Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy)

by Barbara Bretton

  Impulsively Emilie reached for the woman's hand and took it in her own. "Everything will work out," she said earnestly. "I am certain of it." She tilted her head at the sound of a baby crying. "Have you an infant?"

  Rebekah nodded. "A hungry one. Let me pour a pitcher of cider for you and your husband and then I shall tend to Aaron."

  "Let me," said Emilie, then caught herself with a laugh. No Playtex nursers here. "Not with Aaron, of course, but with the cider."

  Rebekah was not accustomed to accepting help from guests in her home but Emilie insisted. She wanted to see and experience everything she possibly could. For years she'd been insufferably proud of her knowledge of colonial ways. It would be interesting to see if her conceit was merited.

  The kitchen was situated in the rear of the house. It was a large room with a high, beamed ceiling, dominated by an enormous hearth, some ten feet wide and over five feet high. As was the custom, the main meal had been served at midday and the fire was banked now. Emilie peered curiously at the two keeping ovens built into the bricks on the sides of the hearth and at the assortment of iron pots and copper pans that hung from hooks overhead.

  It was all so perfect--and so perfectly wonderful--that she threw back her head and laughed with joy.

  #

  Zane looked out at the farmland from the bedroom window on the second floor. Acre after acre of pastoral tranquility luminous in the fierce light of the setting sun. Throughout history men had lived and died to hang onto the land, bound to it through mysterious ties of blood and dreams.

  No matter how hard he tried to understand that longing for roots and stability, the secret eluded him. Things that had been impossible for him to understand in 1992 were just as impossible in 1776.

  He wasn't entirely sure what that said about him but for the first time in his life he felt a sense of lost possibilities that had nothing to do with fast cars and exotic cities.

  Downstairs Emilie sat in the front room, cradling Rebekah Blakelee's infant son. He and McVie had just come in from inspecting the barn and root cellar for any indications of foul play that Rebekah might have missed, when the sound of a baby's laughter caught McVie's attention.

  McVie had stood in the entranceway, transfixed at the sight of Emilie with the laughing infant cradled in her arms. There was something so intimate, so ethereal about the scene that Zane had found it difficult to look at the expression of wonder on his ex-wife's beautiful face and he'd turned away.

  For all he knew McVie was still down there, staring at Emilie as if she held the secrets of the universe in her arms.

  "So what's it to you, Rutledge?" he mumbled as he looked out at the bucolic scene. None of this mattered. All he had to do was bide his time and stay alert to possibilities and he was certain he'd find a way to get back to the world he'd left behind.

  The image of Emilie gazing down at the infant cradled against her chest rose up again before his eyes, more vivid than the sight beyond the window. She'd always wanted a child. Even though their courtship had been brief and their marriage short-lived, that one fact had been painfully clear. She'd longed to cast her lot in with the future while Zane had wanted to live for the moment with no regard for the past.

  Children deserved more than biological parents. They deserved all the time and love and energy a mother and father could give. He knew first-hand what happened when parents cared more for their own happiness than for the new life they had created. If you couldn't make that kind of whole-hearted commitment, you had no damn business bringing a kid into the world.

  Even if the thought of a baby with her eyes and her smile made something strange happen inside his chest.

  He turned away from the window, his gaze resting briefly on the wooden rocking chair in the corner, the highboy near the door...the narrow bed pushed up against the wall.

  They'd never had any trouble in bed. If they'd been half as good at talking as they were at making love, they'd be celebrating their sixth anniversary. It struck him as a shame that two people who'd had so much going for them had let it all slip through their fingers without so much as putting up a fight.

  #

  Rebekah served a hearty supper of cold meat, bread, and cheese with cider. The rest of her family joined them at the table and Emilie was amazed that the slender woman had borne Josiah Blakelee five sons and a daughter. The eldest son, Isaac, was fifteen and eager to throw in his lot with the Patriots. The boy listened with rapt attention to Andrew's description of the situation at the Harlem Heights and Long Island.

  "General Washington has but ten thousand troops against the hordes of British regulars and Hessians." He took a drink of cider. "The Harbor is choked with British vessels."

  "The cause seems lost," said Rebekah with a sigh. "Such a miracle as independency has never been done in the history of civilization. We were foolish to believe it could be done now by sheer power of will alone."

  Isaac leaped from his seat, his face alight with determination. "I'm going, Mother! I'll join the General's troops like Sam'l Pearce did. We'll drive those Redcoats into the ocean!"

  "Sit down, you fool!" snapped his sister Charity. "Pa may never come back. You have to stay here and run the farm."

  "Half the army has broken rank and gone home," Andrew observed. "'Tis hard to leave fields that need plowing and crops that need tending when circumstances ahead may require much in the way of supplies."

  Emilie noted the look of gratitude on Rebekah's drawn face. Before today she would have imagined that every mother's dream was to have her son serve the Cause with distinction. But these were a practical people, their forebears, as concerned with growing crops as with securing independence from the Crown.

  "The soldiers are a dreadful lot," Charity said, casting a look toward Zane who was eating in silence. "Just last month they tore down our fences and commandeered our horses without so much as a by-your-leave."

  "The British soldiers have been here?" asked Emilie.

  "Our soldiers," the girl replied. "Five officers moved into the old Whittaker place and stole sugar and flour and all the silverware."

  Zane looked up from his plate. "Is that true?" he asked Rebekah.

  "That and more," said the good woman. "Dreadful things have happened from Trenton to New York. We buried our silverware and pewter in the herb garden. Without Josiah, I fear for our safety."

  The Blakelees were held under a cloud of suspicion by the Tories who speculated, correctly, that Josiah was a spy, while the Patriots claimed the man had been too friendly with the enemy.

  First thing tomorrow Andrew would head back into Princeton and begin his search anew. He'd learned much this afternoon at the Plumed Rooster. New intrigues were afoot. The British were planning mischief in Trenton to the south while Hessian troops waited to cross the Hudson to the north. He found himself weary of the endless speculation and the absence of resolution.

  Time and again his mind wandered to the stories Rutledge and Mistress Emilie had told him and he wished with all his heart he could leave this place and find that other world that existed somewhere in the future.

  #

  Emilie excused herself immediately after supper, claiming dreadful fatigue.

  "After your ordeal you must long for a hot bath," said Rebekah, who had been told the same story about a boating accident that Emilie originally had told Andrew.

  "I must admit the notion holds considerable charm," said Emilie, holding back a yawn.

  "Then a bath you will have," Rebekah declared. "There are few luxuries left to us. A hot bath is one I shall not forsake without a fight."

  Amen to that, thought Emilie a half-hour later as she sank blissfully into the warm water.

  Rebekah had commandeered her children into setting up the copper tub in Emilie's room then seeing that it was filled with plenty of warm, scented water. Rebekah horded attar of roses which she doled out in miniscule portions for her weekly soak. Emilie had been touched that the woman would share her bounty with a stranger
.

  The copper tub was meant for soaking, not reclining, and try as she might Emilie could not submerge her knees or shoulders beneath the water at the same time. It was a small quibble. A marble bath the size of a swimming pool couldn't have been more appreciated.

  She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the edge of the tub. She ached from toes to eyelids. In the past two days she'd walked more than in the past twenty years. Funny how you could know so much about a time period, understand the customs and the history, and still be surprised by the most basic differences.

  All the Jazzercise classes and Stairmaster sessions in the world hadn't prepared her for life without a car. No wonder the average life expectancy had been lower. People were just plain exhausted.

  How did Rebekah manage, she wondered, with a home to take care of and a farm to run, not to mention six children of varying temperaments and needs. Large families had always held a certain appeal for Emilie and she had been charmed by them all, from about-to-be-wed Charity right down to six-month-old Aaron with his big brown eyes and tufts of blond hair.

  She could still feel him cuddled against her chest, his plump baby hands pressing into her breasts. And that smell--was anyone immune to that sweetly seductive smell? She knew it was all part of a plot engineered by Mother Nature, designed to ensure the survival of the species, but that didn't matter.

  Once again, Mother Nature was successful. The fierce yearning for a child that she had experienced during her brief marriage to Zane swooped in on her with the primal force of the tides.

  She took a deep breath then tried to think of something else. The red roses in the front yard, for example. Charity's wedding plans.

  Or the beautiful sapphire blue color of Zane's eyes. As if on cue, the door swung open and Zane strode into the room.

  "Zane!" She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to slide lower in the tub. "You should have knocked."

  "I tried to call," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "but the phone's out of order."

  She gave him a fierce look. "I was here first."

  His gaze swept over her like a hot breeze. "So I see."

  "Hand me a towel," she said, gesturing toward the stack resting next to him. "And stop looking at me like that." She was struggling to maintain a detached composure and the struggle grew more difficult with each second that passed.

  "Don't get out on my account," he said, grinning. "I'm enjoying the view." More than she could imagine.

  "That's exactly what we have to talk about." She tried to look authoritative but found it difficult given the circumstances. "Just because we--I mean, we made a mistake the other night and I don't intend to compound it."

  He leaned back on the mattress, looking as comfortable as you please. "I couldn't agree more. Pretending to be married was McVie's idea, not mine."

  "You agreed to it."

  "Why not? You'd already stripped me down to the skin. He probably figured there weren't many surprises left."

  Emilie cringed at the thought. "Between that and the divorce I can just imagine what he must be thinking."

  Zane sat up straighter. "Who gives a damn what he thinks?"

  "We should if we expect his help."

  "You sure there isn't more to it than that?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  Zane leaned forward. "The guy's your childhood hero and he's about fifty years younger than a childhood hero should be. Think about it."

  "Really, Zane," she said, feigning nonchalance. "You sound like an idiot."

  "I think you're falling for him."

  "Ridiculous!"

  "Is it?"

  "Absolutely." She rose from the tub and reached for one of the towels. For an instant, as she leaned forward for the towel, she stood naked and the air seemed to shimmer between them. The towel didn't cover much, she noted with dismay, but it did manage to shield the essentials.

  "McVie is serious and patriotic," Zane said, "just the kind of guy you always wanted."

  "You don't know anything about what kind of man I want."

  "I know you're looking at the kind of man you don't want."

  His words stung and she didn't know exactly why. She stepped from the tub. "This is a ridiculous conversation. There are more important things to think about." She reached for a cotton wrapper Rebekah had been kind enough to supply. "Like what we're going to do after we wear out our welcome with the Blakelees."

  "Ask McVie. He seems to be the answer man around here."

  There it was again, thought Emilie. The sound of jealousy. She couldn't believe her ears. "We're the ones with the answers," she pointed out, "and we have to decide which ones we're going to provide."

  "You can't change history."

  "I don't intend to," said Emilie, "just give it a push in the right direction."

  "If it's already happened, why would it need our help?"

  "Did it ever occur to you that maybe we're part of the bigger picture?"

  "No," he said. "Not for a second."

  She stood by the window, brushing her hair with a large tortoiseshell comb. "There's a reason for everything that happens," she said, "and I can't help thinking we've been sent here for a purpose."

  "There's no purpose, Em," he said, walking toward her. "It just happened and now we have to find a way to get back where we belong."

  Her gaze was drawn to the bed pushed up against the far wall.

  "You should be in Tahiti," she said, meeting his eyes. "You would have been if you hadn't hijacked that balloon."

  "Would you call it fate?"

  "I call it temporary insanity."

  He drew her close, draping his left arm around her shoulders. "You shouldn't have taken off the way you did."

  She tried to move away but he held her fast. "I made a mistake," she said softly. "There was no point to pretending otherwise."

  "It didn't feel like a mistake."

  "No," she said, "but that doesn't change things. We want different things from life, Zane. We need different things. Not even traveling two hundred years through time can change that."

  He understood her meaning. "I'd sleep on the couch," he said, "but they don't have one."

  "You don't have to sleep on the couch. We'll manage."

  He looked at the narrow bed. "I doubt it."

  "It is kind of small, isn't it?"

  "Turn over once and we're talking conjugal rights." He reached for the closure on his trousers.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What do you think I'm doing?"

  "I think you're taking your pants off." Hadn't he understood a single word she'd said?

  "Best way to take a bath." He gestured toward the tub in the middle of the room. "Is the water still warm?"

  She nodded.

  "Great." Even with his broken arm he managed to divest himself of his clothing in record time. He placed his gold watch on the window ledge. "You'll scrub my back, won't you, Em?"

  "Zane, you really don't want to get into that tub."

  "Look," he said, "I'm tired and hot and grubby. If we're going to share a bed, I need the tub."

  "But the water--"

  "Is just right," he said, lowering his impressive body into the small tub. He frowned, sniffing the air. "What the hell is that smell?"

  "Roses," said Emilie.

  "From the front yard?"

  "From the bathwater," she said, starting to giggle.

  "You're kidding me."

  "Afraid not. Rebekah gave me some attar of roses to put in the water."

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

  "I was trying to. You were too fast for me."

  "I'm going to smell like a damn bridal bouquet."

  "Nobody'll notice."

  The look on his face spoke volumes.

  She approached the tub, clutching a flannel wash rag. "Would you like your back scrubbed?" she asked sweetly.

  He grunted.

  "Once for yes, twice for no."

&n
bsp; "Don't push it, Emilie," he warned.

  She knelt down behind him then leaned forward, dipping the wash rag into the scented water. "Keep your arm out of the water," she advised. "You don't want to get the splint wet."

  "I don't give a damn about the splint."

  "You will if it ends up smelling like rosewater."

  She noticed with a smile that he made a point of keeping his right arm well out of the reach of the bath water. The only light in the room came from a candle set upon the nightstand. Its light sent sent shadows flickering across the wooden floor. Slowly she drew the warm, wet cloth over the muscles of his back and shoulders, watching the drops of water glisten in the candlelight.

  The feel of his skin beneath her hands was both strange and familiar and once again she felt that dark need building inside her. It had always been like this. The sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, the way his hair always smelled of sunshine and sea breezes--any one of those things was enough to send her foolish heart into a spin.

  If only she didn't want him. This whole ridiculous mess would be so much easier if she didn't yearn for him. She hated feeling so open, so vulnerable, wanting the one thing on earth she shouldn't have.

  Thank God she wasn't still in love with him, that what she felt was nothing more than lust.

  "That's great," Zane murmured, letting his head drop forward as she kneaded the muscles of his neck and upper back. "Down there...yeah, that's it...."

  She watched, mesmerized, as a bead of water inched its way down his spine, fighting the urge to follow its trail with her tongue.

  #

  This was the life, thought Zane, as Emilie ministered to him. A warm bath--even if the water did stink of roses. Candlelight. A beautiful woman and a waiting bed. He had the feeling all of the elements were about to come together.

  For the first time since he hijacked that balloon, he felt hopeful.

  "Well," said Emilie, rising and moving away from the tub. "Your back is as clean as it's going to get. I think I'll go to bed."

  Zane's thoughts exactly. The feel of her hands against him had focused all of his attentions on the same idea.