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

by Elyse Douglas

  Eve felt her legs about to give way. “Miss Casterbury, I hope you won’t think me rude if I sit for a moment.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Gantly. Please do. Can I be of assistance in any way?”

  Eve lowered herself on the bench, shutting her eyes. Her head began to ache, as white spots swam about in chaotic motion.

  “I believe you are ill, Mrs. Gantly.”

  Eve fought overwhelming waves of exhaustion, just as she had the last time she’d been carried backward in time.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Casterbury. I’m not quite myself.”

  “Do you have the strength to make it out of the park, Mrs. Gantly? I’ll find us a cab and take you home. You can recover there.”

  Eve didn’t want to leave in case Patrick appeared, but she was afraid she’d pass out and wind up in some hospital or police station. She struggled to decide.

  Eve’s eyes fluttered open. The world was spinning. “I don’t want to be a burden, Miss Casterbury, but perhaps I do need to find a place to rest.”

  Miss Casterbury was eager to help. She took Eve’s left arm and helped her stand.

  “Can you walk, Mrs. Gantly, or should I ask for male assistance?”

  “No, I can walk.”

  They started off, and it was slow-going at first, until Eve inhaled a few deep breaths that helped revive her. Soon she was walking on her own as they ambled down a winding dirt path, a cool breeze washing over them. Eve slowly became aware that the soft light of day was fading, and that many of the trees were bare. It was cold, but not frigid. Was it winter? But what year?

  “Are you feeling better, Mrs. Gantly?” Irene asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered, as they were about to exit the park on Fifth Avenue. And then it was strikingly evident to Eve that she was in a very different time and a very different universe.

  This New York City was as different from 1885 as it was from 2018. She saw limestone mansions, Queen Anne Style houses with turrets and wrought iron balconies, and churches with rising spires. There was the clopping of horse hooves pulling hansom cabs, but also double-decker motor buses and the murmur of automobile motors, their exhausts puffing white smoke—and all were mixed in a collage of motion.

  As crowds drifted by, everyone, men and women, wore hats and stylish coats, the men in dark tailored suits, the women in long dresses. Again, Eve felt conspicuous with no hat or gloves or purse, her long winter coat looking grossly out of style. Eve heard the hollering of newsboys as they waved about the latest editions. With compassion, she noticed their old, dusty pants, worn shoes, frayed coats, and tweed newsboy caps. Was she the only one passing them who observed their tired, hard faces, as they awkwardly assumed the roles and mannerisms of manhood? No doubt some were the sole breadwinners of their families; and if they had no family, they were forced to live and survive on the streets.

  To Eve, this was a city in transition—horse-drawn carriages and streetcars mixed in with bouncing black automobiles that looked blocky and clumsy as they chugged along the streets.

  Eve stopped, taking it all in, jarred by the sounds, look and smell of this strange but beautiful world. As if in a trance, she gazed numbly, feeling as though she’d been dropped in from another planet. And indeed, in many ways, she had.

  Without thinking, and lost in wonder, Eve whispered, “What year is this?”

  Irene stopped and faced Eve, staring at her in a new way. “What year, Mrs. Gantly? Surely you know the year we are living in?”

  Eve snapped out of her daydream. “Oh, well, yes… I mean. Well, it’s just that I don’t quite feel myself today.”

  Eve glanced back over her shoulder, fear and dread arising. What had happened to Patrick? If she walked away now, would she lose him forever? But her legs were weak, her head spinning, and she wasn’t thinking clearly. She had to find a place to rest.

  She fought to keep herself from sinking, fighting a despair that caught in her throat, tightening it. Had Patrick remained in 2018? Had the lantern not affected him? Had he been sent to another time—perhaps 1885—while she’d been sent here? Was he in danger? As she stood there struggling to breathe, she wished again that she had talked Patrick out of using the lantern.

  She was completely alone. She had no money. Nowhere to go. She needed somewhere to spend the night, so she could rest, and think, and plan a course of action. Out of utter desperation and fatigue, she turned her meek eyes on Irene.

  “Miss Casterbury…I don’t know what has happened to my husband. I’m very concerned.”

  Irene seemed to gain some strength from this. “I’m sure you will find him at your residence, Mrs. Gantly. He must surely be waiting for you there.”

  Eve held the young woman’s questioning eyes. “Miss Casterbury, we… that is, my husband and I are from out of town. We just arrived.”

  Eve lowered her eyes. “Miss Casterbury, I’m afraid I have to ask you for further help.”

  Irene was quiet, but Eve could almost see her mind working.

  “Miss Casterbury, frankly, I have nowhere to go and I have no money to pay for lodgings. May I please further impose on your generosity by asking if I may stay with you for one night? I promise I will be out and on my way by early morning. If I were not so desperate, I would not ask. I know this is bold, coming from someone you don’t know, but I promise you that after tomorrow morning, I will leave and never bother you again. I need just one good night’s sleep, and I will be restored, ready to meet my challenging situation.”

  Irene averted her gaze, her spine very erect. She stood in a perplexed reflection, while Eve watched a flock of birds tumble out of the trees and scatter across the lawn toward another line of trees.

  When Irene finally spoke, her voice was soft and kind. “Mrs. Gantly, I must admit that when I first saw you sitting on that bench, I was taken by your rather unusual dress and manner, and by the fact that you seemed very much alone, and highly vulnerable. Mrs. Gantly, I trust you will not think me rude, but I respectfully suggest that you have no husband, or if you do, he has undoubtedly abandoned you and that is why you are in desperate straits and in need of immediate help.”

  Irene’s chin lifted with her firm decision. “Well, I will help you, Mrs. Gantly, or whatever your name truly is. I will offer every assistance I can until you are able to thrive on your own.”

  Eve opened her mouth to speak, but Irene carried on, a sudden look of evangelistic fervor in her eyes.

  “Mrs. Gantly, in March of last year, I marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., in the Women’s Suffrage Procession, along with thousands of other women. Where you there by any chance?”

  Eve shook her head. “No, but I read about it. Please tell me what it was like.”

  “As you know, it was the first suffragist parade in Washington, and it was scheduled on the day before President Wilson’s inauguration. I went with a delegation from New York City. We marched in a spirit of protest against the present political organization of society, which excludes women from voting and from holding political office. We also marched to show the entire world that American women are intelligent and autonomous individuals, who deserve their own political identities. We further marched to show that we are not afraid of the men who think they hold power over us. They do not, Mrs. Gantly. We hold our own spark of the divine within us and we are, therefore, equals to men in every way.”

  Eve was taken back by Irene’s sudden burst of zeal and passion. But when she’d heard Irene mention President Wilson, her mind went to work, straining to remember when Woodrow Wilson was President of the United States. She wasn’t entirely sure, having not been particularly gifted in American History. Was it in the early 1900s? 1920s?

  Irene inhaled a righteous breath and lifted her head in defiance. “Of course, you won’t be a bother, Mrs. Gantly, and, you can be completely honest with me about your husband, or whatever beast of a man it was who abandoned you. If he has deserted you, please feel fully confident in confiding in me. And pleas
e call me Irene. All my friends call me Irene.”

  Eve nodded in compliance, gently reeling from Irene’s rambling speech.

  “All right, Irene, then you must call me Eve. And, Irene, please know that I am very grateful for your help.”

  Irene nodded. “Think nothing of it, Eve. Let us be good friends, and let us find ourselves a taxi, and I will take you home.”

  As they started forward, Eve again glanced back, feeling her breaking heart. Would she ever see Patrick again?

  CHAPTER 8

  As the taxi pulled up to the granite mansion on 48th Street and 5th Avenue, Eve’s jaw nearly dropped. In Eve’s time, a building such as this would have been a museum holding great works of art, or a library, or a foreign embassy. From her 2018 memory, the building was no longer there, replaced by towering luxury apartments and upscale retail stores.

  “Is this your home?” Eve asked, as Irene reached to pay the driver.

  “Yes, Eve. It is the Casterbury Mansion.”

  The ladies exited the taxi and Eve paused, gazing up at the mansion in awe, overcome by its size and rich classical style.

  “My father was Silas Morton Casterbury. He died last year, poor Daddy, of a heart attack,” Irene said, with a tinge of sadness in her voice.

  Irene looked at Eve for confirmation. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him, even if you are from out of town.”

  Actually, Eve had only a vague recollection of the name Casterbury. Perhaps she’d met a Casterbury in 1885, during her last time travel adventure, at when she’d attended the Harringshaw ball.

  “Yes…” Eve said, not wanting to alienate herself from her hostess. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry that he passed away.”

  “He was a stern man, Eve. A good daddy in many ways, but austere and awfully concerned with business. I seldom saw him, even as a little girl. Well, that’s all past now, isn’t it? He was chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company, and he also financed the construction of the Pennsylvania Railroad. I tell you this now, Eve, so that you will know that my family is quite wealthy and socially connected to similar families in New York, Boston, and Chicago. In the press, I have been singled out as one of the richest daughters in all of America, not that I have been haughty or proud by such praise. But I want you to know, Eve, that I intend to be useful in this world. I spend much of my time performing charitable work, as well as working with the women’s suffrage movement.”

  They entered through double wrought iron gates and walked along a pea-gravel walkway lined with maturing pin oaks and red maples, passing a dormant fountain and manicured gardens, finally arriving at the front cement stairs.

  A tall, silver-haired butler swung the door open as the ladies approached. Irene nodded to him.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Casterbury,” the butler said, with a courtly bow.

  When the heavy oak door enclosed them inside, Eve found herself in a towering and grand one-story entrance pavilion, with rich oriental rugs and an enormous glistening chandelier.

  “Good afternoon, Charles,” Irene said, formally. “It is a lovely autumn day, but I fear the wind is picking up and it has chilled us. Will you please inform Mrs. McMurphy that Mrs. Gantly and I will require tea and sandwiches in the library? Also, let Mrs. McMurphy know that Mrs. Gantly will be staying with us for a fortnight or more. She should prepare the West guest room for her.”

  Eve nearly spoke up to say she’d only stay the one night, but she refrained. Anyway, until she could sort things out, maybe she’d be forced to stay longer.

  “Also, please let Mrs. Dolan know we will have a guest for dinner.”

  “Very good, Miss Casterbury. It will be done,” Charles said.

  Tall windows permitted an abundance of light, and Eve heard the soothing sound of flowing water in the distance. It was coming from somewhere beyond the wide marble staircase, with its broad mahogany banister, that no doubt led to elegant upper rooms.

  “This way,” Irene said, leading the way along a marble-lined hall to the garden court. Entering the court, Eve’s eyes expanded on soaring Ionic white marble columns, and a large circular fountain crowned by a golden angel with broad open wings. This was obviously the source of the water sounds. Graceful streams arched into daylight, as the fountain spilled over the basin into an elliptically shaped pool below, where goldfish slithered and drifted lazily.

  Eve’s head swiveled about as she took in the astonishing spaces, with so much to look at.

  “This is amazing,” she said.

  Irene gave her a quick tour of the downstairs, including two dressing rooms, a three-story great hall, a ballroom, music room, dining room, family dining room, library, art gallery, and red and gold anteroom.

  They settled in deep burgundy leather chairs in the expansive cherrywood library, with warm amber lighting. They were surrounded by three tiers of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with balconies and ladders, and original landscape paintings by Samuel Palmer, Francis Towne, and Copley Fielding.

  When Eve asked about the striking marble fireplace that gleamed out old world comfort and privilege, Irene proudly stated that it was originally made in Belfast from three different types of imported European marbles: rouge royal, maxy black and tinos green.

  “Well, it is nearly five in the afternoon,” Irene declared. “A little late for tea, but I always say, better late than never.”

  A young, freckled-faced, red-haired under-butler named Mason soon arrived, carrying a silver tea set. He lowered it on a coffee table and then poured the gold-rimmed rose enameled cups half full, leaving room for milk. Eve stared hungrily at the finger sandwiches, artfully arranged on the rose enameled plates, resting on lace doilies. She wanted to snatch one of the white, thinly sliced and buttered sandwiches, but she refrained, feeling her mouth water.

  After pouring the tea, Mason dutifully informed her that the sandwiches included cucumber, ham with mustard, smoked salmon and fruit jam.

  He lifted the tray and offered it first to Eve, who politely reached for just two, one with smoked salmon and one with fruit jam. Mason then leaned and offered the sandwiches to Irene, who declined.

  “Eve, my dear Mummy doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, so she probably won’t be more than just civil to you at dinner tonight. But then, Mummy doesn’t approve of most things going on these days. She says I should have been married by now and, of course, she wants me to marry Winston Capshaw Morgan, who is so very rich, but he is 44 years old, and I am only twenty-eight. I have managed to delay that marriage. But for how long? Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we? Anyway, Mummy thinks that the old ways are the best days. She doesn’t think women should vote and that they have no business in politics. Of course, she adopted most of her strong and inflexible opinions from Daddy.”

  Irene looked Eve over, with new interest. “We’ll have to find a suitable dinner gown for you tonight. Mummy will never understand your mode of dress. She insists we dress up on Saturday nights. My brother will be in white tie, of course.”

  Eve looked up. “Brother?”

  “Yes, my brother, Addison. He joined Daddy’s firm when he graduated from Harvard, but Andrew Carnegie, one of Daddy’s business partners, took him under his wing. Well, Addison soon had the right contacts to start his own businesses, so he has left Mr. Carnegie and is managing the family interests with great success, at least that is what he tells us. You will find him rather taciturn for a young man of thirty-three. I, of course, am five years his junior and he often treats me as if I were a silly child. Well, anyway, do not expect much conversation from him.”

  Eve nodded, suddenly dreading the dinner to come.

  Irene rambled on about her own charitable works at The Society for the Relief of Half-Orphan and Destitute Children.

  “I assure you, Mrs. Gantly, that I feel more like a good Christian engaged in that work than I have ever felt attending the Episcopal Church, but do not mention such things to my dear Mummy. You’ll have her reaching for her smelling salts.”

  Eve kne
w what was coming. Irene was a curious, self-possessed, and well-educated woman. She would certainly press Eve on her history, and Eve had barely had enough time to come up with a plausible story and background.

  Finally, Irene turned her enquiring gaze on Eve. “And where do you come from, Eve, and do you have family in New York?”

  Eve munched on her sandwich and took time to sip her tea before turning toward the fire, hoping for inspiration. “I was born in Ohio… and no, I’m sorry to say, I have no family in New York.”

  Irene cleared her throat and took a swallow of her tea. “And will you return to Ohio now that…” she paused, considering her next words. “Well, now that your husband is missing?”

  Eve spoke carefully. “Frankly, Irene, I don’t know. I have much to think about.”

  Irene nodded and then touched her smooth white cheek with elegant care.

  “I do hope, Eve, that you have the confidence to trust in me. I can be a good and helpful friend.”

  Eve liked Irene, but she was young, self-assured and most likely a gossip. Eve had no doubt that she had quickly become another charity case for Irene, and a mysterious one at that. With all her free time, energy and money, Irene would undoubtedly work to pry open all of Eve’ secrets. Eve sensed, if not danger, then a possible threat.

  After tea, Irene escorted Eve up the broad staircase, down a long, richly carpeted hallway to the spacious and richly decorated second-floor guest room. To Eve’s astonishment, it was a private master suite, with its own bath and dressing room, a pink boudoir, a private sitting room and a wide canopied bed.

  “I trust you’ll be comfortable, Eve,” Irene said.

  Eve gawked at the room, nearly overcome. “It’s magnificent, Irene.”

  “Grandmother Casterbury lived here for a time, but, poor thing, she began to hear voices and believed she was being visited by various Biblical figures, including Jesus. Mummy didn’t mind her speaking to Jesus so much, but she was not so fond of Grandmother speaking to Pontius Pilate. Mummy suggested that Daddy take her to Europe to consult with Sigmund Freud, but Daddy would not hear of it. We had to have her committed to a sanatorium outside Boston.”