Emily's Song

by Christine Marciniak

  “Really, I’ll be quite all right. Please. You have done so much for me already, when I am a stranger who really did impose on your hospitality.”

  Next to him Dinah muttered under her breath. “It’s true.”

  “But if we don’t bring you to your door, how will I ever find you again?” George asked, making pathetic puppy dog eyes at her.

  “A girl likes to keep some mysteries, you know,” she answered with a touch of flirtatiousness.

  Some? Everything about her was a mystery. But intriguing. Oh so intriguing.

  The wagon bumped along out of their property and down the road toward town. The air had that fresh scent of moisture and pine in it that made one want to take deep breaths and perhaps race a horse through the fields. Yes. It would be a lovely day for a long hard ride, but when he got home from town there were myriad plantation details he needed to take care of. Without his father here to see to things, he seldom got time for himself anymore. He supposed once he had signed up and shipped out with the army he’d have even less time to himself.

  All the more reason to enjoy this leisurely ride into town, if for nothing else, because he didn’t know when he’d get a chance to do it again.

  They passed the Jenkins’ cottage, the homestead that Sam always thought of as the first building in town. Soon they were rolling down the main street, with the grist mill and its giant water wheel opening the way for the feed store and the bank, the school, the church, the dry goods store, and the bakery. There were side streets off the main street leading to dozens of houses.

  “Which street?” Tobias asked from the front.

  Sam looked at Miss Parks, but she stared out at the town wide eyed as if she’d never seen the likes of it before.

  “Oh, anywhere is fine,” she insisted.

  Sam sighed in frustration and tapped the fingers of his right hand on his leg. He needed to make sure she was safely home. She had shown up in his bed, somehow making herself his responsibility. But how was he supposed to do that if she didn’t tell him where she lived?

  Dinah tugged at his hand, and he looked down at her. She gave him what he supposed was a look designed to relay information, but although he’d seen his parents communicate with a look, he and Dinah did not have that kind of a kinship yet. He shrugged, to let her know he did not know what she was trying to convey and she sighed.

  “I need to stop at the milliners. Can we go there?”

  “Of course.” Such a trivial thing. Couldn’t that have waited? “Tobias stop by the milliners, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tobias pulled the carriage to the side of the road in front of the hat maker’s shop. Sam jumped down and reached up to take Dinah’s hand to help her down. She stepped daintily to the wooden walkway in front of the shop.

  “Miss Parks obviously does not wish for us to know where she lives,” Dinah said in a half-whisper, her gloved hand resting on his arm. “Allow her that. I don’t know why she was at the ball, but you are not responsible for her past this point. She said she lived in town, and you brought her here. Your job is done.”

  He turned to see George helping Miss Parks out of the carriage. He hated to admit it, but Dinah was right.

  “I thank you so much for your hospitality.” Miss Parks held out a hand as if to shake his. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  George took hold of her hand before Sam could even react. He kissed it in a gallant gesture “The pleasure was all mine.”

  Sam glared at his friend. It had been his hospitality, not George’s.

  “I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again, Miss Parks.” Sam took her hand and kissed it, as gallantly, if not more so, than George.

  “I’m sure you don’t mean that.” Her eyes sparkled, and her voice held a hint of a laugh. “Not after I fell in your fishpond twice.”

  Next to him, Sam could feel Dinah stiffen. He hadn’t told her that part.

  Dinah took Miss Parks’ hand in her own. “It’s been lovely. Be sure to keep in touch.” Her words were kind, but her voice didn’t hold much warmth. She let go of Miss Parks’ hand and turned to Sam. “Darling, please help me find the right hat.”

  “I think you can handle that on your own.” Is this what having an announced engagement meant? Having to worry about hats? He did not care for this turn of events. “You know I’m hopeless when it comes to fashion.”

  “Oh, do go with her.” Miss Parks was obviously as keen to be rid of him as Dinah was to be rid of her. “Make your fiancée happy.”

  He went, leaving Miss Parks to George’s tender mercies.

  Once in the frilly confines of Miss Maple’s Milliners, he turned to Dinah. “What was that about? You hardly need me to help you pick out a hat.”

  She smiled up at him in her beguiling way. “Darling, that woman was bewitching you. I needed to get you away from her before you completely succumbed to her charms.”

  He studied her crystal blue eyes. Was she jealous? Of a strange girl? Who had appeared naked in his bed? If she knew that part she’d certainly feel justified in any jealousy.

  “You have nothing to fear.” He glanced around the shop filled with feathers and ribbons and shuddered. “But please don’t make me help you pick out a hat.”

  Dinah laughed, and the joy in it warmed his heart.

  “No, of course not.” Her finger grazed his cheek with a feather-light touch. “You are hopeless at fashion.”

  So he was left cooling his heels while Dinah discussed the benefit of lace over feathers and whether both would work on a hat, and he wished he were anywhere but here. He could leave. He was not being held by force. But yet, perhaps Dinah was right, and he was being bewitched by Miss Parks. He certainly felt drawn to know more about her. But he had an obligation to Dinah. He had promised to marry her, and that meant forsaking all others. The very fact that he wanted to leave the shop and see where Miss Parks was headed was enough reason to stay within.

  Finally, Dinah was satisfied with the hat she ordered and she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they left the shop. George leaned against the carriage, cleaning his nails with his knife. Sam wanted to ask where Miss Parks had gone, to go there himself and make sure she was safe, but he refrained.

  Dinah seemed inclined to make the afternoon into a prolonged leisure outing, but Sam kept picturing the ledgers on his desk that needed to be updated and instructed Tobias to take them home.

  “I really should get more familiar with the house staff and the running of the home,” Dinah said as they alighted from the carriage in front of the house. “After all, it will be my responsibility as soon as we are married. And now without Elizabeth here to supervise, you really do need someone in that position.”

  Sam had agreed to marry her. Why did he have such a hard time picturing her running his house? More specifically, why did he find it repugnant to think of her managing this house? It was his mother’s house and would stay so as long as his mother wished it. But this was his future wife, he had to be diplomatic.

  “I have too much work to do. You would undoubtedly be a distraction.” He watched the tiny pout on her face grow and he hastened to add, “A most welcome distraction, to be sure, but a distraction none the less.”

  He called for her coach and saw her safely off to home.

  “Throwing away perfectly good women.” George gave a disapproving shake of his head.

  “You know I’m not throwing her away, simply allowing myself room to work.”

  “I suppose I must go as well.” George shifted his riding gloves from one hand to the other.

  He probably should. George was apt to be a bigger distraction than Dinah. Instead he clapped one hand on his shoulder. “Come inside for a whiskey before you go.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said without hesitation.

  Sam let himself relax once he reached the inner sanctum of the study. This room allowed him to feel like he had some control over his world. He splashed some whiskey in a glass for George and some f
or himself. Then he settled himself into the leather cushioned desk chair.

  “So, did Miss Parks get off safely?” He tried to keep his voice nonchalant. He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter to him, but yet it did.

  “Far as I can tell.” George shrugged. “She more or less slipped away when I wasn’t looking. She’s quite the mysterious lady, isn’t she?”

  Sam’s face flushed as he remembered finding her in his bed. “Quite.”

  “Think we’ll see her again?”

  Was it wrong to want to? Sam shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  An urgent knock at the door was followed immediately by the door opening a crack. Tobias stood there, looking panicked. “Mister Sam. You got to come. He’s going to beat Beck. You got to stop him!”

  Sam jumped up. “Who? Why? What’s going on?”

  “It’s Wilkins. He done say she stole a fork. He’s going to punish her. Please don’t let him.”

  Sam’s shoulder slumped.

  “If she stole, she has to be punished.” He hated himself for giving in to the inevitable.

  “But she didn’t steal it. She’s not been whipped before. It’s likely to kill her. Please, sir, you can make him stop.”

  He could stop Wilkins, but was it wise? Did he want to undermine the man’s authority to get on with his job. Slaves got whipped. It was unfortunate, but it happened. If he stopped him from whipping one, would they expect him to step in and stop him from whipping the next? It would lead to anarchy.

  “Please, sir.” There was such anguish in his voice that Sam suddenly understood what he’d never notice before. Tobias was in love with Beck.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He headed to the door, leaving the comforting sanctuary of his office with more than a touch of regret.

  Chapter Nine

  Emily

  The quiet of the countryside was no match for the noise in Emily’s head as she trudged down the dirt path that passed for a road. No cars rushed by, their tires whirring along on the pavement, the bass line of some teenager’s favorite music making the very air vibrate. There were no airplanes or helicopters. There were no electronic buzzes or beeps to signal the world at large was trying to communicate.

  The world at large.

  How long before they reported her missing? How long before someone noticed? Dayna and Johnson probably left for their honeymoon before they realized she wasn’t there. No one else in the wedding party would have any particular reason to look for her. If they didn’t see her, they’d figure she’d left already. The inn would know she hadn’t checked out, but they would charge for an extra day and think nothing of it. At least not at first. She usually called her parents on the weekend, but with Dayna’s wedding, they wouldn’t be surprised not to hear from her.

  It wouldn’t be until Monday morning, when she didn’t show up for work, that anyone would really start to question where she was. And even then, no one would be too concerned. People miss work without search parties being made up.

  On one hand it was good no one was panicking about her being missing yet. On the other hand, how sad was her life that there was no one to panic.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about the people she’d left behind. Not yet. And if she could get back home before tomorrow morning, no one would ever be any the wiser. She’d just have to pay for an extra night at the inn. It would take a chunk out of her monthly budget, but if that was the worst that happened, it wasn’t too bad.

  The wind rustled through the pale green baby leaves of the trees. Birds called back and forth to one another, announcing dinner plans or giving warning. It was like the original Twitter. She smiled at her own joke and tried to take a deep breath, but the corset she was wrapped into made that difficult. No wonder women didn’t compete in the Olympics back then—now—it was hard to even get tenses right in her head today—they’d never be able to move properly in this getup. Were there even modern Olympics yet? Instinctively she reached for her phone to check.

  No phone. No nothing.

  How did people find out answers when a question occurred to them? It had to be very frustrating. It was very frustrating.

  Her foot caught in an uneven rut in the ground. Pain radiated up her leg, and she stumbled, catching on to a nearby tree. The last thing she needed was a twisted ankle. At least she was pretty sure it was no more serious than that. She leaned against the tree and tried to reach her foot. No luck. There was too much skirt between her hands and her feet. She stretched her ankle a bit until it started to feel better and continued on her way, limping slightly.

  A lot about this situation was fascinating. She had been thrust backward in time through a fishpond. She should try to learn all she could and maybe come up with new insights into history. After all, nothing was really as cut and dried as it appeared in books. She almost wouldn’t mind hanging around and dancing at a ball with George and Sam. Maybe if she figured out the way the time travel worked she could go back and forth, but first she had to know she could get home. She wasn’t going to be able to rest easy until she did. She took a deep shuddering breath. What if it didn’t work? She pulled the fork out of the pocket she’d sequestered it in. What if simply having the silver wasn’t enough to get her home?

  She trudged along, with each step taking a little less interest in the scenery and quiet. Her feet hurt. She was hot. She wanted to be home. She missed home. How had something as ridiculous as this happened to her? Where was the darn house? Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? There’d been a fork in the road awhile back, but this was definitely the road more traveled. Maybe that had been the wrong decision. Up ahead she saw a fence, and beyond that, the house.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness. Now she had to stay out of sight until nighttime and then try the pond again. Night time and silver and pond. What other variables could there be?

  The aroma of baking bread wafted through the air to her. She wished there was a way to get something to eat while she waited, but she didn’t want to be seen, and she certainly wasn’t going to sneak around and steal food. She wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

  She stopped and scanned the area. No one in sight. That was good. If she couldn’t see anyone, they couldn’t see her, wasn’t that how that worked? Even so, someone could be looking out a window. Better to keep to the shadows as much as possible. She saw no path through the woods, only rough underbrush. She couldn’t muck through that in this skirt. She’d probably even hesitate if she had on jeans and sneakers.

  Her best course of action was to stay close to the edge of the woods until she came to a path or other opening in the underbrush, and then she would be better concealed. As she progressed, she could see around the corner of the house, where a crowd had gathered. It looked like mainly blacks. Slaves.

  She shivered as that thought sank in. Slaves. People actually owned other people. Right here. Right now. This was a part of history she didn’t want to have to experience. Dayna was black. If she or Johnson had fallen through the fishpond (though such a thing would never happen to Dayna, she would not allow it) they could have ended up as slaves. The thought made her want to be ill.

  But, yet, she knew this was true. She knew slaves had existed and that people were slaves. Seeing it, didn’t actually make it any more true. Except it did. To her. She didn’t want to see it. She wanted to go home. She glanced up at the sky as if that could give her some clue as to the time of day. The sun was clearly nowhere near setting yet. It was going to be a very long afternoon.

  There was an undercurrent of agitation in the crowd. Some stood, shoulders hunched as if anticipating a blow that would be impossible to avoid. Others tensed as if ready to jump into a fray.

  “I didn’t take it!” A woman’s voice said, half in plea, half in anguish. “I didn’t steal no fork. I swear I didn’t take it!”

  The ground seemed to fall out from under Emily’s feet. She steadied herself against a tree. A fork. Someone was in trouble for stealing a fork. The one she h
ad taken. It had to be. How could she not have realized it would be missed and that someone would have to be held accountable?

  Then she heard a scream. A loud, pain filled shriek.

  Her own shoulders winced in sympathy. Someone was being whipped for taking the fork. And Emily was the one who had it. She couldn’t let someone else suffer for her actions. No longer caring if anyone saw her, in fact, wanting to be seen, she ran toward the crowd.

  “I took it!” she screamed. “I have the fork. Don’t hit her. Please don’t whip her!”

  But she heard another scream. She wanted to stop to catch her breath, but she couldn’t. She pushed through the crowd, until she could see Beck, her dress pulled off her shoulders, exposing her back. A man she didn’t recognize, whip in hand, was poised to strike again.

  “Stop!” Emily screeched. “Stop! I did it! Not her!” She rushed forward, despite hands reaching out trying to stop her. She threw herself at Beck, covering Beck’s back with herself as the whip came down.

  An animal-like cry escaped from her as the impact made its way to her brain.

  She’d never felt anything like that before. Her skin burned and ached and her muscles screamed in protest. Her vision went black and white and then started to fade away entirely.

  Around her people were shouting, but she didn’t process what they were saying. She braced for another blow which never came.

  Strong arms enfolded her, and she was cradled like a baby. She could smell cinnamon and tobacco and whiskey and rested her head on his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I took the fork. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Sam’s voice was soft and gentle in her ear.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “I didn’t want Beck to get in trouble.”

  “Hush. It’s all right.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder and believed him.

  Soon she was back in the green room, and Beck was there, helping her out of her dress so she could tend to her back. Already the pain from the lash was fading, between the corset and the slip and the dress, the whip hadn’t broken the skin. What hurt the most was the indignity of it all.