He did a little dance and approached her again, his eyes hungry. Her back was pressed firmly against the tombstone, and she pushed into the dirt with her toes, trying to put some distance between the two of them.
The blood on his face glistened in the dawn’s misty light, which was growing brighter by the second. He offered a temptation that she wouldn’t resist, not this time. But she had to hurry, she could already feel her eyes begin to sting as the sun rose on the horizon.
Swiftly, she lunged onto the dirty vagrant, her arms threading around his neck—much to his initial delight. Her teeth sunk into his neck, and within seconds his arms fell to his sides and his eyes rolled up into his head. He smiled as the flash of ecstasy such as he’d never known passed through his body. And then, as quickly as she’d taken him, she separated, pushing him onto a grave thick with purple-headed weeds gone to seed.
Shading her eyes, Scarlet scanned the forest around her. They’ll think he was attacked by an animal.
She swiped the blood from her mouth and turned her back to the inanimate stranger. Breathing deeply, she cleared her mind of the hideous deed and took in the fresh country air. It was time to consider her next move.
Continuing to shade her eyes with her hand she slowly moved in a wide circle, taking in the lush surroundings. Morning dew glittered like diamonds on the lacy edges of the wildflowers that sprung up around her. Breathing in deeply, she reveled in the fresh green pine scent that reminded her of Minnesota.
Her eyes started to water, and she scrambled over the graves, retrieving Vince’s sunglasses. She bent them carefully to return them to a reasonable shape, and dug beneath her skirts, finding a portion of fabric to clean the mirrored lenses. Glad for this small mercy, she slipped them over her ears.
Pink and royal purple wildflowers grew around the countryside. They sparkled with dew and their sweet perfume tickled her nose. Everything was so simple and fresh, untouched by anything unnatural or manmade.
She could see now that the small burial ground she stood on was protected by an iron gate, thickly covered by climbing yellow roses, which had been propped open at a slant, most likely by her visitor.
With one last glance at her unfortunate suitor, Scarlet exited the graveyard. Her tattered skirts floated over the beds of brightly colored wildflowers, swishing the flower heads under and releasing them with a jaunty spring as she passed over them. Though she needed to discover her whereabouts and find out what had happened, Scarlet couldn’t help but stop and pick a handful of lacy purple blossoms and bring them to her nose to take in their heady scent.
She stood erect, nose in the air, flowers clutched to her breast, and surveyed her surroundings as a cat familiarizes itself with any new site. To either side, her vision was blocked by tall pine trees, and behind them, an endless forest. Before her she could see for miles over a spread of pink and purple wildflowers, and past that . . .
Was that a house? It looked like a tiny plastic game piece on the horizon, but, yes, it had to be!
Never a good judge of distance, Scarlet determined that she might be able to make it there within a few hours. Looking around she saw no roads, so she decided to keep going across the rainbow field of flowers.
Without a thought or a plan, she started walking.
Barefoot, she stepped lightly through the knee-high purple blooms. Even as a child she'd never had the opportunity to get out of the city and into the country. This must be what they call a blessing in disguise.
Not a very good disguise, though. Soon enough she started to think of her situation. 1769. She couldn’t believe it. But she had lain on the fresh grave and read the tombstone’s inscription. It had to be true.
Time travel wasn’t possible, was it? But what other explanation was there? The last normal thing she recalled was Vince and Gary digging through the boxes in the crypt, if a person could call that normal.
She curved to avoid a thicket of trees, and stepped onto a dirt road of fine red sand pounded into the grass. Her feet felt scratched and itchy, so she stopped to rest near a patch of yellow flowers and rub at her tender soles.
“What are you going to do now, Scarlet?” she muttered, looking toward the house, which had grown from game-piece size to small toy size. “Somebody has to live there.” A laugh was unavoidable. “I wanted adventure this summer, guess I got it.”
But will I ever see my brother again?
She stood in the center of the road looking around, overwhelmed by the predicament. “If I am in the year 1769, how will I get back?”
All was quiet save for a passing blackbird crowing on the wing.
“Damn!” she said aloud and then inadvertently tripped over her skirts and tumbled to the ground, her lips kissing the red sand and the sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Obviously this attire was not made for morning strolls through countryside.”
She spat fine grains of sand from her mouth and pushed herself up, not bothering to brush away the dust and dirt, and wishing for a nice comfortable pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
“Well, Sebastian,” she thought as she walked on, “You told me once that you could sense where I was and that you’d never let anything harm me. So, I’m waiting. You can come to the rescue.”
Chapter Nineteen
The large white house loomed before Scarlet as she peeked out from behind a row of fragrant apple trees. It was much bigger than the mansion Vince and Gary lived in. Two stories of windows and carved woodwork rose majestically to rule over the elegant court of plush green lawn that was spotted in front with two large gardens of bright flowers and trimmed hedges. Huge oak trees stood before the entryway, arching across the yard, creating a tunnel of green. And delicate pink blossoms, the color of her dress, clung to winding vines that stretched their tiny sprouts up and around the white Corinthian columns that supported the entryway of the house.
At closer scrutiny, she noticed two women standing in one of the circular gardens surrounded by box hedges. They were dressed in costumes not quite as extravagant as hers but with the same cut and styling. Seeing this only made her spirits sink further.
Yes, she really was in a different time.
She had had opportunity, standing under the cool shade of the sweet apple blossoms, to devise a plan. Or a story, more or less. She had never lied that much even when she was little, but with the extreme situation she found herself in it seemed more than all right to bend the truth. There had to be some reason for her to be out in the country alone and in such a miserable state of disrepair.
She crossed her fingers, inhaled a deep breath, and prayed that her plan would work. The adrenaline kicked in and slipping her sunglasses down the torn bodice, Scarlet gathered her tattered skirts into a bundle and headed out from the comfortable shade.
As she approached the front of the house the women spotted her. The short round one threw up her arms in dismay and started to rumble toward her, while the tall one perked her nose up from her gardening and then followed curiously, her basket of freshly cut blooms flailing out from her arm.
Scarlet stopped halfway across the expansive lawn. She wanted to turn and run from these oncoming strangers, hoping that Sebastian or Gary would miraculously be standing behind her to catch her and tell her that this was all a dream. But she knew that it was real. She was here . . . and they weren’t.
Bravely, she held her head high and waited as the women came closer.
***
A knock on the door startled Vince from a dead sleep. He rubbed his throbbing head as he rolled across the mattress. He was still in the same clothes he’d been wearing when he arrived in Minneapolis. The acrid odor of sweat mixed with whiskey made him gag.
“Who is it?” His tongue felt thick and his words slurred.
“It’s Francesco Volierre, Vincent. May I come in? It’s almost two o’clock, I thought you might be interested in some things that I’ve done for you.”
“Francesco?” Oh yes, the man from the plane. The man from the bar. What was it with
the guy? Vince rolled onto his stomach, clutching the edge of the mattress as his gut churned recklessly, threatening to take leave of his body with further movement. “Yeah, the door is open, I think.”
Vince watched through thick strands of dirty hair as the man entered and walked to the window, pulling the shades, shrouding the room in a cool brown haze.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “That’s better.”
“I assumed you would be laid up for a while this morning. I was going to bring breakfast, but I decided against that after seeing exactly what a Continental breakfast was. The sweet rolls looked as hard as bricks and the coffee was thick as the oil you put in your fancy automobiles.”
“Good choice, man. But you may see me puke my guts out yet.”
“Ah, hmm, so you say.” Francesco went into the bathroom and Vince heard the water run for a while. The man returned with a cold washcloth and laid it over Vince’s brow.
Picking the rag up, Vince unfolded it and spread it over his entire face. With great care, he rolled to his back. “So, don’t you have some sort of business to take care of today? You shouldn’t be wasting your time with a basket case like me.”
“I did have business. And I’ve taken care of it.” Francesco produced a few pieces of folded paper from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “I’ve made funeral arrangements for your mother.”
“Really?” Vince lifted one corner of the washcloth, observing that Francesco was dressed in new jeans rolled at the ankle and a t-shirt for a local metal band called Morticia. Quite a change from yesterday’s attire. “Ah man, you didn’t have to do that.” He dropped the washcloth back over his face and breathed out heavily. “But that was nice of you. I don’t think I would have been able to handle that just yet. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. It pleases me that I can help. I think we’re going to become good friends, Vincent. I really do.”
“Not unless you quit calling me Vincent. My mother was the only one who used that name. I never did like it. Too formal.”
“Sorry. Vince it is.”
Vince smiled beneath the towel. Stranger things had happened than finding a friend in the midst of a tragedy. “I see you got yourself some new clothes.”
“Yes.” Francesco stretched out his t-shirt and fingered the long-haired skull that was silk-screened onto it. “But the lady in the store kept insisting I looked so . . . bad?”
“Ha-ha, you really aren’t from around here, are you? Bad means good. You look cool, Francesco.” Vince slapped him on the knee and let his hand fall to the floor. “But unroll those pants, makes you look like a geek.”
He was beginning to feel a bond with Francesco. Unfamiliar as he seemed with American ways, the guy was likeable. It was a good thing that he’d run into him and that their lives seemed to be running on the same track. Yeah, nice guy. Real nice guy.
***
“Oh my! Are you all right? What’s happened to you? Where did you come from?” The portly lady’s eyes darted up and down Scarlet’s ragged figure and she pulled her lips together, making a quiet clucking noise. Scarlet was shocked to hear her speak French, and a peculiarly archaic French at that, compared to the modern French she had learned in college.
The other woman caught up to them, huffing and panting and wiping her dirty fingers across her brown pleated skirt. “Not so frantic, sister, she’s scared can’t you see? Give her a moment.”
The tall one, who also spoke French, reminded her of the proverbial schoolmarm with her gray hair pulled tightly behind her head into a neat bun. She took Scarlet’s hand and shook her head sympathetically as she looked her over.
The other lady put a pudgy arm around Scarlet’s waist and started to lead her toward the house. They passed a wooden carriage, which resembled something fresh from the history books, replete with wooden wheels and an upholstered driver’s seat. Inside were dark navy curtains, and a tiny metal filigree step was attached beneath the windowed door.
“I’m sorry, you must come inside. A nice hot bath will clean the dirt away and then you can tell us what happened.”
As she wiped the grimy tears from her face, Scarlet’s eyes lingered on the ancient carriage that sparkled like new as the two women led her into the grand house. She didn’t say a word because they hadn’t pressed her to speak, and for the moment, she was thankful for that.
Thank God I speak French, she thought, as they walked up the circular steps draped on either end with the pink climbing roses and entered the beautifully decorated estate.
Scarlet looked up to the high ceilings resplendent with plaster carvings of ribbons and flowers. Here she was, all alone. And with two women who didn’t even speak English. What was going on?
Up a long wooden staircase carpeted in emerald, she walked with the stout lady while the tall one ran ahead. Her feet were ragged from her trek through the field and the warmth of the thick rug pressing into her arches felt good. Oh, to be back home right now. To be wandering around barefoot, without a care or worry, and to never have gone into that horrid crypt.
She was guided into a bedroom decorated in sunny yellows. A large canopied bed of polished mahogany stood in the center with long yellow curtains floating to the parquet floor from each of the four corners. To either side stood a tiny dressing table of dark carved mahogany, and a three-legged chair took up a post in the far corner. Next to that stood a tall screen of brilliantly colored tapestry where masses of yellow and crimson roses tangled wildly across carefully sewn latticework.
Scarlet shuddered as she looked around the room. The woodwork and the tapestries were all so new, obviously not antiques, though she knew them to be old. And the chandelier above the bed held candles instead of light bulbs.
“Sit down, child. I’m going to fetch some water. Don’t be afraid, you’re in good hands.” The round woman rubbed the back of her arm and then stepped aside and whispered in the other woman’s ear, “Must have been through something terrible. She’s in shock, she is! Poor child.”
In a daze, and oblivious to the two women, Scarlet walked to the wall where a tall chest with two long vertical cabinets stood. She fingered the wood, tracing the curlicues carved into its front panels, while the two women fluttered about her as if bees in a hive.
Pressing her hands to her chest, she felt the metal rim of the sunglasses—her only link to the future. Slipping them out, she checked quickly over her shoulder, then tucked them on the sill behind the heavy damask curtain. It would be hard enough to explain why she was here in the first place without having some alien spectacles to explain, too. She would retrieve them later, after she figured out what was going on.
“A washbasin and . . .” the round woman scurried over to her and looked up and down Scarlet’s dress, making her clucking noise again as she did. “And a clean dress. She’ll most likely fit into something of yours, sister.” She said this while smoothing her hands over her ample hips, and then winked at Scarlet, who stood bewildered.
It was a challenge to translate every word as they came out in a frantic breeze, much different from the staid businessmen Scarlet spoke to, with their dry numbers and the accounting terms she understood well.
“And bring some tea.” The lady walked over to the door and yelled out again, “And some fresh apple tarts, she’s a thin one, she is.”
Now she turned and walked over to Scarlet. Her hair was wound in tight brown curls all over her head pinned up in the back with a ruffle of white lacy cloth, allowing a few tendrils to fall to her neck. Her face was round and red in the cheeks and when she spoke, the tip of her pudgy nose wiggled up and down. But in the center of that excess of flesh were two genuinely concerned eyes of deepest blue.
She laid her hand on Scarlet’s. “My name is Antoinette. S’il vous plait, call me Aunt Nettie, everyone does. My sister is Orlena.” She cradled Scarlet’s hands in hers, her gentle smile never wavering. “Tell me your name, child. You needn’t be frightened.”
My name?
Scarlet b
it down on her lip and looked past Nettie to the window where the branches of a tree scratched lazily against the triple-paned glass. Should she tell them her real name? Obviously ‘Scarlet’ might sound a little strange to these people. She was sure that it wasn’t French. Her mother had simply adored the color, using it to decorate the entire house and always stealing the scarlet crayon from any newly purchased boxes of colors. But what would happen if she did use her real name? History-wise?
Last night’s events came back to her in a flash. The icy crypt, the boxes of ancient books, and the strange relaxation that had overtaken her muscles, and then ... Marie Elisabeth Debonet, 1750- 1769.
Scarlet eyed the woman who was waiting patiently with hands folded in front of her tidy white apron.
“Ah . . . my . . .” She stopped abruptly, and nervously started again in French. “My name is . . . Elisabeth. Umm . . .” Rose? No, should be something more . . . old? French? Hmm, Rose . . . Rose . . . Montrose? Yes. “Elisabeth Montrose.”
“Elisabeth Montrose. That’s a lovely name.” Nettie took Scarlet into her arms and hugged her gently against her ample bosom. “I’m glad to hear you speak. You must have been through a terrible ordeal. Here, sit down and rest and then you will tell Aunt Nettie what happened.”
Scarlet felt her body give in as Nettie helped her to the side of the thick feather bed. She was thankful for the kind people that she’d encountered but only hoped that they would not find out how she came to be in their company. The thought of trying to explain her possible time travel to these people was terrifying. Would they believe her? From the little history she remembered, this was a superstitious time. People believed in witches and spells and quack doctors. She decided it best to stick with the story she had invented.
While at the moment she felt safe, she had no idea what was in store for her and jumped nervously when Orlena entered the room. Her arms were loaded with clothes, a pitcher, and a silver tray of food, which she balanced upon the dress piled in front of her face.
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