it is only because of Father's misplaced love for you that I have allowed you back. Had he not made me promise I would do so, you would be left to fend for yourself."

  He ended the conversation, turning and continuing up the stairs. Her huff of anger fell on deaf ears.

  The door to the guest bedroom stood open. Mamie, his dear old live-in servant, sat beside the bed, spooning broth into the patient's mouth. Hunter knocked on the doorframe before stepping into the room. Two sets of eyes, one chocolate brown and one golden amber, glanced up at him. Mamie collected the eating utensils and pulled the covers up over the invalid's shoulders.

  "I's through here, Mister Hunter. I be back later to check on her."

  Hunter laid a hand on Mamie's arm. "How is Nathan? Nothing more than a bump on the head, I hope."

  "Oh, no suh. He fine. It take more than a whack on the head to hurt that polecat." The affection in Mamie's voice spoke volumes. "But he worryin' 'bout them horses that bolted. He say he gonna have to train them better."

  Mamie left the room with a clattering tray laden with empty dishes. Hunter noticed with amusement that she made sure the door remained completely open when she left.

  He turned back to the patient, who stared at him with a certain degree of fear and trepidation.

  "Are you feeling better, Miss Sander?"

  "Alexander."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "My name is Alexander. Marin Alexander."

  This was a new twist.

  "I stand corrected. From your letters I believed your name to be Mari Alexa Sander. I apologize for misreading your name." And she should apologize for all those unreadable curlicues she embellished her writing with, he thought with irritation.

  "What letters?"

  He couldn't have heard right.

  "I beg your pardon?" he said for the second time.

  She looked at him as if he were a very slow-witted child.

  "What letters are you talking about? I didn't send you any letters, Hunter."

  This was beyond the pale. And how dare she refer to him with his Christian name? He decided turnabout was fair play.

  "Well, Mari -"

  "Marin."

  "Marin. I am referring to the letters of our correspondence concerning the position of companion to my mother and secretary to myself." He took pity on her blank look and gentled his voice. "Don't worry. Dr. Ritter advised that you may find yourself disoriented and confused after that blow to your head. Your memory will clear in time."

  Marin didn't appear reassured by his words. Instead, her brow furrowed and she seemed to draw into herself.

  "I'll leave you alone to rest, Miss...Alexander. Is there anything I can have sent up for you?"

  She raised her head and focused her gaze on him.

  "What year is it?"

  He started to la
ugh, then realized with surprise that she was serious.

  "1876. The tenth day of July, l876. Do you not remember the centennial celebration? Surely St. Louis joined the rest of the country in its revelry."

  She bowed her head quickly and seemed to be absorbing this information. He decided to leave her to her thoughts and stepped through the door.

  "Your mother - was that older, dark-haired woman your mother?"

  He stifled an overwhelming urge to apologize.

  "Yes. You will be her companion when you recover."

  He waited for more questions - or a tendering of her resignation - but when none were forthcoming he proceeded through the door.

  Just as he stepped into the hallway he heard his patient mumble to herself, "So she was the lemon-sucker."

  I'm glad someone finds this amusing, Marin thought with irritation as Hunter’s laughter echoed off the walls as he disappeared down the hall.

  Here she was in some kind of comatose nightmare, and her ghost was laughing like a lunatic outside her bedroom door.

  Well, not actually her bedroom. And not actually her ghost.

  This version of Hunter Pierce was very much alive. In fact, he exuded vitality and masculinity until it was hard for her to concentrate on her problems.

  He'd said the date was July 10, l876. That was exactly one hundred and twenty years in the past.

  Was she in a coma from the car wreck? She remembered shattering the windshield with her head. Did a person dream in a coma? She slapped herself on the cheek. Definite pain. She'd tasted the chicken broth Mamie fed her, and she could smell delicious aromas drifting through the open windows from the kitchen.

  Maybe a glance out one of those windows would answer some questions. She slowly elbowed herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The pounding in her head intensified, but she fought off the pain and steadied herself. Her knees wobbled slightly when she stood. She held on to furniture while she inched her way to a window, taking one shaky step at a time.

  A gasp of disbelief caught in her throat at the sight that met her. She moved onto the veranda for a better look.

  The river snaked along just where it belonged, but that was all that could be said. There was no Hernando DeSoto Bridge; no Pyramid; no Riverside Drive; no skyscrapers downtown. Horses pulled a variety of carriages and wagons, and all the people within sight wore clothing straight out of a museum display.

  Had they given her some kind of drug in the hospital that caused her to hallucinate?

  "Hey! Don't give me any more of this stuff! It's making me crazy!" She spoke aloud with the hope she would reach someone in the real world.

  She gripped the railing to steady herself. Strange, the railing seemed higher now. She looked down at her white-knuckled hands. The golden brown tan was gone, and her fingers appeared smaller boned than before. An unfamiliar ruby ring adorned her left hand.

  Dizziness coiled crazily in her mind. All she wanted to do was get back in bed and pull the covers over her head. A reflection appeared before her in a partially closed window, and the dizziness worsened. The reflection moved when she did. It touched its hand to its temple when she did. It shook its head in denial when she did.

  She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was looking at her own reflection. And she was looking at the image of the smiling woman in the picture she'd found earlier.

  She managed to make it back into her room, then sank onto the cushioned stool in front of the ruffled vanity table. After several tries, she gained the courage to look in the mirror. When she did, she saw exactly what she feared.

  The face looking back at her was not hers. There was no hint of resemblance.

  She now saw the world through golden amber eyes. Until today her eyes had been gray. Her shoulder length, sun-streaked hair now fell to her waist, a rich, dark mahogany with so much body tiny ringlets sprang free from the long braid and curled about her face and neck. Her olive complexion which had tanned so nicely was now a pale, peaches and cream porcelain.

  She stood and turned to the full length mirror. Without measuring, she knew she was at least three inches shorter than her five foot, seven inches. Her hands and feet were much smaller. She bunched the nightgown in her fist behind her and pulled the fabric tight to reveal an unbelievably tiny waist. She grabbed the top of her nightgown and peered down the front. She wouldn't say she was under-endowed, but these breasts were definitely not what she was accustomed to.

  She watched the stranger's reflection shake her head back and forth. A glazed look clouded her eyes with unanswered questions.

  What in the world had happened to her? This didn't feel like a dream, coma, or hallucination. It felt terrifyingly real. Had she died in the crash and her spirit invaded this person's body? Did this girl die at the same moment?

  The throbbing in her head began to take its toll. She rubbed her temples with the heels of her hands.

  "What are you doing out of bed?"

  Marin nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, sending the room spinning out of control. A masculine oath exploded, and strong arms caught her when she staggered.

  Her ghost's face hovered only inches from hers as he carried her back to bed. The warmth of his breath feathered across her face, but no trace of the charming dimple appeared. In fact, his mouth formed a firm line of disapproval. Though he made no effort to hide his displeasure at the foolhardiness of her getting out of bed, he laid her with gentle care on the covers and called for Mamie.

  "Perhaps it would be best, Mamie, if you remain in the room with Miss San...Alexander. Then if she needs anything she has only to ask, rather than rise and put her health in jeopardy." He flashed Marin a look of annoyance before turning to leave.

  She couldn't let him get away without answering some questions. But what could she possibly ask?

  "Hunter!"

  He stopped, clinched his fists at his sides, and turned.

  "You mentioned my letters."

  "Yes. What about them?"

  "Could I possibly read them?" He raised one brow at her odd request. "You see, this blow to my head has confused me somewhat, and I thought perhaps my letters might help me to clarify things in my mind."

  He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

  "I'll see they are brought to you. Is there anything else?"

  "No. Not right now." Unless he wanted to show her the dimples she was beginning to think she'd imagined.

  *******

  Hunter rummaged through a very orderly desk, needlessly strewing papers about in his quest for those blasted letters. He knew exactly where they were, but it was somewhat satisfying to toss things about in his effort to get them.

  Things were not at all as they should be. Right now Miss Alexander should be entertaining his bothersome mother and anticipating her duties as his social secretary. She should be endeavoring to smooth out the social chaos of his life - one tiny facet of many that his mother had wreaked havoc upon. Instead she was ensconced in the guest bedroom, gallivanting around in that filmy night thing, looking down the front of it, and he was forced to catch her and carry her to bed when she decided to swoon. She seemed to have that effect on herself every time she looked in a mirror.

  She did not affect him when he looked at her. After Delia, and living with his mother, seeing the hell a woman puts a man through made him resolve he would never let a woman effect him so. Absolutely not.

  And damn it all, who gave her permission to call him by his given name? The way she said Hunter - as though she liked the way it sounded on her lips. He refused to consider any possibility that he found the sound pleasant to his ears.

  Now, here he was, saddled with a vexatious mother and an invalid companion who wants to read letters she cannot remember writing. How he longed for those placid days before his mother's return; when he was king of his domain with no one to find fault with his every word. His house was filling with women and he seemed unable to stop it.

  He had promised his fat
her on his deathbed to honor his mother if she should ever come home. If not for that promise, he would have turned his back on her as she had turned her back on her family fifteen years ago.

  "Did your father not teach you better order than that, Hunter?" His mother's harsh voice broke into his thoughts.

  "You can be sure what order was taught me was taught by my father. I had no mother here to instruct me in such matters." He regretted immediately the momentary lapse that allowed his thoughts to be voiced. Damn Miss Alexander. She was already effecting him in a negative manner.

  He snatched up the letters and forced a disheveled drawer shut on several protruding papers while his mother glared with pursed lips. He took a deliberate moment to lock his desk, nodded to her sour countenance, then strode from the room. Let her stare at those little triangles of paper jutting from the drawer.

  "Izzy," he called to a young servant with a feather duster in her hand, "take these letters to Miss Alexander."

  Izzy ducked her head and sidled up to Hunter with her hand extended. He laid them in her hand with a degree of irritation. The chit always acted as if she were dodging a blow whenever he came into view. She'd lived at Pierce Hall her entire life and had never seen a day of abuse. No one living under his roof would ever be mistreated.

  He snatched the letters back from her fingers.

  "Never mind. I'll deliver them myself."

  Now why had he done that? He had resolved to remove himself from his exasperating guest until she was prepared to take on her secretarial duties. Well, he supposed he should check on her welfare and smooth any ruffled feathers his mother might cause. Inconvenient though she was, he needed her to stay and keep his mother out of his hair.

  Twilight had descended upon the city of Memphis when he stepped into her room. His elongated shadow stretched from the doorway to lay across her coverlet, but he refused to acknowledge the sense of intimacy that simple sight evoked. He opened his mouth to comment that he was glad she had decided to remain abed, but his words caught in his throat.

  A single candle on the nightstand shed a golden glow across the patient. Marin lay among a profusion of pillows under the gauzy canopy of the bed. She now wore a night jacket covered with all manner of pleated, lacy decorations, buttoned clear to her chin. Her rich, auburn hair, released from its braid, now curled about her and the pillows in luxurious waves. Those exotic, amber eyes were closed in sleep, her thick black lashes fanned almost to her cheekbones.