Lavender Dreaming: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series Book 5)

by Barbara Bartholomew

  She saw the others exchange glances. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, Mrs. Tunney,” Evan Stephens said in his most soothing voice.

  “I must insist. If you’ll just contact Mrs. Downing, that’s my lady’s cousin, she’ll see to everything.”

  All Violet could think that she hadn’t even remembered Margaret’s last name. Mostly she’d been just Margaret, tolerated in the household because of the long years of multi-generational service she’d given to the Smythe-Hattons. She listened with mild disinterest as Evan Stephens and his family tried to convince her that they had no choice but to see to Lady Lavender’s burial in Lavender.

  “Maybe after the war’s over,” Violet spoke abruptly, tired of it all. “Then they can dig up her bones and take them home.”

  Margaret gave a shocked gasp. “Really, Violet, you have no business intruding your opinions.”

  “Wait a minute.” Warne had been silent until now. “She was Violet’s friend too. She has a right to her say.”

  Margaret’s laughter was slightly hysterical. “Don’t be ridiculous. Violet was not close to Lady Laura and it was mutual, believe you me. She has no right to say anything. I’m the only one here to speak for the family.”

  Warne glance quickly at Violet as though expecting her to deny the claim. “I worked for them all my life,” she was too weary to do anything but tell the truth. “Rarely did they have a kind word for me. The truth is I’m glad to be rid of them all.”

  She got up and left the room, ignoring their shocked looks. They could work it out between them. She didn’t care if they had the old lady mummified.

  Chapter Six

  When she woke the next day Violet got up ready to roll into action. Yesterday she’d hemmed the too-long castoff dress that Sylvie had given her and after a bath, she quickly put it on and went downstairs, prepared to work for her keep.

  In the kitchen she refused to be served and instead pitched in to help Dottie get breakfast on the table. With guests in the house, the Stephens’ housekeeper seemed to welcome the assistance and not even Betsy protested her efforts. She guessed they knew she was glad to be of help and, considering she’d spent most of her life in a kitchen, she was able to quickly pick up their ways and deal without much trouble with equipment that seemed outdated to a 1940’s girl.

  When she settled down to her own bacon and eggs at the far end of the table, she was glad to be rather unnoticed. Family members were focused on the two small children, chuckling over the latest thing Ben had said. The boy was quite a character, Violet decided, and allowed to get away with too much.

  While they were laughing at the way he was dribbling scrambled eggs under the table for the cat, she would have smacked his bottom for wasting food.

  Sylvie, seated to her left while Dottie was at her right, caught the look on her face. “He is a brat,” she said. “But we love him.”

  A pretty girl who looked more like her mother than her golden-haired sister, her slim face only became more attractive when she scowled. “I was the baby until Ben came along.”

  Newly fifteen and annoyed because a two-year-old was taking attention on her birthday Violet thought. She had to struggle to keep from laughing. Where had she been at fifteen? Same place where she’d been at twelve, ten and even seven, working at the lowest rung in the kitchen, scrubbing and peeling and taking out the rubbish. She’d belonged to nobody and few enough there had been of those who even gave her a thought.

  She straightened her shoulders. She’d learned a long time ago not to waste time feeling sorry for herself. God looked after those who looked after themselves, if there was a God. She wasn’t all that sure about that or anything else.

  To her embarrassment the brash little boy now focused his attention all the way down the table to where she sat trying to remain unnoticed.

  “You not pretty like Sylvie,” he lisped in a baby voice. “But me likes you.” He put a spoonful of undiluted jam into his adorable mouth, then added. “Good eyes.”

  The silence at the table was profound. His mother’s face flushed, “I think Violet is very pretty,” she lied quickly while the boy’s father got up to take him into his arms to carry him from the room. Violet doubted he was going to get the punishment he deserved, more likely Caleb would just talk to him seriously about being kind to those less fortunate than themselves.

  Being made to face unpleasant facts always hurt, but Violet had heard worse over the years. Kindness wasn’t something she expected and she’d found the few children she’s met had been painfully honest just like little Ben.

  Suddenly they were talking about everything but Ben and his comment. Violet looked over at Sylvie who, to her surprise, winked. “Told you he was a brat,” she said and handed Violet another biscuit.

  Oddly enough this made Violet feel better. “I am aware that I am not attractive,” she said in a firm aside to the other girl, trying to make her tone as upper-crust as Lady Laura’s would have been. That kind of voice tended to put people firmly in their places.

  Not Sylvie though. “Well, you’re not at your best right now in my old dress and having just been through the shock of your life, but I don’t think pretty is the word for you.. Striking is more like it.”

  “Thank you,” Violet said with sarcastic dignity, wishing Warne was here. He, at least, seemed to like her and in a strange way they were old friends. But, of course, he was not an actual member of the Stephens family and not likely to be found at the breakfast table.

  Margaret, seated on Dottie’s other side, simpered as though she’d found the little boy’s remarks amusing. Violet supposed she should be glad that Margaret could do something besides constantly dissolving into tears. She wore a dignified black dress that they’d dug up for her when she said she must be dressed in mourning for her lady.

  Even though she sat at the table with the family, Violet felt as lost and alone as she’d always felt in the big house in London where she’d grown up.

  Lady Laura would not have approved of the weather nature arranged for her funeral. Wind blew hot and dry against them as they walked to the small cemetery on the edge of town, a matter of only a few blocks, and Violet could feel herself sweating under the heavy black dress that had been presented to her for the event.

  It was the first new dress she’d ever worn, though bought off the rack and fitting her a little loosely, and she appreciated the thoughtfulness of Betsy in getting it for her, but she’d known from one look in the mirror that she did not become the garment. Its unrelieved black made her look sallow and her dark-brown hair was dingy against the bold darkness of the dress. Ben was right. She was not pretty and never would be, though she drew comfort from his slight compliment. He’d said she had good eyes. She wasn’t sure what he’d meant, but she’d take the words as they stood.

  Margaret had started crying again, though this time it was more of a silent weeping with tears running down her plump cheeks. With a sigh, Violet took her arm, escorting her down the street toward the flower decked graveyard just ahead. The perfume of flowers she didn’t recognize was heavy in the air as petals were crushed and tangled in the fierce wind.

  The blossoms had not been brought in especially to honor Lady Laura but were alive and growing, planted here to honor all the beloved dead.

  Though Lady Laura hadn’t been beloved by anybody as far as Violet knew. Certainly not by her family. They’d viewed her as a termagant to be tolerated because she had a lot of money and property at her disposal. Margaret, a long time servant, seemed to be the only one who genuinely cared whether she lived or died and Violet wasn’t sure that was much more than habit.

  The family was all there, but others came as well. She couldn’t imagine why unless out of curiosity to see the newcomers to town. An isolated little place like this probably didn’t get too many visitors.

  Violet hadn’t attended many funerals, but when a member of the household in London passed, she and the other servants attended the services ‘out of respect.
’ This event bore little relationship to those occasions other than that there was a body in a coffin and those who were supposedly mourners.

  A dignified old man who, of course, had never seen Lady Laura alive delivered a brief eulogy, details having apparently been supplied by Margaret as nobody else, including herself, would know that she had been born 1852 the city of London and or that she was the younger child and only direct survivor of an aristocratic family. Actually she had heard rumors of that last part as servants whispered that uppity Lady Laura was actually daughter to a woman whose family earned its wealth in trade, only marrying into the tittle in the generation before her birth.

  She had never married and left no children.

  Sadly Violet supposed the same would be said at her own death. She was obviously destined to spend her life alone.

  Maybe that was the link between them, her and Lady Laura and that was why as she was dying she’d ordered Violet back to her home country to resolve some dilemma that the elderly woman had seen as a threat.

  For the first time curiosity stirred in her and she imagined what could have worried the indomitable Lady Laura. She hadn’t thought anything on heaven or earth would have caused her anxiety.

  Warne, who had been hovering in the background throughout the graveside rites, fell in to step with her as she walked, struggling to keep her limp at a minimum. She was sure it was much less noticeable when she wasn’t tired and upset.

  “I’m so sorry,” Warne said softly, keeping their conversation private from the others walking back to Crockett Street. “Losing your friend like that.”

  “Not my friend,” she answered sharply, tired of false pretenses. “Hardly even acquainted more than catching a glimpse of her now and then ‘til the bombing broke out and sent the rest of the family running for the country. She chose me to look after her and the other two women, none of ‘em young enough to see to thing so that left everything to me.”

  He didn’t seem to know what to say. “Your leg,” he said. “You must have sprained your ankle landing here. Have you asked Cynthia to take a look at it.”

  “Nothing a doctor can fix,” she answered shortly. “Born this way.”

  “I never knew,” he said apologetically.

  “In my dreams I never limp and my leg never hurts. Real world’s another thing.”

  He brightened at the mention of their dream relationship. “You were just a little thing when I first started seeing you. In fact I’m not certain we weren’t both babies. People thought I had an imaginary friend when I was old enough to start talking about you.”

  “Never told a soul myself. Didn’t actually have anybody to talk to. Guess in a way, you was my only friend. Were my only friend,” she added hastily. Along with teaching her the basics of reading, writing and doing numbers, Warne had frequently and with the utmost kindness corrected her grammar. In a way, she supposed, he hadn’t just been her only friend. He’d been the closest thing to family.

  She felt particularly small walking at his side. He was big and tall with broad shoulders and nice features. A few times she’d gone to the cinema with other maids back before the war and she thought now that he was handsome as any of the men she’d seen on the screen. In fact she couldn’t think of one that quite came up to his standard.

  Suddenly, for the first time since she’d known him, she felt shy. He hadn’t much choice about those dreams, no more than she did. But now she was really here in his hometown and he must feel like a burden had been dumped on him.

  Well, she didn’t intend to be a burden on anybody. “Need to find work ,” she said abruptly, “so I can earn my way back home.” Of course she was half hoping that he would protest that she couldn’t leave, that he didn’t want her to leave.

  No such thing happened. “It isn’t quite that easy, Violet,” he said earnestly, then turned to wave Betsy up to his side, slowing down so that the rest of them went on ahead into the house. “I thought you could explain better than me,” he told Betsy, who watched her children protesting as their father took them inside, leaving her to talk with Warne and Violet.

  The two had a secretive air about them that added to her anxiety as they led her around the house to the shady grape arbor out back. Warne motioned Violet to sit on the swing and after Betsy took one of the wooden chairs, he took a seat beside her.

  Both of them looked at her with concern so that she wondered what there was to be so worried about. She decided to start off so that they’d know she didn’t expect them to look after her.

  “I need work,” she said. “How do I go about finding it here in Lavender?”

  She could tell this wasn’t what they’d thought she’d say. “The only thing I can do is housework, but I’m good at that. Surely somebody needs my help and I can earn my keep and put by enough to pay my way home.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Warne tried to brush her concerns aside. “I’ll see to you here in Lavender. Why don’t you just stay? After all, what do you have to go back to in Lavender with the family away in the country and London being bombed? You’re not a soldier deserting his post.”

  She lifted long lashes to regard him thoughtfully. He didn’t even know that she had less than he thought, that she’d had no friendships with either family or servants from that house where she’d lived her life. She’d been Cinderella working in the bowels of the dwelling, friendless and alone. And still she had that odd feeling that she had deserted, left her country in its hour of greatest need.

  “I need to get back,” was all she could say.

  “It isn’t that easy.” Betsy said this time what Warne had said.

  “I have to earn money for my travel and there’s a war on, but by the time I can put aside earnings for my fare . ..”

  “No,” Betsy interrupted in her eagerness to explain. “That’s not it. You’re in Lavender and Lavender isn’t connected. Here it isn’t 1940 with war blazing across Europe. Here it is 1910 and if you go a few miles outside of town, you find yourself circling back. We’re cut off in time, back in what is your past. I don’t know how you got here, you and the other two, and I don’t know if you can leave. Nobody leaves Lavender.”

  “Except Betsy,” Warne added with hasty honesty. “It’s something about her, something we don’t understand, but she can walk in time and go across that line Dr. Tyler set and find herself elsewhere.” He glanced at Betsy before going on. “And sometimes she can take someone with her.”

  Chapter Seven

  Naturally Violet didn’t believe them. Who would other than the people of Lavender who had lived in the island of time created by Dr. Tyler Stephens all those years ago? To them this was ordinary and the more they heard of the larger world, the more most of them chose to remain right where they were.

  Oh, there had been a few, mostly young people pushing to find themselves, who had wanted to leave and when there seemed a strong enough conviction Betsy had walked them across the line to where her step-sister Eddie and her husband Zan, who had also made such a choice, helped them to the farm in Oklahoma where relatives could assist them either in adjusting or deciding to return.

  Warne knew Violet could be sent out, but he didn’t want her to go. Not, at least, until she had seen what life in Lavender could be like. He hoped she would choose to stay.

  Betsy didn’t see it that way. Especially not after she learned that Violet was not the teenaged girl she looked to be, but nearly as old as Warne himself. At twenty three, Betsy said, Violet had a right to do as she wished.

  And Violet said she wanted to go home.

  Since she didn’t believe them, Betsy felt they had to show her the reality. Then, if she still insisted on leaving she’d have to understand that they had no certainty of returning her to London in 1940. Much more likely she would find herself in 21st century Texas.

  Though that wasn’t exactly certain either.

  Warne didn’t see how he could let her return to that terrible time alone as she was with no kin to aid her, but
he wasn’t sure what he could do about it.

  Lost in thought, he went home to methodically eat the good dinner his mother made, absent-mindedly answering questions she and his sisters asked about the newcomers to Lavender. He’d rarely talked to any of his family about Violet because they always looked at him so strangely when he did so.

  The only surviving male in the family, he had grown up feeling responsible for his widowed mother and two older sisters, but they’d always acted as though he was slightly addled and in need of their protection. Now that the girls were married and Mama obviously able to look after herself, it was even worse.

  “Saw the girl at the funeral,” Millicent, the older sister, said now. “Puny looking little thing. Looked like she could use feeding up.”

  He bristled at this implied criticism of Violet, but didn’t say anything.

  “Rather pretty in a delicate way,” his mother added.

  “If she were dressed decently,” Carrie, who was just older than him, contributed. “Black is not her color.”

  As if she wore the color of mourning as adornment. Warne, who never engaged in tantrums even when he was a little boy, leapt to his feet so abruptly that his still full plate danced on the table. “Leave her alone,” he said. “Just leave her alone.”

  He stomped toward the door, but before he slammed it behind him, he heard Millicent say, “Whatever’s gotten into brother?”

  Papa said he could spare the horse and buggy this afternoon so Betsy, knowing Violet didn’t believe a word that had been said about Lavender being locked away in its own time, made plans to take her and Warne out to see for themselves.

  She rarely gave such demonstrations, but Violet was a special case, having been launched into the community without any choice of her own. She and her mom had come here, newcomers to the community back when she was a young girl, but they had chosen to do so. Still she was worried for Warne who was almost like a brother to her. She suspected his heart would be broken if he lost Violet.