by Joan Hohl
“It is both my duty and my pleasure to do so, mistress “ Lettie said, settling the tray over Alycia’s legs.
“Duty?” Alycia frowned at Lettie as she seated herself on a delicate brocaded chair next to the bed. “What do you mean?” Alycia ignored the tempting aroma wafting up to her from under the covered dish on the tray.
Lettie smiled serenely. “You have been put in my charge, mistress.”
Thoroughly confused, Alycia just stared at the woman. “May I ask by whom?” she demanded.
“My lady,” Lettie replied, “by your good aunt Caroline.”
Lettie was a slave! The realization shocked Alycia into utter stillness. Of course, being a student of history she had known that slavery was common in Virginia before, during, and after the Revolutionary War, but to actually meet and converse with a slave ... Alycia suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Lettie was so beautiful, so gracious. The very idea of her belonging, body and soul, to another person was appalling. But then, the mere concept of slavery had always been appalling to Alycia. She was on the verge of crying out in rage against the injustice when Alycia caught herself up short by reminding herself that it was only a dream. But damn, she protested silently, why did it have to be so realistic?
“Mistress Alice?”
Alycia started at the sharp note of concern in Lettie’s voice. “Yes?” She was unaware of the soft note of compassion on her own tone.
“You have not tasted your breakfast.” Lettie smiled. “The cook will be most unhappy if the tray is returned to the kitchen untouched.”
Would the cook be beaten? Alycia clamped her lips together to contain the impulsive question. Comforting herself by repeating that it was all a dream, Alycia smiled wanly and lifted the cover from the tray. “What is it?” she asked, frowning at a small dish.
“Indeed, the blow you suffered to your head has confused you, mistress, if you cannot recognize a shirred egg and toasted bread,” Lettie answered.
“Well, I recognized the bread,” Alycia muttered, gazing at the two thick slices of obviously homemade bread, which had been toasted to a golden brown. Into her mind leaped an image of the crude metal toasting rack she had examined on a previous visit to the historic area. “But I wasn’t sure about the egg,” she hedged, picking up a spoon and dipping it into the dish.
“But, mistress,” Lettie said, frowning. “Do you not eat shirred eggs in your home in Philadelphia?”
Philadelphia? Alycia tasted the egg while pondering the question. Was she supposedly from Philadelphia? More to the point, who, exactly, was she supposed to be? she wondered, dipping the spoon into the dish again; the egg was really very tasty.
“Ah ... umm ... our cook is temporary, and not very expert,” Alycia replied, asking a silent forgiveness of Karla, who did most of the cooking at home. A sinking sensation mingled with the bite of bread Alycia swallowed. Karla and home seemed far away as the dream appeared more and more real. Her appetite gone, Alycia replaced the uneaten bread on the tray and gave Lettie a faint smile. “Please tell the cook I said it was delicious,” she said. “But I cannot eat another bite.”
“I will relay your compliments,” Lettie promised, then gestured toward a dainty teapot. “But surely you will have some tea?”
Alycia eyed the pot with obvious distaste. “I think not. One cup of the stuff was sufficient, thank you.”
Lettie’s burst of laughter was rich and full. “I vow, the herb brew is foul tasting, but there is no need for you to fear.” Her laughter subsided into a soft smile. “That pot contains the finest English breakfast tea.”
“Oh, well, in that case ...” Returning the older woman’s smile, Alycia lifted the quilted tea cozy from the pot and poured a narrow stream of the steaming tea into the delicate cup on the tray. As she stirred a half-teaspoon of sugar into the brew, she stared at the tray in consternation. “You should have brought two cups, Lettie,” she said absently. “Then you could have joined me.” Alycia glanced up at the sound of the woman’s sharply indrawn breath. “We could share this one,” she offered, holding the cup out in invitation.
“Mistress Alice!” Lettie stared at her in horror. “I... I could not...”
Alycia gazed at Lettie quizzically as her voice faded. “You could not what?”
Somewhat like a fish stranded on land, Lettie opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, but no sound came out for several seconds. When at last she did manage to speak, it was in a high squawk. “I cannot drink from your cup!”
“Why not?” Alycia demanded. “I don’t have anything contagious! I’m injured, not diseased!”
Openmouthed and wide-eyed, Lettie stared at Alycia in shocked stupefaction. When she did finally find her voice it was shaky with amazement. “Diseased? Oh, dear Lord! Mistress, I did not mean to imply—
“Then what did you mean?” Alycia asked impatiently.
“Mistress,” Lettie moaned. “I dare not touch my lips to your cup! You are my lady’s niece. A white woman!”
Oh, God! The dawn broke in Alycia’s mind, showering her with enlightenment and mortification. By chatting in her usual gregarious way, she had, however innocently, committed a breach of social etiquette. Was it any wonder the woman was shocked? In an attempt to ease the sudden tension, Alycia rushed into an apology.
“Oh, Lettie, I am sorry!” she said contritely. “For a moment I forgot you are a slave.” The woman’s reaction astounded Alycia.
Lettie’s spine went military-straight, her shoulders squared, her chin tilted at a regal angle, and her eyes flashed.
“I am a free woman, mistress.” Lettie’s tone could only be described as imperious. “I do your aunt’s bidding because I choose to, not because I must.” If possible, her tone grew even haughtier. “I am bound to one man only, my husband, and that is also only because I choose it to be so.”
Good heavens, an eighteenth-century activist! Alycia was delighted by the thought. “But that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, leaning forward to clasp Lettie’s hand.
Lettie smiled and visibly relaxed. “Thank you, mistress.” Her smile turned wry. “And I thank you also for your offer to share your tea.”
Alycia’s eyes took on a devilish gleam. “We still could, you know,” she said, picking up the cup and holding it out in offering. “It will be our secret.”
Lettie hesitated, her frown revealing the inward battle she was waging against a lifetime of accepted social patterns. Her surrender came with a smile and a defiant toss of her capped head.
“I thank you, Mistress Alice,” she said with a quiet dignity as she took the cup.
Though unstated, both women knew that a friendship was forged with Lettie’s first swallow of the aromatic brew.
Fully expecting to awaken in her own bed at any moment, Alycia spent the entire morning bombarding Lettie with questions. She tentatively began with queries about herself—or the person Lettie believed her to be.
“Ah, Lettie, the blow I suffered to my head has left me a little confused,” Alycia began carefully when the woman had returned to the room after removing the breakfast tray. “I wonder if you might help me fill in the blank areas?”
A smile of compassion curving her lips, Lettie settled herself in the straight-backed chair beside the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “I would strike a bargain with you, mistress,” she replied.
Still sitting up in the bed with her back supported by two plump pillows, Alycia gazed at the other woman. “What sort of bargain?” she asked warily.
“If you will consent to lie down and rest,” Lettie responded, “I will endeavor to answer your questions.”
Much too curious to even consider rebellion, Alycia immediately complied. She commenced the interrogation the instant she was settled in a prone position.
“You mentioned my home in Philadelphia,” Alycia said, observing the other woman closely. Lettie’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded assent. “Why have I come here?” Alycia asked quickly.
Lettie
’s surprise was evident. “Mistress, surely you must remember the fear and anxiety your good father had for your safety should General Howe invade Philadelphia?” At Alycia’s uncertain nod, Lettie continued, “And that the decision was reached to send you to his sister, your aunt Caroline, here in Virginia?”
Recalling the man in the coach informing her that “home” was some ten miles outside of Williamsburg, Alycia nodded again. Lettie’s explanation made sense—for that period of history. Suddenly Alycia remembered the date Lettie had given her earlier. Yes, by August of 1777 there had been a growing certainty that Howe was headed for Philadelphia! A forecast, she mused, that would soon prove to be correct.
Alycia was quiet for some minutes before she posed her next question. “I have very little memory of the accident,” she said, glancing sideways at Lettie. “Do you know anything about how it happened?”
Lettie appeared to understand Alycia’s confusion concerning the accident. “Yes,” she replied at once. “Your aunt Caroline told me of your misfortune. It seems that a severe thunderstorm developed while your aunt and uncle were waiting as planned for your arrival in Richmond. They were later informed that your coach horses bolted during the storm and your coach was upset, flinging you to the roadway, where you struck your head. Your father’s coachmen took you to Richmond and placed you in the care of your aunt and uncle, who then brought you here to the plantation.” Her lips curved into that gentle smile of compassion. “Do you not recall any of it, mistress?”
“Yes, some,” Alycia replied absently. So, she was thinking, the man and woman in the coach were Alice’s aunt and uncle. Now if she only knew who Alice was.
Alycia considered questioning Lettie, then gave up the idea as unwise, positive the woman would think she was completely mad. Also, she was growing very tired. Her eyelids were too heavy to hold open and they descended slowly but inexorably. She was drifting in the shadowy realm between wakefulness and sleep when a sudden shaft of pain speared through her head. Crying out, she opened her eyes. Oh, God! The light! It was too bright, too glaring. It hurt! It hurt!
Sean!
“It’s all right, I’m here. I’m with you. I’ll always be with you.”
At first Alycia thought the voice belonged to Lettie, but then she recognized it as Sean’s. She wanted to talk to him, cry out to him, plead with him to take her home. Too late. His beloved voice was gone and in its stead Alycia heard and identified the soothing tones of Lettie’s voice.
“I am here, Mistress Alice. Sleep now and heal.”
* * * *
Someone was speaking. There were two voices, both female, pitched low, soft. Karla? Andrea? Excitement rushed through Alycia, waking her fully. As her eyes blinked open, disappointment shuddered through her. She had been dreaming that she was at home. Karla and Andrea had been fussing over her while Sean looked on, smiling, his hand clasped possessively around hers. But she wasn’t at home. She was in the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar bed, dressed in a gown trimmed at the high neck and cuffs with wide bands of lace. Lettie and Aunt Caroline stood near the door, conversing in low tones.
Alycia shut her eyes against a rush of hot tears. It wasn’t real. It was only a dream, she told herself, only a dream. But she had been dreaming! The realization brought a frown to Alycia’s face. She had been dreaming she was at home, safe with Sean and Karla and Andrea. Was it possible to have a dream while dreaming? Alycia moved her head restlessly on the pillow. The slight rustle of her movement caught Lettie’s attention.
Within seconds the tall woman was beside the bed and holding a cup to Alycia’s parched lips. Alycia drank greedily, grimacing at the bitter taste of the herb tea.
“No more, please,” she muttered, pushing the cup away as she sat up.
“Mistress Alice ...” Lettie began in protest.
“Oh, my dear!” Caroline exclaimed.
Alycia waved them both to silence. “I’m tired of lying in bed,” she said with quiet determination. “I’m getting up and I’m getting dressed.” She was moving before she’d finished speaking. Ignoring the murmured protests from the other two women, Alycia slid off the bed. She swayed slightly, but Lettie steadied her with one strong hand.
Surprisingly, once Alycia was on her feet she discovered she really didn’t feel all that weak. And, though her body felt slightly stiff, the pain in her head was gone.
“You see?” Alycia smiled at the two women. “I’m fine.” Her smile gave way to a frown. “Or at least I will be after I’ve had a bath. It is very warm, isn’t it?” She glanced from Lettie to Caroline.
“A bath?” Caroline repeated, in what appeared to be stunned disbelief.
“Is it not this warm in August in Philadelphia?” Lettie inquired in a baffled tone.
The questions from the women put Alycia on alert. She had momentarily forgotten where she was and what year it was. Was it any wonder that Caroline had looked astounded at Alycia’s request for a bath! She had also forgotten where she was supposed to be from—-thus the question from Lettie. And to top it off, she had forgotten to monitor her speech.
This was getting ridiculous! Alycia sighed. But, dream or not, she knew she had little choice but to try to blend into her present situation. She addressed Lettie’s question first.
“Yes, the days are very hot in August in Philadelphia,” she said patiently, raising her hands to undo the tiny buttons at her throat. As she slipped the buttons through the small holes, Alycia smiled at Caroline. “And, yes, please, I would appreciate a bath.” She paused, then added, “An all-over bath. ‘Tis the latest fashion in Philadelphia.” Alycia knew the last to be a blatant historical lie; she only hoped Caroline didn’t know it.
Very obviously Caroline didn’t have the least idea what the latest fashions were in Philadelphia, for she immediately agreed to having the ungainly metal tub filled with tepid water. The instant Caroline left the room to order water for the bath, Alycia tugged the perspiration-damp gown over her head.
“I will need fresh clothes,” she told Lettie as she drew the long sleeves down her arms.
“Of course,” the woman replied. “I will lay them out for you.”
Alycia freed her arms from the sleeves as Lettie turned to the tallboy. The sight of her naked wrist froze Alycia where she stood. Her wrist chain was gone! The realization sent her hand flying to her throat. It was as free of adornment as her wrist. Her chain! Sean’s chain! They were gone. Both gone! A feeling of dread washed over Alycia.
Perhaps she wasn’t dreaming, after all.
Sean! She had lost him. Somehow, some way, in a manner she couldn’t understand and could barely accept, she had entered an earlier dimension of time and was separated from the man she loved by a span of over two hundred years!
Sean! Alycia felt her own silent cry to the depths of her grieving soul.
* * *
Chapter 8
Acceptance of the situation came slowly but inevitably to Alycia. As one hot day melted into another, she was left with little choice but to accept the mind-boggling realization that she had apparently been caught within the whirlwind of some type of time warp, very possibly activated at the moment her car made impact with that crazily careening pickup truck. It was strange. It was eerie. But there it was.
It was almost funny. Almost. Alycia just couldn’t derive much amusement from the knowledge that she found herself in a place she had studied and thought she knew, but really didn’t know at all. She couldn’t find much to laugh about in the trauma of cultural shock, either.
Then, of course, there was the matter of clothes. Alycia had never particularly admired the fashions of the Revolutionary period. Finding herself forced by necessity to wear the garments, Alycia concluded that she didn’t merely dislike the styles, she absolutely hated them. The clothes were heavy and hot, what with the hoops and the petticoats, usually quilted, worn beneath a full skirt of chintz or dimity. The bodices were all cut basically the same, dipping low in front with little tabs at the waist. The
stiff panel set in the front, Alycia soon learned, was called a stomacher. The bodies all had sleeves to just below the elbow and were finished with lace ruffles. The single undergarment was a long shift, also with sleeves to below the elbow; these sleeves, Alycia discovered, were considered unsightly at the time and were never revealed. Her shoes all had tiny heels and were made of serge silk or brocade.
Alycia longed for her jeans, loose pullover tops, and comfortable running shoes. Not to mention her .deodorant, blow-dryer, cosmetics, and sanitary products. Not a morning dawned that she didn’t wish for a stinging shower before facing another hot, inactive day. And, to her way of thinking, “inactivity” was the key word.
Accustomed to being busy, if not flat-out rushed off her feet, Alycia had a problem adjusting to the role of a woman in the late eighteenth century, particularly that of a woman who happened to be a member of a wealthy landowner’s family. As far as Alycia could ascertain, women under the protection of a wealthy man spent their days practicing the magnification of trivialities.
To a woman used to the pace of the technological age, the trivialities were maddening. Alycia detested the morning ritual of dressing and having her hair done, all of which should not have required more than an hour at best, but which always consumed most of the morning. And after Alycia was attired to her aunt Caroline’s taste, the day progressed into utter boredom.
By the end of her first week at the plantation, Alycia was thoroughly fed up with the busywork of embroidery, reading, and faithfully adding each day’s entry in the diary the real Alice had so assiduously filled by recounting equally mundane activities. By the end of that first week, Alycia had decided that the reason most women of the period died young was not because they worked too hard, but simply because they were bored to death.
And there were days Alycia would have welcomed death herself. Though she had become friends with Lettie and had grown to genuinely like her aunt and uncle, Alycia yearned for the sight of Sean, and of home. She mourned for Sean as if she had actually lost him to death, which in a way she had.