Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy)

by Barbara Bretton

  "I can't believe you did that," Emilie said after Zane flashed the all-clear sign. "What if he'd asked for some proof?"

  "He didn't," Zane said.

  "What do you think that was all about?"

  "Trouble," said Andrew re-entering the room. He turned toward Rebekah. "'Twould be best if you knew nothing of the plans."

  Rebekah nodded and shooed the children out of the room. She lingered for a moment in the doorway, casting curious glances at Zane and Emilie, then disappeared.

  Andrew summed up the situation with an economy of words. The code system worked well. Unfortunately it would soon be of no use, for the spy ring had all but ceased to exist. Miller and Quick had been arrested, leaving Andrew as the only courier in the area between Princeton and the lighthouse where Emilie and Zane had met him.

  "We are being thwarted at every turn," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "We had cause to believe we were near to discovering where Blakelee is being held and now even that is but a dream." He met Emilie's eyes. "You tell me that we will win this bloody war but I find no sign of it. Tonight I was to make an important contact and now I am imprisoned in this house with no hope in sight."

  "There will be another night," Emilie said soothingly, trying to dispel the smell of desperation in the air.

  "There are some things that cannot wait for the time to be right." A thousand shadings colored his words.

  "I'll do it," said Emilie. "Who on earth would ever suspect a woman?"

  Andrew started to protest but Zane broke in.

  "No," Zane said. "I'll go."

  Both Emilie and McVie turned to stare at him.

  "This isn't the time for jokes," she said.

  "I'm not joking."

  "'Tis a dangerous mission," Andrew said warily.

  Zane nodded. "Now tell me something I don't know."

  Hope, crazy and improbably, sprang to life inside Emilie's chest. Maybe he was changing, she thought, looking at Zane's beautiful face. An experience like they'd shared had to have an effect on a person. Certainly she was vastly different from the woman she'd been back in 20th century Crosse Harbor.

  Besides, it wasn't every day you got to be in at the birth of a nation. Maybe he really was beginning to care about the bigger picture.

  She listened as Andrew explained the situation to Zane in blunt detail, not minimizing the risks involved. Her heart thundered wildly inside her chest as she watched Zane's expression. He looked so strong, so brave, so--

  "Hell, yes, I'll go," Zane said. "It's not like I have something better to do, is it?"

  #

  Zane knew he'd made a mistake the second the words slipped out but unfortunately there was no taking them back.

  They were out there, hovering in the air between him and Emilie, and she looked as if she'd never forget them.

  He felt like a stupid teenager who'd gone out of his way to annoy the one girl he really cared about.

  Trouble was, he wasn't a teenager. He was a thirty-four-year-old man who was throwing away his last chance for happiness with both hands.

  McVie, however, didn't give a damn about his motives. All he apparently cared about was the fact that Zane was willing to put his ass on the line. They both knew Zane's memory would be an asset. People, places, conversations--he'd be able to commit everything he saw and heard to memory and add an extra dimension to a simple delivery.

  McVie had managed to gain a copy of the layout to one of the prison ships currently moored in New York Harbor. "A man will be waiting for this at --" He hesitated, growing obviously uncomfortable. His eyes rested on Emilie. "Perhaps you would leave, Mistress Emilie. This is of a delicate nature."

  She lifted her chin and glared at him. Of all the outdated, sexist notions. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this as deep as any of you now. I don't need your protection."

  "'Tis not your safety I speak of," said Andrew. "It's something...a subject not usually--"

  "Just say it," Zane broke in. "She'll find out anyway."

  Andrew turned to Zane. "You will meet your contact at a...house three miles north of Princeton, not far west from the cave where you spent the night."

  "A house?" Emilie asked. "What's the big deal about a house?"

  A grin twitched the corners of Zane's mouth. "I don't think he means a two-story colonial."

  Her jaw dropped. "You mean--"

  Zane nodded then met McVie's eyes. "A whorehouse. Am I right?"

  Andrew couldn't bring himself to look at Emilie. "Officers from both armies congregate there."

  "I'd heard this was a 'gentlemen's' war," Emilie drawled, "but that's ridiculous."

  "'Tis the nature of man," said Andrew simply.

  Emilie snorted in disgust. "'Tis the nature of a beast," she mimicked.

  "Knock it off, Em," said Zane.

  She glared at them. Two pigheaded, hormone-saturated examples of American manhood, separated by two hundred years but connected by testosterone. Why was it men accepted the most insulting institutions as both logical and natural? She could just imagine the screaming that would go on if some enterprising Yankee wife gathered together a score of handsome men and opened a bordello that catered to women.

  Of course, neither one of them cared a fig for what she had to say about this situation. They continued making their plans for Zane's James-Bond-Meets-George-Washington adventure while she continued to burn.

  #

  "You're wearing that tonight?" Emilie stared, eyes wide, as Zane walked into their shared bedroom with a Continental Army uniform slung over his arm.

  "McVie's idea," he said, tossing the uniform down on the bed. "Rebekah was making this with Josiah in mind and she said we're about the same size. McVie said you'd finish up the collar and cuffs."

  "How nice of him to volunteer me for the job."

  "Rebekah's busy with the wedding preparations." He shot her a sidelong look. "I thought you said you were in this with the rest of us."

  "I am," she said. "It's just--" She stopped abruptly. She didn't want to think of what this bad mood of hers was really about.

  He gestured toward the uniform. "Are you going to take care of it or not?"

  "Dusk is still hours away. What's the rush?"

  "I'm not waiting for dusk. I'm leaving as soon as the uniform's ready."

  "Such a patriot," she drawled, her tone etched with sarcasm. "Can't wait to give your all for your country."

  "Give it a rest."

  "No, I won't give it a rest. All this is to you is an excuse to risk your damn stupid neck."

  "I suppose you think it's all flag-waving and moral outrage on McVie's part."

  "He cares what happens to this country," she snapped. "He understands what's important."

  "Grow up, Emilie," Zane growled. "He's running away from something and if you can't see that, you're not as smart as you think."

  She bit her lip in dismay as she thought of Andrew's late wife and child. Andrew was running away from something but not in the way Zane thought. At least he had managed to channel his pain and anger into a positive course of action, while Zane--

  "You don't understand," she said after a moment. "Why don't we just forget it?"

  "Are you going to finish the uniform?"

  She nodded. "I'll finish the uniform."

  "I'll be back for it in a half hour."

  "Great," said Emilie dully. "It'll be ready."

  #

  For Zane, gold was the most valuable commodity he'd brought with him to the past.

  For Emilie, it was pins.

  The thought was laughable but true. Now that the war was raging, colonial women were at a loss for the basics of their existence. Items like sewing pins and needles were in short supply and Emilie found herself frequently thanking God that she had stumbled backward through time with her sewing kit intact.

  She spread the uniform jacket out on the bed and took a good look at it. There really wasn't much left to be done, she noted. Josiah Blakelee was obviously a
big man, taller even than Zane. She would have to hem the cuffs an inch or two. The edges of the collar were unfinished and the pewter buttons needed to be sewn on, but it wouldn't take her long to handle the job.

  Her embroidered purse rested on the window ledge. She retrieved it, pulled out the sewing kit, then chose a needle. Threading it with a length of navy floss, she settled down to work.

  As always, the rhythmic motion of the silver needle soothed her, linking her in time and space with all the women who had come before and all who would one day follow. She was rolling the edge of the collar between thumb and forefinger and placing a stitch when a feeling of deja vu washed over her like a soft rain.

  For a moment she felt as if the barriers of time and space were melting away.

  Then, as suddenly as the feeling had appeared, it vanished.

  "Strange," she murmured, continuing her work. She couldn't imagine what had brought about that odd sensation. She'd been working on uniforms intermittently for the past few weeks and she'd never felt anything remotely like that.

  Zane returned just as she was snipping the last threads.

  "Good timing," she said, determined to keep her emotions under tight control.

  "Finished?"

  She nodded, glancing up at him. Her breath caught in her throat. He wore a pair of buff-colored breeches that cupped his butt and molded themselves to his powerful legs, and his old white shirt of silky Egyptian cotton. His hair was freshly-washed, slicked back into a pony tail, tied with a length of black ribbon.

  He reached for the jacket but she rose from the chair where she'd been working and approached him. Would she never get used to the sight and sound of him? He was like a drug to her and every bit as dangerous.

  She held up the jacket.

  "Where's your splint?" she asked as he slipped his arms into the sleeves.

  "I took it off."

  "Do you think that was a smart thing to do?"

  "It's been awhile."

  "Only a month."

  "Sounds long enough to me."

  Of course it did. Zane did what he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it. Nothing ever stood in his way. Not a broken arm. Not a broken marriage. Not the mission he was about to undertake for Andrew.

  "I know this is a lark to you," she said, her voice fierce, "but it's vitally important to a lot of other people."

  "Right," said Zane. "Like McVie. I'll keep that in mind."

  She reached up to smooth the collar of his coat and a wave of dizziness overtook her. "My God," she whispered. "That's why...."

  He turned to face her, a look of curiosity on his face. "What's wrong?"

  "Remember?" she said, gesturing toward his outfit. "The uniform. The one you brought to me." The odd stitching on the collar, the hemmed sleeves . . .

  She watched as the realization dawned on him. "Jesus," he said, his voice low. "You don't think--?"

  "You have to admit it's a possibility."

  He found it hard to wrap his mind around the knotted puzzle that was the concept of time. "You telling me I'm my own ancestor?"

  "I don't know what I'm telling you." All she knew was that she had the strangest feeling of having come full circle.

  #

  Andrew was waiting for them downstairs. He handed Zane a folded piece of paper that contained the detailed deck plan of the prison ship in Wallabout Bay, New York Harbor.

  "Mark me well, Rutledge," he said, his manner stern. "One slip and all is lost."

  Zane slid the deck plan into his coat pocket. "I won't slip."

  Emilie met Andrew's eyes. "What do you mean, all will be lost?"

  "Each morning dead prisoners are buried in the mud flats. Those who survive live crowded together in the dark below deck with no light and little air and rancid food."

  His eyes strayed toward the Blakelees who were standing near the entrance to the front room.

  "Josiah?" asked Zane.

  Andrew nodded. "'Tis feared he has been sent to the Hell Ship."

  "Wait a minute," said Emilie, struck by a dreadful thought. "I understand what will happen to other people if that map falls into the wrong hands, but what about Zane?"

  The silence from the two men spoke volumes. She looked down at her hands, focusing on the gold and silver ring. The ring that was serving as her imitation wedding band. She covered it with her right hand.

  "You are there to see Maggie," Andrew said. "She knows what you are about and will see to it that you connect with the necessary people."

  Emilie was proud of herself. He'd handed her a perfect straight line and she'd resisted the urge. She didn't know anything about this Maggie, but she had a pretty good idea she wouldn't like her.

  "Can you ride?" Andrew asked Zane.

  Zane nodded. "Won't that draw more attention?"

  "You're an officer," Andrew said. "It's in keeping with your position."

  And then it was time for Emilie and Zane to say goodbye.

  Andrew stepped aside to allow them a moment of privacy, but he didn't look away. Emilie glanced over her shoulder and saw the entire Blakelee family, from Rebekah all the way down to Aaron, watching them with rapt attention.

  A handshake just wouldn't do it. Rebekah was already curious enough about the two of them.

  Zane met her eyes. "Come on, Em," he said, his voice low. "Let's give it our best shot."

  He took her in his arms. The smell of soap and wool enveloped her as he held her close. Tilting her chin with his forefinger, he lowered his head and brought his mouth down on hers.

  His kiss was bittersweet. Her tears were hot.

  "Be careful," she whispered.

  He smiled at her and, with a nod toward the others, he was off.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emilie tried to throw herself into the frenzied preparations going on at the Blakelee house, but not even the excitement surrounding Charity's wedding could ease the feeling of disaster settling itself around her.

  Saying goodbye to Zane she'd wanted to throw herself in his arms and never let him go. But when she turned away from the door and met Andrew's eyes she'd felt embarrassed and confused and altogether positive that she was losing her mind. There was a connection between her and Andrew, a deep and important connection, but she found it difficult to understand exactly what it was.

  As it was, Andrew seemed restless. He'd wanted to go out into the fields and work off his energy, but he knew the farm was being watched and he dare not risk being seen.

  And so he paced from one end of the farmhouse to the other, muttering to himself. Finally Rebekah could stand it no longer and she put him to work polishing the pewter service she'd dug up from the back yard where she'd had it hidden.

  It was obvious he'd give anything to be in Zane's place, facing danger head-on, and Emilie found her own feelings on that subject surprisingly tangled.

  #

  At dusk Rebekah served a light supper of beans and brown bread with tankards of cider. Emilie found it hard to concentrate on her meal and she ended up moving the food around on her plate with her fork. Afterwards, she helped Rebekah and Charity tidy the kitchen, grateful to have something to occupy her mind.

  Isaac had wanted help with something he was building for his sister's new home and Andrew had climbed up to the boy's attic room to help him. Emilie, Rebekah, and Charity settled down in the front room to finish work on the girl's wedding linens by candlelight.

  "Are you getting nervous, Charity?" Emilie asked as she put the finishing touches on a table runner embroidered with daisies and forget-me-nots. "Your wedding is less than forty-eight hours away."

  "Charity is much like her father," said Rebekah fondly. "There is little in this world that can sway her from her course."

  "Timothy's folks arrive tomorrow evening," Charity said. "I find myself wondering if I'll like them half as much as I love him."

  Rebekah laughed out loud. "How like my girl to care not what they think of her but to worry if she will like them."

&nb
sp; "I'd always wished for in-laws," Emilie said, more to herself than to Rebekah or Charity. "Zane's parents died years before I met him." She'd had but one chance to meet his grandmother Sara Jane during their brief marriage and had longed to get to know the woman who'd meant so much to Zane.

  "Poor man," said Rebekah. "'Tis no wonder he hurts as he does. He told me that he was sent away from home long before they met their untimely end."

  Emilie's head shot up from her needlework. "He told you about his parents?"

  Rebekah nodded. "The morning before last when he helped me hang the wash."

  Zane Rutledge helped Rebekah hang the wash? Emilie found she could only stare at the woman in surprise.

  "He is a good man," Rebekah continued, her needle dipping in and out of the open-weave fabric of the nightdress she worked on. "And he loves you very much."

  Emilie looked back down at her own work again. If Rebekah only knew the truth: that Emilie and Zane had been married and divorced and were living a lie.

  "...you can always tell when a man loves a woman," Rebekah was saying. "'Tis the little things that give it away."

  Charity smiled smugly. "Timothy gave me a tortoise-shell comb for my birthday."

  "I don't think that's exactly what your mother meant," Emilie said. She looked at Rebekah. "Is it?"

  Rebekah shook her head. "I always said I realized Josiah truly loved me the night he sat up with Charity when the girl was cutting her teeth." Rebekah, about to give birth to Isaac, had appreciated that unbroken night's sleep the way another woman might have appreciated a flawless emerald. "A man gives what he can," she said, meeting Emilie's eyes, "and he gives it in his own way."

  Her thoughts went back to the warm tub of bathwater, scented with roses, that had awaited her in their room the other night. "Perhaps a woman ought not read more into a simple gesture than actually exists."

  Rebekah smiled. "And perhaps a woman ought not read less into a man because he does not conform to the ideal."

  "If I didn't know better, Rebekah, I would believe you spoke of me."

  "Your husband is a good man, Emilie, and a kind one. I fear you do not always see that."