Thursday's Child (Out of Time #5)

by Monique Martin

  THURSDAY’S CHILD

  (Out of Time Book #5)

  Monique Martin

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Monique Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission.

  Cover Photo: Karen Wunderman

  Cover Layout: TERyvisions

  Formatting: Polgaraus Studio

  ISBN 10: 0984660766

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9846607-6-6

  For more information, please contact

  writtenbymonique@gmail.com

  Or visit: www.moniquemartin.weebly.com

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have been possible without the help and support of many people: Robin, who I can never thank enough for her support, encouragement, humor and brainpower; Mom and George; Dad and Anne; Eddie and Carole; Michael; JM; Cindy; Melissa; Gerald and Yara, Dr. Keith Blackwood – lead inventor of doxycycline, and all the wonderful people who sent notes of encouragement along the way.

  I’d also like to thank the thousands of people who help preserve the past through books, websites, museums and sheer will.

  Chapter One

  It smelled like pigs. Pigs and horses and mud.

  It took Elizabeth a few moments to clear her head. Through the cobwebs that time travel always spun inside her brain, she heard Simon ask if she was all right.

  He gave her arm a gentle shake and squeeze. “Elizabeth?”

  She blinked up at him, the fog lifting. “I'm fine.”

  His eyes searched hers quickly as if to make sure she wasn't holding anything back. Satisfied, he slipped the watch and key into his pocket and turned his attention to their surroundings.

  As planned, they'd arrived unseen behind a warehouse. Not part of the plan though was the two inches of mud they were standing in. Elizabeth lifted the hem of her beautiful white and pale green cotton dress and wrinkled her nose. That had to be a record. They'd been there less than a minute and her clothes were already dirty.

  She let out a sigh, or at least tried to. The darn corset Simon had cinched her into that morning was already squeezing the life out of her. She tugged uselessly on the edge of it to try to shift it into a more comfortable constriction.

  “Wait here a moment,” Simon said. He straightened his black wool plantation-style hat and took a few steps forward before carefully peering around the corner of the warehouse.

  Never being one to wait, even for a moment, Elizabeth dutifully ignored his request, picked up her skirts and followed him. Leaning against his back for balance, she poked her head out just enough to see.

  The wharf at Natchez, Mississippi was a well-orchestrated chaos. Men yelled, horses whinnied and wooden carts thumped as they all slogged through the muddy, rutted street. An enormous paddle wheeler, straight out of a Mark Twain novel, disgorged passengers and freight across rickety planks almost as quickly as it took on the same. A large man with an even larger voice barked orders at a flatboat on a nearby landing where huge bales of cotton were being loaded and crates of supplies were unloaded. Some goods were taken into nearby ramshackle warehouses and others were stacked precariously onto horse-drawn dray carts, the pickup truck of their day, and hauled up the long, sloping road that cut into the side of the bluff to the town above.

  It was thrilling and unsettling at the same time, familiar in some ways and so very foreign in others. That was the way with time travel. Life was the same everywhere, and everywhen, and yet somehow completely different. Elizabeth felt a tingle of anticipation inch up her back. Another adventure awaited.

  Simon stood straight again and frowned over at the two large trunks they'd crammed full with everything they thought they might need. Both were already sinking into the mire.

  “Will you please wait here?” Simon asked with his I mean it this time look.

  Elizabeth glanced at the traffic, carts spraying mud, horses trotting in every direction and decided waiting might not be such a bad idea. She offered him a coy smile and batted her eyelashes.

  Simon narrowed his eyes, but she could see the smile in them. He grunted and took a step out into the chaos. He called out to a man with a buckboard who appeared to be waiting for passengers from the boat. Traffic whizzed along the sloppy road in front of him. Simon called out again and even tried whistling, but it wasn't nearly loud enough.

  Elizabeth gave a quick look around and then tugged off her kid gloves. She lifted two fingers to her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. The man with the cart and several others, including Simon, turned to stare. Instantly demure, she fiddled with the bow on her bonnet and pretended to be as surprised as the rest.

  Simon caught her eye and she gave him a little shrug before nodding toward the man with the cart. Simon made arrangements and the man pulled his cart over to the edge of the warehouse. He tipped his hat to Elizabeth before hauling their trunks into the back of his buckboard. Leaping up into the seat, he took hold of the reins. “Where to?”

  “The Mansion House,” Simon said.

  There was precious little information about the hotels in Natchez in 1852, but the Mansion House had come up several times and seemed as good a choice as any. Not that it mattered to her. She'd spent a week staying at Cousin Jimmy's Motor Lodge and Bingo Emporium just outside of Waco with her father once; anything would be a step-up.

  Simon stood at the side of the cart and held his hand out and tried to hide his smile. Elizabeth was having a tough time adjusting to the clothing of the period. As if the darn corset weren't bad enough, a lady had to wear an obscene amount of clothing. Despite her arguments to the contrary, Simon had insisted she was, in fact, a lady, and so here she was buried under layer after uncomfortable layer. It was the petticoats that made the whole arrangement so unwieldy. Crinolines, a sort of wire cage that replaced multiple petticoats hadn't been popularized yet. That meant she had to wear at least three petticoats under her dress so she'd have the desired bell shape of the period. Dumbbell was more like it. Who in their right mind would wear six layers of clothing on a beautiful spring day in Mississippi? Simon was looking at her, that's who.

  Elizabeth hefted up her skirts and tiptoed through the mud to Simon's side. He was definitely enjoying this too much. She should miss the foot-rail and fall and break her neck. That'd show him. Unfortunately, Simon wasn't about to let her fall. His strong hands held her as she lifted herself and her voluminous skirts up and onto the bench-like seat. Once he'd slid in beside her, the driver urged the horse on and they started the long, slow climb up Silver Street to the bluffs above, where Natchez and Mary Stewart waited.

  ~~~

  The short drive to the hotel was bone-jarring. As far as Elizabeth could see, none of the roads in town were paved, although some sidewalks appeared to be. Even though the road smoothed out considerably after they'd made the muddy trek up Silver Street to the town proper, the suspension on the buckboard wasn't exactly cloudlike. They'd hit one pothole and if Simon hadn't had his arm around her, she probably would have bounced right out of the thing.

  She watched the town with growing wonder. They'd been given a precious gift with Simon's watch and she was going to savor every moment. That first hour in a new time period was a waking dream. Intellectually, she knew she was here, but it was hard to accept at the same time. History books, no matter how well written, were flat and distanced. This was living and breathing and right here. The sights and sounds were odd and
unfamiliar. And she loved every minute of it.

  At the top of the hill, she gawked at the men on horseback and the fanciful dress both sexes wore. The horses' hooves clopped loudly against the hard-packed earth and the wooden wheels rattled as they trundled along. It was amazing, invigorating, until a large wooden cart pulled over ahead of them and parked along the side of the road. Two men jumped out of the seat and called out to three black men in the back. Two of them carefully inched their way to the back of the cart and jumped down. The loud clatter of chains followed. Their hands and feet were bound by shackles with heavy links of iron between the rings. Large iron collars hung around their necks. Slaves.

  Elizabeth went cold and gripped Simon's forearm.

  “I see them,” he said in a coarse whisper.

  They'd read the history books, tried to prepare themselves. She knew the truth of slavery. Seeing it happen before her eyes, though, was almost too much to process. It didn't seem real. She half expected to see a movie crew over her shoulder. And yet, she was here and it was happening. It had happened.

  And she was powerless.

  The men shuffled toward a brick building, the jail, Elizabeth belatedly realized. The third man didn't move and the white driver climbed into the cart and dragged him out of it. His once white shirt was brown with dirt and dried blood, the back of it in tatters where the whips had ripped through cloth and flesh.

  It wasn't the first time she'd seen slaves, she realized. No doubt the black men working on the landing were slaves. There were very few free blacks in Natchez at the time. It just hadn't registered. She was used to seeing people of all colors doing all sorts of things, but that would not be the case here.

  Their wagon passed and the men were left behind, but Elizabeth knew that was an image she would never forget.

  Simon glanced over at her, his disgust and anger apparent. “Probably runaway slaves.”

  Bounty hunters were handsomely rewarded for returning runaways to their masters. Elizabeth started to say something, but there just weren't any words. Simon took her hand in his and it was a comfort, but she also realized this mission was going to be far more difficult than she'd imagined.

  ~~~

  It was another ten minutes before they arrived at the hotel. The driver pulled the cart over in front of the hotel and then Simon and the driver bounded out of their seats with showy agility. Elizabeth eyed the near three-foot drop to the ground with uncertainty. Getting into the dang thing had been hard enough, she wasn't sure how she was going to get out. The corset kept her from being able to bend at the waist, so she couldn't crouch down and grab onto anything for support. She had to sort of bunny-dip at the knees and hope for the best. Not to mention that her skirts were sure to catch on the large wooden wheel. She thought about lifting up her petticoats, but flashing the citizens of Natchez probably wasn't her best move just yet. A big old belly flop onto the sidewalk might be her only option. It was going to be a long trip if she couldn't manage to get in or out of things without someone's help. Heck, she couldn't even dress herself.

  Simon saw her consternation and smiled. People wearing pants could afford to smile, Elizabeth thought. Simon reached up and gripped her waist and before she could ask what he was doing he hoisted her out of the buckboard and gently deposited her onto the ground.

  “Thanks,” she grumbled.

  “You'll get the hang of it,” he said as he took her arm and wrapped it into his.

  The interior of the hotel was dark, lit only by a few oil lamps. “Your best suite, please,” Simon said as they reached the front desk.

  The man behind the counter nodded primly. “Of course, sir.” He fiddled with some index cards then and opened an enormous leather-bound ledger. “Thirty dollars a week. Will you be needing livery service as well?”

  “Yes,” Simon said as he signed the register. “Where is the stable? We'll be needing a buggy this afternoon.”

  The hotel clerk gave Simon directions and then placed a large brass key on the desk. As he took the cash Simon held out, he frowned. “Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid we don't accept notes from these banks.”

  Simon frowned, but took the notes back and dug into his wallet for replacements. He cast Elizabeth a quick arched eyebrow.

  Even though she thought it was nearly impossible for anyone to make sense of the wackiness that was the antebellum money system, Elizabeth waited for the squinty-eyed, don't try those shenanigans here look from the clerk, but none came. Apparently, they weren't the only ones who had trouble navigating the ins and outs of this multiple currency insanity and trying to give the wrong bills for payment wasn't cause for alarm.

  It was a wonder anyone ever knew what to use. Before the Civil War, the United States government issued no paper money. Every state chartered banks and issued its own unique bank notes. In just eight year's time, over 8,000 different banks were printing their own money. To make matters worse, everyone, including large merchants and railroads, and even druggists and grocers, also issued their own currency. The notes came in all shapes and sizes, and various colors and denominations, even tiny amounts called “shinplasters” for twenty-five, ten and even six cents. Banks and merchants would honor some notes and not others. If a bank or a business went under, the notes they'd issued were worthless.

  The madness ended after the Civil War when a national banking system was developed. Luckily for Simon and Elizabeth, a great many of these obsolete notes survived and they were able to amass a small fortune without paying one for it.

  Their room arranged, Simon took the key and put a hand on the small of Elizabeth's back. “Shall we?”

  After they'd climbed the stairs to their rooms, Simon oversaw the bellhops and their trunks as Elizabeth explored. The rooms were spacious and comfortable by 1850's standards. In the sitting room there was a large mahogany sofa and side chairs resting on a beautiful ornamental rug that made Elizabeth feel guilty for tracking in mud. The bedroom had a decent-sized double bed and lounge chair. The one glaring omission, and it was a big one, was the bathroom. There wouldn't be one down the hall either. Indoor plumbing wouldn't become common until after the Civil War. For now, a small table with a porcelain ewer and wash basin would serve as a sink while an odd-looking wooden chair with a boxed-in seat in the corner was probably the commode. Elizabeth carefully lifted up the upholstered seat of the chair to reveal a toilet-like wooden seat with a hole under which a chamber pot was discreetly hidden.

  “Everything all right?” Simon asked as he joined her in the bedroom.

  Startled, Elizabeth dropped the lid to the commode.

  Simon chuckled. “You said you wanted adventure.”

  Elizabeth walked over to him and slipped her arms around his waist. “It will be that.”

  Simon pulled her closer and kissed her. “Are you ready for a little reconnaissance? Or do you want to rest first?” His brow drew together as one long finger traced the edge of her cheek. “You're flushed.”

  Simon arched an eyebrow and Elizabeth shook her head and laid a hand on his chest. “If we unlace me, there's no going back.”

  “I meant actual rest, but now that you mention it…” The gleam in his eye and the rumble in his chest did very little to help cool things down.

  Elizabeth sighed. As tempting as it was to loosen her corset and shed a few dozen layers of clothing with Simon, they came here with a purpose. “I'm gonna regret this, but recon first. Then dinner. Then…” she added with a smile.

  “Until then,” Simon said and leaned down and kissed her once more.

  ~~~

  The livery stable wasn't far from the hotel, but even with paved sidewalks, it was a dusty affair. Men on horseback, carriages and carts kicked up the dirt from the street and it swirled around between the buildings, an inordinate amount of it landing with precision on the white parts of her dress.

  Elizabeth waited outside the stable and, after a few minutes, Simon drove up in a small buggy looking every inch the Southern gentleman. Elizabeth
shook her head in wonder. How was it he always managed to look so at home in each period they traveled to? He held the reins to the large chestnut mare with one hand and held out the other to her.

  Thankfully, the buggy seat wasn't nearly as high as the buckboard had been, and she could reach the cast iron buggy step without having to lift her skirts up to her waist. But the buggy horse was a little restless and the whole shebang kept moving back and forth a few inches just as she was ready to try to get in.

  “Shhh, easy,” Simon said to the horse soothingly and it stilled.

  Elizabeth managed to get in without much of a problem after that, and Simon helped her tuck her voluminous skirts in between them. He shifted the reins back to his left hand, picked up a long thin whip with his right and gently urged the horse to walk.

  “Where on earth did you learn to do that?” Elizabeth asked.

  Simon smiled and then turned his attention back to the road. “I'm English.”

  Elizabeth suspected being stinking rich and running with the horsiest of the horsey set probably had more to do with it, but she let it slide. She had more important things on her mind, like the mission.

  They'd agreed to follow the list they'd found tucked inside Simon's grandfather's journal. Whether or not these were official Council for Temporal Studies approved missions didn't matter. The Latin inscription at the top that read, “In the absence of light, darkness prevails” summed it up nicely.

  Simon's name had been first on the list and his grandfather Sebastian had traveled back to 1929 to save him. And now, Simon and Elizabeth had picked up where he'd left off. They'd saved Alan Grant in 1933 Hollywood and now they'd moved on to the next name on the list, Mary Stewart.

  Unfortunately, the list only told them the most basic who, when and where. The what, why and how was up to them to figure out as they went along. In the end, all they really knew was that someone needed their help and whatever it took, they'd give it.