The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter

by Elyse Douglas

  When Eve saw Patrick sitting dejectedly on the bench, she stopped short, hands on her hips, breath coming fast, relieved, but fighting back anger.

  He sat hunched, hands folded in his lap, his face rigid and sad, the lantern standing beside him, unlit. What a picture they were, he in his 19th-century clothes, and the old lantern looking alien and forlorn. Both looked out of place and time.

  Eve gathered herself and marched forward, stopping directly in front of the bench and Patrick, her steely eyes fixed on him. It took a moment before he lifted his somber gaze to see her.

  She crossed her arms, shaking her head, her face pinched with accusation.

  “How dare you do this to me,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion.

  He looked at her with a tender sadness. “I couldn’t let you risk your life, Eve. I just couldn’t do it.”

  “That is my decision, not yours. Sometimes you still think like a man from 1885.”

  He sat up, his face filling with conviction. “I am a man from 1885, Eve. That’s who I am, and that is the time that made me and shaped me. I cannot change in a few short months, nor will I change being the man that I am. If I did, I would not be the man you loved and married.”

  Patrick stood, gazing hotly down at her. “I have had to adjust to this time, Eve, and it has not always been easy. It’s not a culture that is comfortable to me or, frankly, one that is especially appealing. But I have worked to fit into it—to bend myself to it. However, in many ways, I cannot bend, and I cannot change, and I will not completely change who I am. I did not want you to come with me because I love you, and I need to protect you from harm. That is what a man does when he is in love with a woman. At least, that’s what a man does in my time.”

  They glared at each other as the wind circled them and as a light mist began to fall. Passing eyes threw darting glances over shoulders at the strangely dressed couple who seemed to be having a domestic argument. Or were they acting out a scene, practicing for some play to be performed?

  Eve slowly uncrossed her arms, some of her anger melting away.

  “Well, okay then, Detective Sergeant Gantly, I guess you told me. Now I will tell you. I don’t care what time you’re in or what has made you who you are. I love you, and since I married you, Mr. Detective, that means we stay together for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, in whatever century we find ourselves, and we stay married and together until death do us part. Now, what do you have to say about that?”

  Patrick looked at his wife, pointedly. He straightened his shoulders.

  “Well, as my old dear Da used to say, ‘May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.’”

  Eve cocked her head to the right, a little bright twinkle in her eye. “Is that an apology, Detective Sergeant Gantly?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “No, it’s an insight.”

  Eve rolled her eyes. “Okay, whatever. It’s getting cold out here, and it’s going to rain.”

  Eve’s eyes strayed to the lantern. “Why didn’t you light it?”

  “I tried.”

  Eve shot him a look, gently alarmed. “You did try?”

  He nodded. “Yes…”

  “And it wouldn’t light?”

  He shook his head. “It lit, but nothing happened. I sat here with the lighted lantern, with people staring at me like I was some kind of madman, and nothing whatsoever happened. I finally stopped trying.”

  Eve wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Maybe, a little of both. She turned in a circle, thinking.

  Patrick continued. “As I sat here, I began to think that maybe this was a sign. Maybe I shouldn’t try to go back. Maybe I should leave everything as it is, and leave Maggie in her eternal rest, if that’s what she is doing. Maybe this is what the fates are trying to tell me.”

  Eve stood stiffly, already feeling chilled to the bone. “Maggie may be at rest, but you never will be, Patrick, unless we go. Therefore, I won’t be at rest, nor will our marriage be at rest, nor our future life together. You will always be haunted by this. For purely selfish reasons, my dear Detective Gantly, we are going to try again.”

  His eyes widened a little. He turned to the lantern. “But it doesn’t work. Nothing happened.”

  Eve pinched the coat collar tighter around her neck. “Patrick, I found the lantern in the antique shop. I found the John Harringshaw letter. It’s possible that the lantern will work only for me.”

  Patrick’s expression turned hopeful. “Do you think so?”

  She shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

  Just then, Joni appeared, walking briskly toward them, wearing a blue ski cap and brown raincoat. She drew up to them and stopped, swinging her curious gaze first to Eve and then to Patrick.

  “So, what’s up? What’s going on?”

  “We’re ready to go, Joni.”

  Joni looked up at the darkening sky, the clouds shrouding the distant Manhattan towers and lowering over the tops of trees. “Well, you’ve picked one dark, moody and rainy day for it. It feels like the opening of a horror movie.”

  Patrick looked to Eve, waiting. He ran a hand along his jawline, and Eve saw that his hand was shaking.

  Now that it was time, Eve felt a hard lump in her throat that she couldn’t swallow away. Her stomach growled, and the chilly air made her shiver.

  She inhaled and blew it out, audibly. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Eve sat down, and as Patrick eased down next to her, she placed the lantern between them. He handed her the box of kitchen matches.

  “I hope the genie in this thing doesn’t have a black sense of humor,” Patrick said.

  Eve took the matches, her eyes examining his handsome face. She saw the grim set of his mouth.

  He jerked a nod. “Let’s do it, Eve, and let us both whisper a prayer for our safety and for Maggie’s rescue.”

  Eve managed a tight smile, then she looked up at Joni, who stood stiff and worried.

  “I wish I could say I felt good about this,” Joni said.

  “Thanks for your help, Joni. See you soon.”

  “I hope so… Hurry back.”

  Eve slid open the matchbox, drew out one single match and, with her other hand, sheltered it from the falling mist. She opened one glass pane and struck the match, cupping the trembling flame in her hand to protect it. She hesitated, whispered a little prayer and lit the white wick. It seemed to reach out and snatch the flame and hold it. All three watched in tense wonder as the lantern filled with warm, golden light.

  Eve gently closed the glass frame. The trio waited, eyes not straying from the buttery, steady spear of light that was swelling out into a cone, slowly wrapping itself around Eve and Patrick in an egg-shaped golden light.

  Joni stepped closer, hypnotized by the flame. Eve held up her hand.

  “Step back, Joni. Go back ten or fifteen feet. Step out of the light and don’t look at it.”

  Joni backed up and turned away, feeling the first drops of rain.

  And they waited.

  “It’s not working,” Patrick said, in a weary voice.

  “Stare at the flame, Patrick. Don’t pull your eyes from the flame.”

  Eve heard the soft moan of wind as it stirred across her face. The world suddenly seemed to be melting—the trees, the sky, Joni—as if rain were striking a newly painted landscape, and colored streams ran down the canvas, washing it in a rich golden orb of light.

  Eve tried to stand, but her legs were buttery soft, and they gave out. She dropped back down onto the bench. She forced her head to turn toward Patrick but, to her shock, he wasn’t there. He was gone. Had he changed his mind? Had he bolted away and left her to go on her own?

  Voices traveled to her on the breeze, but she couldn’t make out any words, only murmurs. Images drifted by, but with no definite shapes or forms.

  Eve heard gongs. They rattled the air and
echoed, and the sky fractured, clouds rolled, crumbled and fell about her like large pieces of ice and snow.

  And then a powerful cone of blue light encircled her, sucked her up and spun her around like a top until she was dizzy and nearly lost consciousness. Eve called out to Patrick, searching for him in all directions.

  In a whooshing sound, she was tossed and thrown helplessly toward a universe of spinning stars and planets, their shapes and sizes distorted. Several clock faces whizzed by, the hour or minute hands spinning wildly.

  She reached out to one as it sailed by and she caught it. It was pliable and plastic, and as she grabbed the large, black hour hand, it snapped off and the clock disintegrated and melted away in her hands.

  Eve swallowed hard when she saw a massive oak door appearing in the distance, swiftly rushing toward her, closing the distance. Eve struggled to move away from it, as a blue swirling cloud overtook her. With her limbs flailing, working, she strained to avoid a certain collision.

  The collision was imminent. At the last moment, she shut her eyes and waited for impact. When nothing happened, she squinted a look. She gulped in air when she saw the gigantic door, towering 50 feet high, motionless before her. Its glossy veneer shimmered and glowed. A doorknob, just large enough for her hand, jutted out, as if daring her to grab for it, and open the door.

  Eve shrank away, waiting, watching. Should she open it? Surrounding her were swirling stars and shining planets, shooting stars. She watched in terrified wonder as a large yellow moon pulled the sky open, as if it were a massive theater curtain.

  Carefully, Eve mustered courage. She reached for the golden knob, turned it gently and tugged it toward her. Despite its mammoth size, the door moved easily, and it opened.

  Eve ventured a look inside. She saw stunning, flowing ribbons of reds and gold, like Christmas ribbon dropped from hundreds of unwrapped packages. She swallowed, gathered her courage and placed one foot inside, into the empty bottomless space.

  Some force shoved her forward, and she plunged down helplessly through smoky red and blue clouds, hearing the distant cry of birds and the persistent bong of church bells.

  CHAPTER 7

  Eve’s eyes popped open, breath coming fast. Her head was spinning, body pulsing, and the high, shrill ringing in her ears sounded like the overtones of a violin.

  For a time, she was paralyzed, unable to move a limb. Was Patrick there beside her? Her eyes shifted from right to left. No, Patrick was not there. Her purse was not there. Patrick… where was Patrick?

  She fought panic. Minutes later, to her relief, the feeling in her legs and arms began to return. Her neck, though stiff, swiveled slowly left and then right as she sought to confirm that Patrick was not seated next to her. Her heart kicked at her chest.

  She recognized the feelings. She’d experienced the same dizzy, disoriented sensations the last time she’d arrived in 1885. As her surroundings slowly took shape, she saw bare trees, heavy clouds, and vague pointillistic images passing; it was as if she were peering through a beaded-up window pane. She blinked, shut her eyes for a moment, reopened them and focused. Something was wrong. Her throat tightened. The world gradually took on definite moving shapes, and she noticed that the passing people gazed back at her strangely.

  An attractive woman in her early 20s drifted by, dressed in a sailor-style jacket and an ankle-length narrow skirt with a slightly raised waistline. She wore buttoned-up black and tan two-tone boots, and carried herself in an airy, stately manner, looking at Eve as if she were something to be avoided.

  Two other women soon passed, wearing long, narrow skirts that impeded their stride. Eve had seen these skirts in old photographs on Pinterest. They were called hobble skirts because they forced women to walk with small steps.

  Eve shifted her weight, still too disoriented to stand. Another woman approached, wearing a narrow skirt, a jacket with slightly sloping shoulders and a very attractive dark green velvet hat. She was joined by several other women, all dressed similarly, all wearing hats with feathers, bows, flowers or lace. Most of the hats had high crowns and small brims. Some of the hats were simple, some elegant. All the women wore gloves, mostly white, but a few were brown or green.

  Eve instantly knew she had time traveled, from the way people were dressed, the way they held themselves, and how they walked. Modern women had a more carefree walk, their posture was more relaxed, their dress more casual. Fashion in the past was all about status and wealth. Okay, so she knew she had time traveled, but to what past?

  Eve sat still, as if the wrong move would be fatal. Her body was sore and bruised, her mind a mass of scrambled thoughts. Men strolled by wearing dark suits, ties and a variety of crown hats, some a rich shade of dark brown, others a subdued green. They puffed on cigars; they had bushy mustaches and trimmed beards.

  No, this was not 1885 fashion. Her dress, coat and shoes were all wrong. She stood out. She was blatantly conspicuous. No wonder people were staring at her.

  Straining her tight muscles, she turned left and right, again searching for Patrick. He wasn’t there. How could that be? They had left 2018 at the same time and from the same place. What had gone wrong? She was completely alone and, of course, the lantern was nowhere to be found.

  Her heart sank. Where had the lantern dropped her this time? And where had it sent Patrick? Her worst fears had been realized. She was marooned in some past time without Patrick, and without any way to get back to her time. No doubt he was in some other time, perhaps sitting on the same bench thinking the same thoughts.

  With great effort, she shoved her fears aside and struggled to rise to her feet. She pushed up and managed to stand, but her legs were wobbly. The persistent stares from the passing crowds didn’t help ease her ragged nerves and self-consciousness. She wanted to shout, “Stop staring at me!” But she didn’t. Her mouth felt syrupy, and her breath foul. Her lips felt glued together.

  A young woman in her middle twenties glided by, her posture and poise “finishing school” perfect. She offered Eve an aloof passing glance. But then something stopped her in mid-stride, and she glanced back with a look of mild interest. Her lovely dark eyes expanded on Eve, the aloof expression slowly melting into curiosity. The woman turned about, taking hesitant steps toward Eve, being sure not to get too close, in case Eve was some demented thing.

  Eve stood precariously, her aching muscles complaining. She had to work hard to stand up without bobbing and weaving like a drunken woman, although in fact, she did feel a little high and fuzzy, as if she’d drunk a vodka martini.

  The woman ventured over a little closer. She was well dressed in a blue and gold three-piece skirt, closed at the side, with a smart matching tunic jacket. She wore a brightly colored turban over mounds of thick black hair, with a single feather and a brooch clasped to one side.

  She had a small, pretty face with peaches-and-cream complexion. The luminous color of her cheeks added a look of vitality; her button of a mouth seemed prim, and her glowing hazel eyes twinkled with intelligence. In the weak sunlight, her eyes seemed to change from brown to green.

  “I hope you’ll pardon me,” the young woman said, in a breathy soprano, with a slightly affected accent that Eve couldn’t place. “You appear rather troubled and pallid. Are you quite all right?”

  The language was formal. The words slow, round and well-formed. No modern slang, slurring or fast-talking New York accent.

  Eve hoped the woman didn’t think she was drunk. She suddenly noticed that the sun was out, bathing this lovely creature before her in a kind of angelic light.

  Eve straightened as best she could, swallowed, and tried to find her voice. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  The young woman’s face filled with concern. “Oh my, I’m afraid you don’t look at all well. Can I be of assistance to you in any way?”

  Eve nodded and managed to say, “…Thank you.”

  Eve caught the woman examining her hair. She’d recently had it cut and sty
led in a 2018 messy wavy bob, just above the shoulder. It must have looked like a disaster to this well dressed, perfectly composed creature from… what year?

  The woman extended her suede gloved hand. “I am Irene Wilkes Casterbury.”

  With a gloveless hand, and feeling grossly out of place and self-conscious, Eve took Irene’s delicate hand. Eve decided to use her entire name. It was the only thing she felt certain about. The only thing that would help give her definition in this whatever time and place.

  “I’m Mrs. Evelyn Sharland Gantly.”

  Irene’s smile was sincere. “What a lovely name.”

  As they lowered their hands to their sides, Irene’s eyes played across Eve’s dress.

  “Are you in the theatre, Mrs. Gantly? Are you involved in theatricals?”

  Eve’s brain went to work, although many words were standing on the periphery of her mind, just out of her reach.

  “Well, actually, I was. I mean, well, my husband and I were practicing for an amateur theatrical.”

  “Is your husband close by?” Irene asked, her eyes searching the area.

  Eve smiled, weakly, her stomach churning, legs feeling rubbery again.

  “Well, yes, he is. Somewhere. Yes, he’s around,” she said uneasily.

  Irene was puzzled.

  Eve wanted to ask the obvious question: what was the date? Where in time had the lantern dropped her? From the fashion, Eve knew it had to be after 1885 and probably after 1900. But she was still too blunted and weak from the travel to speculate further, and she didn’t want this friendly woman to think she was crazy.

  “Is it Miss or Mrs. Casterbury?” Eve asked.

  Irene offered a hint of a smile, and for the first time, Eve saw a bit of mischief in Irene’s eyes.

  “I am Miss Casterbury. And allow me to be bold when I say that I hope to stay that way for quite some time, no matter what my Mummy wishes. Perhaps I’ll stay unmarried for my entire life, and just have men in my life who truly appeal to me, in various ways.” She lowered her chin a bit, as if delivering a secret. “Well, you know…”