by Jenny Lykins
Ardis fidgeted on the second step. "Oh do, Lyford. You are never in the picture!"
Like a little boy unwilling to share his new toy, Lyford struggled with the suggestion. Finally he pursed his lips and said, "Don't see why not." With the camera readied and Ambrose instructed on what to do, Lyford took his place on the top step with Hunter and Joseph.
"All right now, Ambrose, are you ready?"
"Yessuh." Ambrose nodded solemnly, showing no hint of either distain or impatience.
"Very well. Everyone ready? Right, Ambrose. Press the shutter button!"
Ambrose's expression never changed, but Marin thought the old servant was highly amused over the whole scene.
Every hair on her body stood on end as she watched the picture being taken that she would find on her desk in one hundred and twenty years. If someone had told her then what was in store for her, she would have declared the person insane.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Ooph! Ooph! Oh, for Pete's sake, Mamie. Stop!" Marin let go of the bedpost and turned to give the servant a knowing smile. "We've gone over this before. You know how I feel about corsets, and though I may have to wear them, I'm not going to try to win any contests for the smallest waist." Mamie just tsked and shook her head. "Besides, since I had all my gowns let out they would just hang on me if the corset was tight."
Marin had ordered the alterations of the gowns days ago. After two days of being trussed up like a lunatic in a straight-jacket, she'd announced the end of her corset-wearing days to Mamie. However, just as she'd feared, once she'd gotten into a gown - with no small effort - she’d been forced to admit that a corset was necessary. Gowns of the nineteenth century were designed like a work of art, meant to encase a rigid, uniform canvas. When the intricate bodice molded to her soft body, the fabric buckled and wrinkled until it looked like she'd slept in it.
She had compromised begrudgingly and allowed the corset to be tied on. But it was not to be tightened, and all her gowns were to be let out as much as possible. It was a minor victory, but enough of one to allow her to breathe.
Once Mamie finished grumbling and tying the strings, she helped Marin into a dressing gown and began to work on her hair.
Marin watched the intricate weaving process from her dressing table mirror. After a week, it was still a shock to see someone else's reflection staring back at her, but oddly enough she didn't resent it. She was beginning to feel comfortable in this new body, with the amber eyes and mahogany hair. Even her smaller stature didn't bother her. She'd come to realize, in the few spare moments she'd had time to dwell on it, that she felt right at home in this time period. The corsets could go to the devil, but the twentieth century conveniences just hadn't been missed.
This was a side of herself she never expected to see, and her comfort with the whole situation bothered her more than the situation itself. Why was she not freaking out? Could this be one of those dreams where everything bizarre seems totally normal?
She'd nearly driven herself crazy the first few days trying to figure out what had happened to her. But when the excruciating headaches started she decided to just try and live with the situation. After all, until she knew how, or if, she was in 1876, she was helpless to get back. She sure wasn't ready to go out and drive a carriage over the bluffs to see if she'd wake up back in 1996.
Mamie tucked and secured the ends of Marin's hair under all the loops and braids. The hairstyles were probably the hardest things to adapt to, as far as the body was concerned. Marin was accustomed to shoulder length hair that turned under after a quick burst of the blow dryer. She might have spent a whole ten minutes on it if she was going some place special. But these days she was forced to sit, for no less than an hour, while someone else tortured her new, thick, wavy tresses into a sculpture to match the artwork of her attire. At least she'd learned not to destroy it by trying to sift nervous fingers through it.
"All done. Now ain't you lookin' as pretty as a brand new day?" Mamie stood back and admired her handiwork.
Marin touched her fingers to her chest in apprehension. The butterflies in her stomach refused to migrate now that her week's worth of planning was about to come to fruition.
Mamie helped her finish dressing - something Marin was finally getting the knack of - then she checked her appearance in the pier glass.
Never in a million years would she have pictured herself wearing a get-up like this. She scooped up the train of the cream and purple striped muslin gown, tossed it behind her, then headed for the door, the weight of the train dragging behind her still a foreign feeling in this new body.
The dining room was picture perfect. She stopped long enough to applaud herself for her efforts. Nine place settings glistened on the ecru tablecloth. The chandelier sparkled, and the mirror above the cold fireplace reflected its beauty. Silver candlesticks flanked the low centerpiece of yellow and white roses. Everything in the room, from the floor to the silver, had been polished until it glowed with a life of its own. How strange it was to see the crystal and china with the sparkle of newness, instead of the chipped and dulled beauty of it in the future. And how many times had she caught a glimpse of herself in the pier glass in the parlor, only to be surprised at the flawless silvering on the back?
"It is unheard of to seat an uneven number of people!" Marin only jumped a little. She was getting used to these sneak attacks. "And one can hardly call it a dinner party if seven of the nine are men."
Lucille Pierce raised her chin and surveyed the room off the tip of her nose. Her disapproving gaze swept the length of Marin's costume, but Marin was confident her attire was entirely appropriate. While planning this dinner over the last week, she'd spent as much time studying every ladies' magazine for the proper clothing as she had place settings and dinner etiquette. Her smile was serene.
"The guest list was not my doing, Mrs. Pierce. Of course, if you insist on even numbers I can have Ambrose remove one of the settings. Keep in mind, though, that Hunter insists on my presence."
Lucille's glare was venomous. She puffed out her already considerable chest and seemed to grow three inches in height. Not unlike a cobra getting ready to strike, Marin thought with amusement.
"If anyone's place is removed, it will not be mine. And you will refrain from calling my son by his Christian name. You are an employee in this house, and you will speak of your betters with respect!"
Hunter stepped into the dining room just then, and the room seemed to take on an extra glow. Marin was thoroughly disgusted with herself when she had to fight the urge to moisten her lips and find a mirror to check her appearance. She didn't want to be attracted to the man. She didn't want to ever feel that close to any person again.
Hunter looked magnificent in black trousers and coat, with a vest of red silk heavily embroidered in black. A black cravat decorated his tanned throat, set off by a stiff, snowy white, winged collar. A pearl tie pin nestled in the cravat. He yanked at his sleeves as if he were in the final stages of dressing, and Marin's stomach flipped at the sight. She did not have the urge to go over and straighten his already perfect collar.
"Mother, I believe you should refrain from judging what is respect and who are the betters. Miss Alexander - or Marin - may address me as Hunter if she wishes. After all, this is the 1870's." Hunter's bland expression was unreadable. The slightly raised eyebrow might have been a sign of amusement, or perhaps just long-suffering tolerance.
Lucille opened her mouth to retort, but instead turned about and stormed from the room.
For once Hunter wasn't relieved to see the back side of his mother. Her departure left him alone with Marin, and he didn't feel equal to the task of finding comments about the weather - anything more meaningful could prove fatal to his resolve to stay aloof. She looked disturbingly fetching tonight.
When he'd walked into the room he hadn't been prepared for the jolt of attraction that flashed through him like a bolt of lightning. Up to this point he'd been honest enough with himself to acknowledge t
he fact that Marin Alexander was an extremely handsome woman. He tried not to use the word "beautiful" because somewhere in his mind he rationalized that "beautiful" elevated the way he looked at her from admiration to interest. But he was not interested. And why had he given the damned woman permission to use his Christian name?
Marin opened her arms in a sweeping gesture and smiled at him. "What do you think?"
"You take my breath away." Damn! He hadn't meant to say it aloud. "That you've accomplished so much in so short a time, that is. Very industrious of you." He tried to scan the room with his eyes but they barely flickered away from her face.
He was saved from further uncharacteristic babbling by the sound of horses on the drive.
Ambrose appeared from nowhere to open the massive front door as Hunter prepared to greet his guests. It would be interesting to see what Marin's reaction would be to the majority of the men who would assemble under this roof tonight.
Lionel Jacobs entered first. His crutch, necessary because of the loss of his left leg, slowed him only a little. Behind him came Eli Beecham, sound of leg but missing his right hand. Neal Harris had survived the war in one piece - his scars were all on the inside.
Hunter greeted the three business partners and turned to introduce Marin.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my social secretary, Miss Marin Alexander." Six eyebrows raised at the mention of a woman as any type of secretary. "She is companion to my mother and will act as hostess for me at social gatherings."
Marin never missed a beat. She surprised Hunter by stepping forward and charming the three skeptics with a dazzling smile and an easy manner. She stepped up to Lionel Jacobs and offered her hand.
"How nice to meet you, Mr. Jacobs." Lionel took her hand and looked as if he would attempt to kiss it, but she pumped his hand once, then turned to Eli Beecham. Without hesitating she offered her left hand. "Mr. Beecham, I'm very pleased to meet you." Eli balked for a moment, then shook her hand. She turned to Neal and gave him the same attention.
"I hope you gentlemen have brought your appetites. Emmaletta has outdone herself in the kitchen."
Hunter was amazed. There hadn't been the slightest clue that Marin had even noticed the two mangled men, let alone seemed the least bit put off by their injuries.
Bill Shriver, Taylor Matthews and Dale Gibson arrived only minutes later. Taylor and Dale were both missing an arm, and though Bill was still in one piece, an angry, puckered scar covered the right side of his face, the result of a misfired musket at Shiloh.
Marin gave the new arrivals the same warm welcome she'd given the others. There wasn't a hint of revulsion or condescension. Nor was there any sympathy in her voice or actions. She treated them as if they were the whole men they had been before the war.
Hunter felt a hairline crack develop in the armor around his heart. The strange thing was, he wasn't sure he wanted to repair it.
Maybe, his heart said. Maybe.
"Hunter, I would have a word with you in the study." Lucille stood in the doorway of the dining room.
At the sound of his mother's intruding voice the tiny opening to his heart closed up and scabbed over. He excused himself and reluctantly left Marin the center of attention while he met with his mother in the other room. She glared at him, her narrowed eyes speaking volumes.
"Why was I not informed these men are cripples? You did this on purpose, Hunter Pierce. How do you expect me to eat while these...creatures are at table? You know how I feel about those people. They make me nervous."
Hunter stared at this woman he called mother until she looked away.
"So nervous you left your crippled husband, your son and your daughter. No, Mother, you don't have to remind me of your feelings on the subject. I remember every time I walk by Father's grave."
The blue of Lucille's eyes flickered with guilt for just a heartbeat, before darkening to stormy gray as she glared at her son. Hell would freeze over, however, before he apologized for his words or made excuses for not telling her about his guests. There were no excuses. He had simply not told her.
He returned her glare, then after a slow, insolent blink he left the room.
Ambrose announced dinner just as Hunter reentered the parlor.
The meal was much more pleasant than he expected, considering his mother chose to dine with them. For the most part she picked at her food, every now and then looking up to curl her nose and purse her lips. He ignored her. So did everyone else.
Conversation never ceased throughout the meal, and he found he much preferred the light banter to the funereal clinks and clatter of silver against china.
Izzy sidled into the dining room and filled all the delicate porcelain cups with fresh steaming coffee. Eli Beecham hooked his finger in the handle of the cup and picked it up, but suddenly the cup slipped. He tried to stop its downward progress with the stub of his hand, but scalding coffee poured over his arm and drenched his shirt with a steaming, brown stain.
Before anyone else had a chance to react Marin was out of her chair, peeling the hot, sodden fabric away from the now pink skin on Eli's stub.
Hunter paid no attention to the squeak of disgust from across the table. He looked his mother's way only when she pressed her linen napkin to her lips and flung the chair back from the table. It was a blessing to see the train of her skirts disappear from the room.
He watched Marin grab a linen napkin and dunk it in a water goblet. She wrapped the wet, dripping cloth around the blistered skin, then soaked another cloth to replace it. Eli was visibly flustered over the whole situation.
"I must apologize for my clumsiness. I seem to have misplaced my good hand during the war, and I still have trouble doing things as a leftie."
Marin knelt beside the man and lifted away the cool napkin.
"That's understandable, Eli. Let's just hope these blisters don't get too bad."
Did the woman have an aversion to using surnames? Hunter's irritation at her familiarity dissolved as he watched her hold and inspect the scarred, puckered skin of Eli's stub. It might have been a child's healthy hand, so casually did she hold it.
For the first time, the angry, hidden scar on his right leg and the criss-crossing ridges on his back felt a healing tingle. It wasn't a physical healing, he knew. That was long over. This was an emotional healing.
Maybe, his heart whispered. Maybe.
"I guess a cripple like me has no business being out in public. I'm so danged clumsy I should just stay at home and do my business from there."
The other men around the table looked as if the same thought had crossed their minds about their own presence in public. What a shame. These men were no older than Hunter - thirty-five at the oldest - and they were maimed because they'd fought for something they believed in. Indeed, they had fought for some of the very people who now abhorred them.
"Don't be ridiculous," Marin said with an indulgent smile. "Why, you men aren't crippled! Look at what you do for a living. You're doubly capable, since you do the same job other men do who have no handicap at all. Where I come from we call that physically challenged, not crippled."
It crossed Hunter's mind that if St. Louis was such a free-thinking city he might be inclined to make a trip there. He said as much and was joined by hearty agreements from most of his fellow diners. Marin's gaze flew to his at the mention of going to St. Louis, then her porcelain complexion paled to a waxy gray. Drat the woman. What was wrong with her now?
"Miss Alexander, are you feeling ill?"
Before Marin could answer, the front door vibrated with a thundering knock. Ambrose passed the dining room at a slightly faster clip than his usual dignified pace. A murmur of voices could be heard before a complete stranger stormed into the dining room and skidded to a halt.
The tall, well-dressed man had obviously traveled some distance. His black trousers and pin-striped shirt were coated with a fine, pale layer of dust. His hat, which was now in his hand, left a ring around his midnight black hair. Anxiou
s, hazel eyes scanned the shocked faces of the diners and came to rest on a pair of blank amber eyes that stared out at him.
"Mari! Ah Mari, me love!"
In the space of a heartbeat the stranger scooped Marin up into his arms from where she now stood and proceeded to crush her to his chest. Marin showed no such enthusiasm in return. Her only reactions were the silent "Oh" her mouth made and a half-hearted struggle for him to release her.
"Ah, Mari, I feared I'd never find ye in this God-forsaken hamlet! Why did ye not wait for me to return from Ireland? Surely there was money enough after your sainted mother passed to keep ye 'til I could fetch ye."
Hunter's meal churned in his stomach at the sight before him - Marin Alexander in the arms of a man who was obviously well-acquainted with her. And a seemingly kind, well-appointed specimen of a man at that. Why then, did she seem to be in shock, and none too happy about being smashed against this man's chest?
"See here, sir! A proper introduction - "
The stranger's right hand shot out from under layers of cream and purple striped muslin, then he appeared to realize the ludicrous position. He lowered Marin's legs to the floor but kept a possessive arm around her waist.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir. Niles Kilpatrick, at yer service." He pumped Hunter's hand with enthusiasm but gazed at Marin as though afraid she would disappear if he blinked. "I'll be apologizing for interrupting yer gathering here, but I've been away from Mari for six months. Ye must be Col. Hunter Pierce. She wrote in her letter she'd be coming to work for ye."
"Letter!" Both Hunter and Marin barked the word at the same time. Marin finally showed some animation. The men finally made eye contact.
"Why yes. I don't know how you folks here in Memphis do it, but in St. Louis a woman keeps in touch with the man she plans to marry."
"Marry!" Again, the two voices joined in jarring unison.
Niles finally loosened his hold on Marin and turned to face her.
"Mari, me love. Don't be telling me yer having second thoughts. I know six months is a long time, but we agreed we'd wait to wed until after my trip."
