Hearts Under Fire

by Kathryn Kelly

  The bed was neatly made up. Jonathan was not in the room and there was no sign that he ever had been. She felt like she'd fallen down a rabbit hole.

  Loosening her grip on the door knob, she walked to the bed and sat down. What had the man done with Jonathan? Could he really be a butler? She didn't know what to think anymore. Her life had somehow crashed and lay crumbled at her feet, ripping reality to shreds in the process.

  She looked out the bedroom window at the setting sun. There was the garden, then a row of frame shacks. The cotton fields spread as far as she could see. She definitely wasn't where she'd started when she arrived not much more than an hour ago.

  She couldn't stay here in this room forever. She had to confront Villars - and whatever was happening to her.

  Steeling herself, she went to the door and unlocked it. Villars stood where she had left him.

  "Who lives here?" she asked, keeping one foot safely inside the bedroom.

  Understanding dawned on Villars' face. "I'm sorry, Miss Sierra. I forgot you hadn't been here since you were a child. There's Master Richard, and Mistress Rebecca, and Miss Andrea, and Mister Charles. You've never met Miss Andrea, but you remember Mister Charles, don't you?"

  Glancing down at her sweater and jeans, she ran her hand along the fabric, convincing herself that they, at least, were real. Trying to appear casual, she stepped out into the hallway.

  "What year is this?" she asked hesitantly.

  "I believe it's 1837. But it could be 1836. I don't rightly know."

  Erika had the fleeting thought that she had died. She glanced toward the bottom of the stairs, and released her breath in a jagged rush when she didn't see her body crumpled on the pale cream rug.

  What difference did it make whether it was 1836 or 1837? In fact, he may as well have said 1436 or 1437. The only thought focused clearly in her mind was that Jonathan was sick and he needed her.

  "Would you like to go to the guest room, now, Miss Sierra?"

  "Yes, I suppose so." This would take some time to sort out.

  Erika followed Villars to the closed door of her room.

  "If you need anything, Miss, just pull the bell cord."

  She reached for the doorknob. It seemed to take forever. Her head spun as she felt the knob's coolness in her hand. She grasped it in an effort to steady herself.

  Upon opening the door, relief swept over her. Her luggage stood neatly next to the wardrobe. She turned quickly back to Villars, but instead faced an empty and silent hallway.

  She ran down the dimly lit hall and threw open Jonathan's bedroom door.

  Groggily, Jonathan opened his eyes. "What's wrong?"

  There was a lump in her throat and her eyes stung with tears. Sniffing, Erika shut the door behind her and wiped at her eyes. She didn't know what stroke of fate had brought her back, but she silently blessed it.

  "Nothing's wrong. Are you asleep?"

  "Not anymore." Sitting up, he switched on the lamp on his nightstand.

  "I'm sorry. I just..." She faltered. What was she supposed to say? I've been traveling through time? I've been back to the year 1837? "I just wanted to check on you."

  "I'm fine," he said, reaching over to scratch Smokey’s ears. "Are you sure you're okay? You're awfully pale." He picked up a jar of vapor ointment from the nightstand and dabbed some under his nose.

  Erika sat on the edge of the bed and fought back the tears. Her heart twisted in misery at the sight of his bald head and wrinkled skin. Why did people have to grow old?

  When he hadn't been here a few minutes ago, she realized even more how empty her life was going to be without him. That emptiness was inevitable, and the knowledge left her with a heavy heart.

  He always knew when she was troubled. She’d always been able to talk to him. Yet she couldn't bring herself to tell him now. The whole idea that she talked to a butler and saw cotton fields covering their land was preposterous.

  She, Vaughn, and Jonathan had often walked around the grounds and halls of this big, old house and talked about the history of the once grand plantation and their ancestors. Jonathan told her the stories he was once told by his grandfather. Hadn't he mentioned a tall, kindly butler that served their family for an extraordinarily long period? Perhaps that had been Villars.

  She shook her head. I’m a professional with a firm grasp on reality. I’m tired, that's all.

  "I'll go now so you can get some rest." She stood up and quickly hugged him, biting her lip to fight back the sobs. "What would you like for supper? I'll fix you something good," she said. Not waiting for an answer, she pulled away and started for the door.

  "I'll see you in a little while," she said with forced cheerfulness over her shoulder.

  "Erika? Wait."

  "Yes?" She paused and, with considerable effort, lifted her chin and smiled.

  "I want to give you something while I'm thinking about it."

  She wiped at her eyes and took a deep breath before walking back toward him.

  He opened the drawer to the nightstand and took out a small square box. "After my wife, you mean more to me than anyone ever has in my whole life."

  "You mean a lot to me, too." She returned to his side and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the sense of dread concerning what he was about to tell her.

  "What I'm saying is, I don't want anyone else to end up with this. I want to make sure it goes to you." He placed the box in her hand, his bony fingers brushing her smaller ones.

  "Why are you talking like this?" She cautiously lifted the lid on the box and recognized the cream cameo brooch that lay on black silk lining. Jonathan was frightening her. He was giving away his most precious memento of his wife - the wedding gift he had specially had crafted for her. The cameo was a likeness of Vaughn.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and met his gaze. She felt the tears spilling from her eyes, but couldn’t stop them.

  "I can't take this from you," she said softly. "It was Grandma's. You should keep it."

  "Nonsense. I've kept up with it for six months. It looks so much like you. I want you to have it now. Please. Make an old man happy."

  "All right." Forcing a smile, she brushed at the tears and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll take good care of it."

  "That's better," he said, patting her hand. "Keep it with you at all times. It'll bring you good luck and keep you safe. If Vaughn had had it with her that day we went fishing on the river, she wouldn't have... maybe she would still be here."

  He yanked a tissue from the nightstand and hastily dabbed at his eyes, then loudly blew his nose.

  It must have been hard for Jonathan to stand by and helplessly watch his wife's life end. Erika had tried hard to stay too busy to think much about the accident. Now was not the time to dwell on it either. She had to be strong for her grandfather.

  "Okay." She placed the cameo back in its box. "Thank you. It's a gift I'll always cherish."

  "You'll let me know if anything is wrong."

  She tilted her head to one side. "Of course." If it's possible.

  "You get some rest now."

  "Jonathan..."

  His deep gray eyes met hers. "Yes. What is it?"

  "I love you!" She blurted and buried her face against his shoulder.

  He patted her back. “I love you, too, Kitten. I’ll be alright.”

  Leaving him, she hurried down the hall to her own bedroom. She couldn't bear to see her grandfather like this. She would find a way to be here Monday when the doctor came.

  Hanging her clothes in the tall cedar wardrobe, she decided to take a quick nap before fixing supper. She searched unsuccessfully through her things for a nightgown. Giving up, she chose an old red plaid flannel shirt. It came to about mid-thigh in the front and back, but had side slits that gaped open a little higher. After rolling the long sleeves up to her elbows, she removed her barrette and used her fingers to fluff her hair. Wistfully pinning the brooch to the nightshirt, she climbed into bed and closed her eyes.
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  Within minutes she had drifted off to sleep.

  Noises from outside the room woke her. She strained, but couldn't make out what was going on over the music.

  Music? She got up, walked through the darkened room, and stepped into the hall. Her shadow wavered beneath flickering candlelight as she made her way toward the banister leading to the stairs... and the increasingly louder music and voices.

  And a faint ticking noise.

  She stopped just below the landing and could see into the smoke-filled library off to the left. Finely dressed men stood there, talking amongst themselves.

  The clock began to chime. She grasped the banister and breathed in sharply. It had happened again. This was no dream. No figment of her imagination. She was certain of it now. Shivering, she watched the pendulum swing back and forth as the clock chimed nine times, echoing throughout the house.

  Erika slowly moved down along the banister until she could see into the parlor.

  Playing a lively tune, a six-piece orchestra sat at one end of the room. Dozens of couples either waltzed about the crowded floor or watched from the chairs and sofas that had been slid up against the walls. Dressed in the finest fabrics she had ever imagined, they seemed to float on a delicate cloud of satin and lace.

  Erika was so engrossed in watching the dancers, she didn't notice Villars coming up the stairs. He was now almost beside her.

  "Miss Sierra," he said, backing away from her and studying her suspiciously. He cleared his throat and continued. "I'm sorry you're missing the dance, but Mister Charles say to let you rest. And that's good because I didn't know where you got off to anyway."

  "What's going on?" she asked, leaning over the banister, one bare foot dropping over the edge of the step. Why was his expression so odd?

  "Why, it's the cotton ball," he said proudly.

  Of course, the annual ball. A Becquerel tradition that lasted all the way to World War II.

  "I think you better go on back up, Miss. It wouldn't be proper for you to be seen dressed like this."

  Villars had no more finished speaking when, as though in response to his words, the music drifted away in mid-strain and the whispering became louder. The violin bows grew still and the soft flute became silent. The dance room seemed to have frozen and there were entirely too many eyes turned in her direction.

  Erika scanned the room of faces - faces she had never seen before. Several pale skinned women stared at her from behind their open fans and others from behind crystal goblets poised at their lips. A couple of men blew cigar smoke into the air as they watched her.

  "Who is she?"

  Their whispered words, spoken by voices unchecked, drifted clearly to Erika's ears.

  "Hardly dressed at all."

  "A man's shirt."

  "Of all the nerve."

  "You'd expect this kind of thing under the hill, but how did that trollop get in here?"

  What were they talking about? Her eyes paused on a man in the back of the room whose face stood out from the others. His eyes locked with hers across the crowded room. She inhaled sharply.

  It was him! It was the man she had seen riding up on the black horse - the man in the portrait hanging in the parlor.

  Once again he was staring at her with that intensity that made her hands quiver. The passion in his gaze frightened her. His eyes slowly caressed her body down to her bare feet and slid back up to imprison her eyes.

  He weaved his way across the ballroom, then started up the stairs.

  He spoke. But she couldn't make out his words.

  Chapter 2

  Twist of Fate

  The room had suddenly grown warm - much too warm. Releasing her hold on the stair railing, Erika tugged on the sides of the flannel shirt, but realized with frustration that she only succeeded in lowering the unbuttoned neckline.

  She was trapped. She shouldn't be here. All these people staring at her as though she had grown stripes made that clear enough. Villars, the only friendly face she'd encountered had gone about his original errand and left her here. Alone. She was on her own in this unfamiliar world.

  She thought of Jonathan. Where was he? What had happened to his world?

  She had to remember the stories he and Vaughn had told and the people they spoke of. That was the key to survival. Frustration built as her memory went blank, but her mind raced with frantic thoughts.

  What now? She could flee this house, but there was nowhere to go. She couldn't even begin to imagine what unfamiliar terrain lay beyond the grounds of this house.

  If she left these people, she would doubtlessly be far worse off than she was now. Most importantly, she had no money, no means of survival. Whatever their reaction and subsequent treatment of her, she would have to survive until she could get home.

  She would have to make sure no one realized she was an imposter. Here, at least, she would have food and shelter until she could figure out what to do. And figure out the gateway back to her own time.

  If the gods were with her, she would soon be swept back to her own time. Yet, something was different this time. Things were... less hazy. The thought sent a shot of fear through her cells. She took a deep, cleansing breath. I can’t worry about that now.

  She had to stay in the house. There was no other choice.

  The man stood in front of her now, watching her with a slightly bemused expression. By standing in front of her, he shielded her from the gaping strangers.

  "Put this on and come with me, Sierra," he repeated, placing his dress coat over her shoulders and gently placing his hand on her elbow, led her back up the stairs and down the hall. The coat, nearly dragging the floor, enveloped her, its weight comforting her. She rubbed her chin against the slightly coarse material and breathed in the clean, manly scent.

  She didn't resist and soon found herself upstairs and alone with him.

  "You're creating quite a stir down there. Villars told me your trunks haven't arrived. Why don't you wait in your room until I've spoken with Mother. She'll find something appropriate for you to put on."

  Erika looked into his eyes and her breath caught in her throat. They were a clear slate blue. He was even more handsome up close. His face freshly shaven. His lips curved in a kind expression. But it was his eyes that tripped her heart. The way he looked at her, as though he found her amusing and at the same time wanted to devour her.

  Her disturbing thoughts were interrupted when a woman with silver-streaked, but still blonde hair, curled and stylishly piled high upon her head, came into the hallway. Erika recognized the woman from the portraits in the parlor. She regretted not bothering to learn the names of her ancestors.

  "Charles," the woman asked, "what's going on?"

  "Here's your Aunt Rebecca now," he said, releasing his hold upon her elbow. "It seems Sierra arrived before her trunks. Do you think you could find her something to wear?"

  “Of course,” she said, kindly, shooing her son away.

  Erika watched as he walked down the hallway, doubtless to rejoin the other guests. The music was playing again. Hopefully they had forgotten about her.

  "Mon ami," Rebecca said, "J'sais vous?"

  "What?" Erika's history was bad enough, but her French was worse.

  "Pardon," she said with a slight accent, "I'm sorry. But you do resemble the Creole. My dear, do I know you?"

  "Um," Erika hesitated, her cheeks flushed, and allowed Rebecca to lead her along the upstairs hall toward her room. Her thoughts tangled with the implications of any answer at all.

  "Well, we both know you aren't Sierra. What's your name?"

  "Erika."

  "Erika," she echoed, seeming to test the unfamiliar name on her tongue. "Where are you from?"

  They reached the guest room and went inside. Erika tensed as she watched the older woman, elegant and sophisticated in her mushroom brown ball gown, close the door and come to stand in front of her. She liked her immediately, yet was afraid of her. Somehow she sensed that if she met this woman's
approval, she would have no problem staying here. On the other hand, if Rebecca decided she wasn't welcome, she could give up any thought of remaining in the house.

  Unfortunately, she was balanced on a precarious ledge. Rebecca, as well as all those stuffy guests downstairs, no doubt thought she was here as Charles' prostitute. Her curiosity about this man was increasing.

  "Have you been here long?" Rebecca persisted.

  "No," Erika answered, choosing her words carefully. "I only arrived this afternoon."

  "My son brought you here."

  "No," she answered swiftly, "I'm really not sure how I ended up here."

  Relief crossed the woman’s features. She sat down on the blue velvet settee at the foot of the bed, her skirts flowing around her.

  "Did you come with someone else?"

  Taking a swift glance around the room, Erika swallowed hard. An image of her grandfather flashed in her mind. The only light came from a short, thick candle burning brightly on the nightstand. She hadn't noticed it earlier. Villars must have lit it while she was downstairs.

  "No, but my grandfather told me to wait for him here." She didn't know how much more of this interrogation she could survive. Her stomach churned in knots of nervous panic. The primitive world outside this house terrified her. At least here, she had a chance to get back to her own time.

  "Now, are you going to tell me who your grandfather is?"

  "Jonathan Becquerel"

  Rebecca frowned. "I'm sorry, Dear. I don't know all my husband's family," she said, now speaking in a gentle voice. "Enough of this, let's get you properly dressed so I can introduce you to our guests. I have just the thing for you."

  In a whirlwind of silk, Rebecca was gone from the room. Alone again, Erika went to the wardrobe and opened it. It was empty. She had no clothes. She had nothing but this inane flannel shirt. And Charles' jacket, she was reminded, as its masculine scent enveloped her.

  She was getting more than a glimpse into the past. She was being swept into these people's lives.

  Closing the wardrobe, she went back to stand next to the four poster bed and ran a hand along the wood. Her bed. She recognized the unique swirls in the wood. The wood was lighter now, much younger. She was still staring at the patterns of wood, her mind in turmoil, when a knock came at the door.