Back on his own turf, Zane could've given the guy a run for his money but here in the middle of nowhere, he was stumped. How did you compete with a woman's hero? Zane had money, freedom, and entree to the best of everything the world had to offer, and none of it mattered a damn.
This wasn't his world, it was McVie's.
For thirty-four years he'd charted his singular course through life, needing nothing and no one but himself.
Stripped of all the trappings of modern life, he felt naked. He had dodged bombs and barstools and more bad tempers than a man twice his age, but he had never faced his own limitations, in the way he was doing now.
He hated feeling anything less than in total control of himself and his situation. The broken arm was an unpleasant reminder that he was only human. The way Emilie made him feel went even deeper.
Is this what you wanted, Sara Jane? he asked, wondering if his grandmother was somewhere laughing at the predicament in which he found himself. You told me there was more to life...Is love what you had in mind?
He waited, but there was no answer from Sara Jane.
#
As they followed Andrew on their journey north to Princeton, both Emilie and Zane were moved to stunned silence by the beauty of the land. The dense forests gently gave way to rolling meadows dotted with wildflowers, peach orchards, and small springs that sparkled with water as sweet and clear as liquid diamonds.
"You went to school in Princeton," Emilie said as they crested a small hill. "I wonder if you'll recognize anything."
Zane looked at her as if she were crazy. "I don't think Marita's Cantina has been around that long." Then a thought struck him. "You know, Nassau Hall's pretty damn old."
"And the old governor's mansion on Stockton Street--"
"Morven," he said, shaking his head. Buildings he'd walked by every day for four years and never noticed were taking on monumental importance in his life. The whole thing was enough to make him think longingly of a bottle of Scotch and sweet oblivion.
"At least we're dressed for it," Emilie said, gesturing toward her mint green outfit with the snugly laced bodice.
Zane looked down at her, taking careful note of the deep valley between her breasts. "Can you breathe in that thing?"
"Barely," she said with a groan. "I supposed I should thank my lucky stars Andrew was able to find anything at all."
Zane scowled. "I feel like an ass."
"You look great." Andrew had been unable to find that would fit a man of Zane's size, but they had managed to cobble together a passable imitation of period clothing by combining Zane's 20th century garments with a dark gold cape. Emilie had combed his hair back and tied it with a length of black ribbon.
"It's hot as hell under this damn thing."
"You'll survive."
"I'm not so sure."
"It's a different world, Zane," she reminded him. "I'm wearing more layers of clothing than a cloistered nun and you don't hear me complaining."
"That's because you like this kind of thing."
"No," she said, "it's because I can accept it."
"I don't see the difference."
"I know," said Emilie, "and that's always been our problem."
#
The Post Road, formerly known as the King's Highway, led into the heart of town.
"This can't be real," said Emilie as she stared at the horses and livestock, the peddlers and merchants, the crowds of people choking the thoroughfare. Men in white powdered wigs and silk brocade jackets in vibrant oranges and reds strolled up the road, rubbing elbows with milkmaids in homespun skirts and plain bodices and street porters whose laced shoes bespoke their lowly station in life. "I feel like I'm on a movie set."
A blacksmith shop stood next to a printing establishment. There was a silversmith's shop across the street, and that was adjacent to a wigmaker, which was near the barber's storefront.
A woman carrying a basket of lemons approached, a hopeful look upon her face. "Fine lemons to cool you on a summer day," she said, extending the basket. "Brought up from Jamaica by my very own husband this Saturday past."
Emilie reached for a lemon, savoring the smoothness. "Oh, I'd love some."
"Two pence the half dozen," said the woman, her smile revealing two missing front teeth.
Emilie looked to Zane who shook his head. Andrew stared at her, his expression impassive.
"I'm sorry," Emilie said to the woman, replacing the lemon in the basket. "I cannot, after all."
The woman's eyes flashed fire. "'Tis a dreadful thing, wasting a good wife's time with idle promises."
"I should truly love to buy one," said Emilie, trying to match the woman's speech patterns, "but I fear I am not able."
The woman's gaze took in Emilie's hoop earrings and crystal pendant. "A basket of lemons for one of those trinkets would be a fair trade."
Andrew took Emilie by the arm and propelled her up the street to where Zane stood near the door of the Plumed Rooster.
"Engage in no idle talk with tradespeople, Mistress Emilie, or you will find your pockets picked before you reach the other side of the street."
"It's the same way back home," Emilie marveled as they caught up with Zane. "Only we call them flea markets."
"Fleas?" The expression on Andrew's face made both Emilie and Zane laugh out loud.
"It's a long story," said Zane. "We'll explain it to you some day."
Andrew gestured toward the Plumed Rooster. "I have business to attend inside and then on to the Blakelee farm."
"Fine," said Emilie. "We'll come with you." She started for the door to the pub.
"Nay," said Andrew, barring her way.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Emilie. "Move away, Andrew."
"'Tis not proper."
"What isn't?"
"You would not be welcome in the Plumed Rooster."
"Because I'm a stranger?"
"No," said Zane. "Because you're a woman."
For a moment she had forgotten the inequalities of the 18th century. She glared at Andrew. "Is that true?" she demanded.
Andrew nodded. He'd never seen such fire before on a woman's countenance. It both intrigued and alarmed him. "'Tis but one kind of woman who frequents the Rooster," he said, trusting she would infer his meaning from his words.
"Oh God," she groaned, shaking her head in dismay. "
Andrew glanced toward Zane. "Do you understand the cause of her distress?"
"Equal rights," said Zane.
Andrew looked relieved. "A notion put forth by the Continental Congress in Philadelphia a few short weeks ago. It is one with which I am familiar."
"Of course you are," said Emilie, still smarting. "All men are created equal."
"I do not understand your dismay, Mistress Emilie. Certainly the notion of equality is one appreciated in your time."
Zane snickered audibly and Emilie whirled about. "Stop that!" she ordered. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"Women's liberation," Zane said to a wide-eyed McVie. "Equal pay for equal work."
"A major consideration for a man," Andrew acknowledged, "but surely a wife does not expect recompense for her services."
Emilie strangled on a scream of frustration. "Women do more than cook and clean for a man in the future," she snapped. "We fly planes and own companies and even rule countries."
Andrew laughed. "For a moment I did not realize you were jesting."
Emilie's hand clenched into a fist and Zane stepped between his ex-wife and her girlhood hero. "I'd shut up if I were you, McVie. She's got a great left hook."
Emilie, however, had more to say on the subject. "In our time, a woman ruled Great Britain."
"That is not difficult to believe," said Andrew, "for Good Queen Bess inherited the throne two centuries ago upon the death of her father."
"Well, there is another Queen Elizabeth on the throne of England," said Emilie, "but her power is only ceremonial. I speak of someone else."
Andrew's rug
ged face was split by a wide and knowing grin. "Aye, it's a cunning lass you are, mistress. Her powers are ceremonial for it is her husband the King who rules, is it not?"
"Wrong again," said Emilie, beginning to wonder if this whole discussion had been such a great idea after all. She would have been much happier not knowing Andrew McVie was a male chauvinist--a term she had no intention of explaining to him. "England is governed by a Parliament presided over by a Prime Minister." She paused. "For many years that job belonged to Margaret Thatcher."
"Nay," said Andrew, "that cannot be." How could she expect him, an intelligent and worldly man, to believe such nonsense?
"It's true," Emilie persisted.
Andrew again looked toward Zane.
Zane almost felt sorry for the guy. McVie had to be completely dumbfounded.
"It's true," he said. "One day a woman will probably be president of the United States."
"I have heard enough," said Andrew. "I will finish my business and meet you at this spot shortly." He disappeared inside the Plumed Rooster.
"Poor guy," said Zane as the door swung closed behind McVie. "He couldn't wait to get away. We'll be lucky if we ever see him again."
"Was I that bad?"
"He didn't know what hit him."
"I just couldn't believe his attitude," Emilie said. "It was Neanderthal."
"Take a look around, Em. You won't find a copy of Ms Magazine anywhere. If you're looking for equality you're about two hundred years too soon."
His words hit Emilie hard. Women had played an important part in the war for independence. She could recite tales of wives who had followed their husbands into battle, mothers who'd risked their lives to further the cause of freedom for their fighting sons.
To hear McVie talk, they'd done nothing but sit by the fire and dream.
"Serpent in paradise?" Zane asked, grinning.
"Oh, shut up." She started off down the street, picking her way through the crowd of fishmongers, vegetable grocers, and assorted livestock.
"Careful where you walk," Zane said, catching up with her. "Pooper scoopers haven't been invented yet."
She was about to snap out a sharp retort when a hen raced across the road, followed by a yipping dog. She stopped abruptly, almost tumbling into Zane's waiting grasp.
"Told you to be careful where you walked."
"Am I crazy," said Emilie, regaining her balance, "or is it as busy here now as it is in the future?"
"You won't get an argument from me." He glanced across the street then cupped her elbow with his left hand in a protective gesture. "Keep looking at me, Em," he ordered.
Her eyes widened. She made to turn toward the street but he gripped her more tightly and propelled her back toward the Plumed Rooster. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Soldiers," he said, "and I don't think they're on our side."
The urge to stop and stare was almost irresistible. If Zane hadn't looked so stern, she was sure she would have made a show of herself.
"They're watching us," Zane said as they waited for Andrew to come out.
"We're not doing anything wrong," she said indignantly. "What can they do to us?"
"Anything they want," said Zane, struck by that knowledge. "Isn't that what the war was about?"
Chapter Eight
The Blakelee farm was situated a mile north of town. Cows grazed in the meadow near a weathered red barn while a flock of sheep wandered about the front yard in the waning light of late afternoon.
At fifty acres the farm wasn't overly large, but it did afford the Blakelees a comfortable living--or at least it had before the advent of war.
The farmhouse itself was a two-story clapboard structure, unadorned by shutters or flower boxes. The only decorative touch was the red roses blooming to the right of the front door.
As they walked up the lane toward the house, Emilie's heartbeat accelerated and her hands began to tremble.
Andrew had explained little of his involvement with the Blakelees but both Emilie and Zane had deduced that they were somehow linked to the spy ring of which McVie was a part. They did know that the man, Josiah, was missing but beyond that they were in the dark.
Andrew stopped a few yards from the front door and turned to them. "'Twould be best if the Blakeless think of you as a wedded couple."
"We've already covered that,' said Zane. He knew all about 18th century sensibilities and was more than willing to play along. He glanced at Emilie standing beside him. At least, in this instance he was.
McVie had more to say. "You should be average in every way possible."
Emilie nodded. "You mean no talk of rocket ships and VCRs?"
"Lass, I will not ask the nature of a VCR, but I will say that talk of such matters should be strictly guarded."
"Don't worry," said Emilie. "We'll be careful."
"I don't know if I can pull it off," Zane said to Emilie as McVie climbed the steps to the front door.
"I can," said Emilie, switching her silver-and-gold ring from her right hand to her left. "Just pretend you're the strong silent type and follow my lead. You can--" She stopped abruptly as the door to the farmhouse swung open and a tiny brown-haired woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a simple dress in a dark beige color. A white mobcap sat atop her head.
Mrs. Blakelee looked at Andrew, then her gaze slid past him and landed on Zane whose back was turned to her. "Oh sweet merciful heavens!" the woman exclaimed, hurrying down the steps. "Josiah!"
Andrew grabbed the woman by the shoulder. "Nay, Rebekah. It is not Josiah."
Zane turned around to see what had caused the commotion and the good woman's narrow face lost the glow of happiness.
The woman looked back at Andrew. "I had so hoped Josiah would be with you."
"As I had hoped to find him safe at home. I fear we are both doomed to disappointment."
"Nine weeks and nary a word," said Rebekah Blakelee, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron.
"He lives," said Andrew, comforting the woman with awkward pats on the back. "It cannot be otherwise." The spectre of the dreaded British prison ships in Wallabout Bay rose before him but he steadfastly refused to acknowledge its presence.
A child of about three years appeared at Rebekah's side. He held a small wooden hoop in his plump hand. Rebekah was too distraught to acknowledge his presence even as he tugged at her skirts. From the front window came the sound of an infant crying. Emilie could only imagine how trapped and alone the woman must feel with so much responsibility on her slender shoulders.
Andrew spoke low to the farm woman. She nodded, then glanced toward Emilie and Zane.
"These are the Rutledges," Andrew said. "I discovered Mistress Emilie in a most dreadful situation and have endeavored to lend aid until such time as her spouse is mended."
Zane shot McVie a deadly look. Mended made him sound like a canary with a broken wing. He started to say something to that effect but a subtle poke in his ribs, courtesy of his ex-wife, made him reconsider.
Emilie stepped forward. "We are most grateful for your generosity, Mistress Blakelee. We shall endeavor to be a help and not a burden to your good family."
The woman's narrow face was transformed by her smile. "My Christian name is Rebekah."
"And I am Emilie." She gestured toward Zane. "This is my hus--" She stumbled over the word. "This is Zane."
He inclined his head toward the good woman and smiled. High color rose to Rebekah's cheeks and her smile deepened, making her plain face almost pretty.
"Zane," Rebekah said. "What manner of name is that?"
"It's a family name," he said easily.
Emilie breathed a sigh of relief that he had bypassed his Riders of the Purple Sage explanation.
Rebekah ran a hand across her forehead, smoothing the wispy strands of hair that had fallen toward her eyes. "I am sorry that you see my home in a time of turmoil." Her brown eyes filled with tears but she did not acknowledge their presence. "Without Josiah the farm has suffered
greatly."
Twice her farmhouse had been commandeered, once by British officers and once by the Continental Army, neither group of which exhibited any concern for her well-being or that of her family.
"We are in need of lodging," Andrew said simply. "Rutledge has a broken arm and Mistress Emilie--"
"Not another word," said Rebekah. "My husband holds you in high esteem. It is an honor to have you in my home."
#
Rebekah Blakelee was a practical woman. No sooner had she extended her generous invitation than she put Andrew and Zane to work bringing in more wood for the kitchen hearth and extra buckets of water.
Emilie followed the woman into a cool and spacious
sitting room that ran from the front of the house to the back. Emilie instantly gravitated toward the spinning wheel situated near the stone fireplace. A basket of knitting rested next to a comfortable-looking wing chair by the window, while another basket, this one piled high with mending, sat atop the ledge. Military uniforms, in various states of completion, were stacked on a gateleg table in the corner.
"I am proficient at the wheel," Emilie said, turning to face Rebekah. "I would be honored to be of assistance."
"My daughter will be delighted to hear of your generous offer," said Rebekah, "for Charity is a most unwilling participant."
As if on cue, a pretty dark-haired girl of about sixteen swayed into the room in a flurry of flowered skirts. "How can I embroider my wedding linens, Mother, if I am forever enslaved to that dreaded wheel?"
"This is Charity," said Rebekah with a rueful shake of her head. "My outspoken oldest child." She turned to her daughter. "Mistress Emilie and her husband, Mr. Rutledge, will be spending some time with us."
Charity did not receive the news with any particular degree of interest. A typical teenager, thought Emilie. It was comforting to know that some things never changed. "Charity is to be married a few weeks hence," said Rebekah as Charity sat down by the window with a child's shirt she'd been working on. "A most agreeable young man from a fine family north of here. I had so hoped Josiah...." Her words trailed off and she glanced away.
Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) Page 11
