by Jenny Lykins
A discomfiting lurch jarred Hunter's heart. But any man would react in a similar manner, should he stumble across an unexpectedly beautiful scene. Nothing more.
Mamie, too, was asleep in the chair. Hunter pulled his watch from his pocket and snapped open the cover. No danger in allowing Marin to sleep. Instead of waking her, he crept to the side of the bed and laid the letters on the nightstand where Marin would see them when she woke. He took that opportunity to enjoy the lovely view - so different from the muddy, bedraggled waif he had pulled from the ditch.
One side of his mouth pulled up in the hint of a grin when she stirred and sighed in her sleep. His grin disappeared when her sigh turned into sleepy words.
"I love you, Ryan."
*******
When Marin woke, the three-quarter moon waxed in the night sky. At first she was disoriented, then the events of the day tumbled over her memory when she realized she still lay in the antique bedroom and not in her contemporary bed.
So. This was either a very long nightmare, or it was time to start considering the possibility that she'd been thrown through some kind of window in time. It seemed unbelievable, but the proof surrounded her.
When delicious aromas preceded Mamie through the open doorway, Marin realized she was famished. Her throat constricted when she remembered her last solid food had been a pasta salad in - what? - one hundred and twenty years in the future?
Oh, God, how could this possibly be?
"I's glad you awake, Miss. I not be wanting to wake you, but Emmaletta's cookin' be too good to let cool." Mamie's cheerful voice and sympathetic smile lifted Marin's spirits a bit. She realized if she was going to survive this...indescribable experience, she would have to keep up her strength. At least her appetite appeared to be cooperating.
Mamie fluffed the pillows behind Marin, then set the laden bed tray across her lap. Thankfully the servant didn't stay around to help. Marin wolfed the food down in a way she was sure would be frowned upon in this time - if she was in this time.
Just as she polished off the roast beef and vegetables and prepared to stab her first bite of pecan pie, she saw the letters on her nightstand.
Her heart fluttered for a moment. Had Hunter brought these to her while she slept? No. He'd probably sent a servant to deliver them.
This was ridiculous. She had to stop this train of thought. It was one thing to let her feelings go when she’d seen him as a ghost - it had been a little harmless fun - but now he was flesh and blood. It was time to harness her emotions again and build that crumbling wall back around her heart. The last thing she needed was to let herself care about someone.
Her train of thought stirred the remnants of her dream. Remnants best left unexplored. Tears sprang to her eyes as the painful memories of Ryan's death washed over her against her will.
The memory of their last time together cut like a knife through her heart. The argument had been her fault.
She took a deep breath and shook the images from her mind. She couldn't live through this and dwell on Ryan at the same time. She'd go crazy if she even tried.
The food held no appeal for her now. She set the tray aside and picked up the packet of letters. It took several attempts to rid her mind of Ryan's precious face. Only the necessity of learning the background of the body she now inhabited forced him from her thoughts.
Marin was accustomed to the often elaborate style of nineteenth century writing, but even she had trouble deciphering the flowery script confronting her. She would be in trouble if there was ever a handwriting comparison - unless she'd inherited the woman's writing style as well as her body. That was a troubling thought. It could open up a whole new can of worms.
With no pen handy, Marin picked up a fairly clean spoon from her plate and held it like a pencil, handle down. She wrote a few words against an imaginary piece of paper. To her relief, signs of the unreadable loops and embellishments curled in the air with the movement of her "pen." At least she wouldn't have to try and forge Mari's handwriting. And she could always modify it enough to make it more readable.
She continued with her deciphering.
Apparently, if she translated correctly, Mari Sander was unmarried because she'd remained at home in St. Louis to care for a widowed mother. When the mother died, she'd been forced to seek employment. She'd been twenty-nine years old when the letters were written.
A sense of lightheadedness struck her. Mari Alexa Sander had turned thirty on June twenty-fourth, the same day as Marin. The similarity in their names didn't escape her, either.
The hair at the nape of her neck rose with an uncomfortable tingle.
She took several minutes to focus her thoughts back to the letters. When she did, she found little more information. Mari had been gently bred but impoverished by the war and her mother's illness. Her father had died in the war. So had Marin's. Only it had been in a rice paddy in Nam, when Marin was just five.
Thank heavens, Mari's personality didn't show any signs of the frivolity of her handwriting. She seemed to be a woman who relied on herself and would not expect a man to provide for her.
The lines of the letters began to blur in the dim light. Exhaustion overtook Marin. When her head bobbed forward and the fluffy pillows beckoned, she sank back to rest her eyes.
Some time later the rustle of the letters stirred her as they were removed from her hands. The soft, cotton sheet settled gently over her shoulders, and a warm hand brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. The quiet rattle of dishes roused her when the tray was lifted from the bed. She opened sleep-misted eyes to thank Mamie for her care.
Mamie was nowhere in sight, but the broad shoulders of her new employer disappeared through her door, the laden bed tray in his hands.
CHAPTER THREE
"You can't be serious."
There was no way Marin was going to agree to put on the mound of clothing before her. She'd already sat for an eternity while Mamie wove, twisted and braided her hair. And that was only after she'd attached a long hairpiece to the crown of her head. Mamie put down the ladies' drawers and felt Marin's forehead.
"Miss Marin, ain't you ready to get out of your bed? These be your clothes. Why you don't want to put them on?"
"Because it's ridiculous for a woman to wear all that..."
She kept forgetting she was now a woman of the nineteenth century, or at least dreamed she was. And stupid or not, the women held to very strict rules of dress. If she was to ever get out of this room she was going to have to put on those clothes.
"Very well, Mamie. Help me get into these things." After all, how bad could it be?
She soon found out.
The dressing gown came off and a huge, baggy pair of lace-covered, cambric drawers went on. Next came a white chemise, also edged in lace. Embroidered silk stockings slid over calves that Marin would swear had never seen the sun.
The corset, as Mamie tugged at the lacings, caused Marin to wheeze and nearly call a halt to the whole proceeding. She decided to suffer through it for the time being though. Anything to get out of this room and start figuring a way out of this mess.
Once the strings were tied, the corset cover went on. Marin stepped into a muslin petticoat with tiers of full, thick ruffles down the back, giving it a bustle effect. Then finally the dress. Marin thought she would buckle under the weight of it. But she couldn't help admire its beauty.
The gown was made of deep blue grosgrain with lemon yellow trim. The skirt had three tiers of tiny pleats, and above those the fabric draped across the front to be caught up in a bouffant in the back. Slender sleeves had open cuffs trimmed in yellow, and a large yellow bow adorned the gathered drapery in the back. White lace trimmed the neck and bodice.
Amazing, how such unlikely fabrics and colors could be turned into such a beautiful creation.
The shoes went on last, and surprisingly enough, they were very comfortable. Or maybe the rest of the outfit was so confining the shoes just felt normal. She did learn something though. Next
time the shoes would go on before the corset. Once that corset laced up, there was no bending over. Poor Mamie had to struggle to help her into the delicate kid slippers.
The cheval glass in the corner reflected the full effect. She might have reacted differently if she had seen herself in the mirror.
The dress was beautiful; the woman was beautiful. But she didn't know this person. She felt as if she'd been introduced to a stranger, and she kept expecting the woman in the mirror to hold out her hand to shake. Who was this woman whose reflection she was admiring?
Mamie indicated that breakfast was being held for her, since she had insisted on getting out of bed. Marin pulled her gaze from the stranger’s reflection and thanked Mamie for her help before rushing toward the dining room. She quickly found that in nineteenth century clothes, one did not rush. Her legs were so hobbled in all the draping material, she felt like she was doing a bad imitation of a Japanese geisha.
Hunter and his mother sat at opposite ends of a long, cherry table. When Marin arrived he stood and seated her, which was more difficult than she had expected. She sat, then stood and shifted a handful of fabric and sat again. She yanked and pulled her skirts, then stood to rearrange the gown. A glimpse at Hunter, who stood waiting to push in the chair, and his raised eyebrow, did nothing to daunt her, but one look at Lucille Pierce's glare inspired her to sit on the lumps of fabric and suffer through. Now was not the time to lock horns with the lemon-sucker.
Once she settled herself and Hunter moved back to his chair, Mrs. Pierce started in.
"Well, I hope we do not have to look forward to going through that ritual every time we dine."
Marin gave her a half-smile.
"I'm sorry to have delayed your meal, Mrs. Pierce."
"What in the world are you doing in that gown at this time of day? You should have on a morning gown. And that color is atrocious. It makes your complexion look even more sickly than it is."
Marin looked her in the eye and bestowed her sweetest smile.
"How very kind of you to point that out."
"Mother, please. Do not use up all your charm on Miss Alexander in one sitting. You should dole it out in tiny portions." Lucille glared at her son's dead serious face. "Besides, the color is lovely. And the custom of changing one's clothing every hour of the day is ludicrous."
Any further tidbits of charm were interrupted by the arrival of the meal.
It seemed there would be no conversation that would enlighten her about these people. In fact, there would be no conversation period. The moment the food was brought forth her fellow diners ceased talking. She attempted a casual remark about the weather, but it was met with a silencing glare from Mrs. Pierce.
As soon as he finished his last bite, Hunter touched his napkin to his lips and scraped his chair away from the table to stand.
"If you will excuse me, ladies. Miss Alexander, if you feel up to it I would like to see you in my study at eleven o'clock to discuss your duties. Until then you may spend your time resting or getting acquainted with Mother."
She could have sworn he gave her an apologetic look with his last words.
Once he left the room, Marin turned to find Mrs. Pierce's sky blue eyes shooting daggers at her. At least Hunter came by his eye color honestly. But where his were kind, and would probably sparkle if he ever smiled, his mother's were just plain mean. She decided to give the woman the benefit of the doubt and make one more friendly overture.
"Your eyes are such a lovely color, Mrs. Pierce. The very same as your son's - "
"Don't try to worm yourself into my good graces with your insincere compliments." The woman nearly spat the words at her as she leaned over her plate. "I don't know what my son has told you about me, but I do not need - nor do I want - a companion. You can go to the devil, and you can take my son with you!"
Marin was at a loss for words. She hadn't expected Lucille Pierce to be pleasant - a person didn't acquire such a parsimonious expression by being sweet - but she certainly hadn't expected this enmity.
And bad blood definitely existed between mother and son. At least it made sense now why Hunter never smiled. If she'd had to live with this dragon lady all her life she probably wouldn't find much to smile about either.
Marin's first instinct was to tell the old bat what she could go do to herself. But common sense prevailed. Until she found out exactly why she was here, or even if she was here, she would do well to play by their rules.
Obviously, kindness would get her nowhere with the woman. It seemed time to take off the proverbial gloves. She placed her fork on the plate and delivered an even stare to the woman at the end of the table.
Hard as it was for her, she bit back the vulgar retort that begged to be voiced and wracked her brain for something acceptable to say.
"Your son employed me, Mrs. Pierce, he didn't confide in me. I tried to pay you a simple compliment, but apparently you don't get enough compliments to know how to accept one. I'll do my best to refrain from insulting you with kind words again."
Well, that wasn't the diplomatic repartee she'd intended, but it was hard to be pleasant with this torture device strapped around her body, rearranging all her vital organs. Ah well. Might as well continue as she'd begun.
"As for going to the devil, I'm not going anywhere unless your son tells me to, and even then it won't be to the devil. We can either make life miserable for each other, or we can not. I'll leave that up to you. I will advise you though that I'm not accustomed to allowing people to wipe their feet on me, verbally or emotionally, and I don't plan to start now."
Marin rose from the table and swished her skirts from the chair as if she'd been doing it all her life. She raised her chin a notch. The bones of the corset dug into her flesh and she fought for a deep breath, but she'd be damned if she'd let it show.
"You'll excuse me."
She swept out the door in the best imitation of nineteenth century haughtiness she could muster.
Hunter's new employee crashed into his chest when she marched around the dining room door.
His arms shot out to steady her when she bounced off of him, and he wondered why it was so difficult to persuade his fingers to release the rigid, tiny waist. He hadn't had a problem in recent years distancing himself from women before. His mother and Delia could be thanked for that.
Any other woman would have been flustered to come into such intimate bodily contact with a man, but Miss Alexander simply raised one winged brow and looked pointedly at his hands on her waist, then back to his face. Those exotic, amber eyes held no emotion, just patience, waiting for him to remove his hands.
He took his time about it and managed to subdue the smile that threatened to curve his lips. This one was spirited. He knew that for a fact now.
He'd overheard the entire conversation between his mother and this fiery lady when he returned to the foyer to retrieve the pocket watch he'd left on the entry table. His first reaction had been to intervene when his mother began spouting her usual venom. What a refreshing experience to hear this young woman standing her ground, rendering his mother speechless. He'd been hard-pressed not to explode in applause at the end of Marin's speech. As far as he knew, this was the first time a woman had given as good as she got and managed to walk away without Lucille's razor tongue slicing her to ribbons.
"I apologize for blocking your escape route, Miss Alexander." He bowed and gestured for her to proceed past him.
"On the contrary, Hunter, I believe it is I who am blocking yours."
She took a few steps past him while he fought down the irritation at the use of his given name and the implication that he'd been eavesdropping.
"Marin!"
She stopped and turned her golden gaze on him. Was that a flash of mischief in her eyes?
"Since we have...bumped into each other, we might as well have our meeting."
He didn't wait for her response. He turned and headed for his study without looking to see if she followed. He had to admit he wa
s almost surprised when the click of the study door sounded behind him.
He waved her into a burgundy leather wing chair and chose to ignore her strange seating ritual. After she finally sank to the edge of the chair with a barely perceptible wheeze, he didn't bother to mince words.
"I believe you now understand the reason why I was forced to go far afield to acquire a companion for my mother. Her reputation in Memphis precludes any local ladies wanting the position." He picked up his letter opener and tapped it on a book. "There was one young lady brave enough to accept the position, but she didn't make it past the foyer before my mother had her fleeing in a cloud of dust."
The birth of a grin curled Marin's pink lips, but she blinked several times and sobered her delicate features.
"Your mother has already informed me of her...attitude toward having a companion." Her gaze was steady. This was a woman who was not intimidated by people, be they man or woman. "I won't force myself on her, but I will be available to her if she decides to tolerate my presence. However," she said with only the slightest hesitation, "it's not completely clear to me exactly what my job description is in regard to being your social secretary."
Hunter arched a brow in question and Marin wondered if that had been the wrong thing to ask.
"I thought I made clear in our correspondence what would be expected of you, Miss Alexander." She really was going to have to dig up those letters. Maybe they would be with her luggage. "However, I will expand on my description.
"I do not plan to entertain much. No more than is necessary. On those occasions when I do, I expect you to organize the gathering in its entirety and act as hostess. I don't want to be bothered with the details, and I do not want my mother involved in the organizational plans. She will appear at the functions only if she wishes."
