The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  The idea of secret factions at work makes Jane’s blood freeze. She is positive now an attempt was made on her since she’s been in this time. However, she is not sure from which side or why. The fortune-teller in Savannah, Madame Néve.

  Impressions of her weird session with the mysterious woman and the incident of her jewelry box and Lover’s Eye ring flit through her mind. The antique jewelry box that she left in 2012 was literally thrust into her lap outside Néve’s business. Her Lover’s Eye ring, she also left in the future, was found on Madame’s runaway slave. On top of that, the fortune-teller stole her Lincoln penny. It reappeared at Fort Pulaski a year later when Bryce said the strange men wrestled him off to Chancellorsville to save General Stonewall Jackson’s life.

  A chill colder than the wind that whips across the Prince Piper’s bow runs through her body. Matt said the fortune-teller’s waterlogged corpse was pulled from the Savannah River not long after Jane and Mary fled the city for Tohidu. There is a chance she was murdered.

  Sophie studies Jane’s worried expression. Her friend has her spyglass to her eye again.

  “You asked if Cadbury is a Tracker?” Sophie thinks on this a second or two. “I guess there’s no way of telling really. There are players in both factions,” she says, shooting a quick look at Colette. “But my gut says no.”

  She summarizes, hoping to put Jane at ease. “He was just poking around. Hearing there’s a hospital nurse called the Mystifying Ghost Lady sounds like a good story, you gotta admit. Cadbury was looking for a Southern woman and described you to a tee. When you were fired, he got wind of it and had one of his snoops follow your trunk to Mrs. Finch’s. It was delivered to Colette. The man thought he had chased you down. I put a lid on it. Case closed.”

  Getting rid of Cadbury was a piece of cake. Of course, Sophie’s behavior was no less than bloody outrageous. She dropped the ‘P’ word and expressed sorrow in losing her hourglass figure. She said she craved pickles to the point it might give her baby a sour disposition. In the same breath she asked if he could tell she was pregnant. By the time Sophie crassly referred to herself as about to pop the stays of her corset, the poor man was beside himself. Cadbury’s eyes literally crossed at the sight of her rubbing her baby bump. Sophie hates Victorian stuffiness, but thinks she rather enjoys the simplicity of social virtues in this time. It gives her — a quick-witted, gritty, well-informed, and independently modern woman — a cool advantage.

  “Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Cadbury was flawlessly polite,” Sophie says, faking a yawn with her fingers to her mouth, “But I could see he was major flustered. He got red in the face when I said there was no trunk, no Miss Peterson, and my servant was with me the whole time. That’s when I dropped the baby bomb,” she giggles. “He apologized profusely and tripped over a stool on his way to the door.”

  “My reputation has followed me to Boston,” Jane moans.

  “Mystifying Ghost Lady, huh?” Sophie is impressed.

  “Well, how could the men explain someone who appeared from out of nowhere? The garrison believed I was a bad omen that spelled doom. Colonel Olmstead was forced to surrender Fort Pulaski to Union troops before it was blown to bits.” Jane sighs, “Naturally, I already knew what the outcome would be.”

  “You were there,” Colette says with excitement. “The siege and reduction of Fort Pulaski. I have studied this. It rendered all forts obsolete.”

  “Yes. It was a dreadful fight with heavy artillery and cannon balls raining down, shattering everything in their path. It breached the walls. Something they thought would never happen. But it did.”

  Colette nods, understanding the significance of this particular battle. “The Federals have a new cannon, no?”

  “That’s right.” Jane continues, “The soldiers were under great pressure. They needed something or someone to blame. That would be me. Some really thought I was an apparition of some kind. Not everyone believed it, though. Lieutenant Hopkins,” she pauses, “Matt has been promoted to Major since that time. He ordered his men to cease the nonsense. The story circulated anyway. It evidently haunts me to this day.”

  “Ah, you met your true love in the heat of battle. Your gallant officer. This gentleman you cannot breathe without,” Colette smiles happily.

  Jane smiles too. “You might say. But it was a bad time.”

  “What happened next?” Sophie asks. Living in modern-day Savannah and having an interest in architecture and the renovation of historic properties, she has an appreciation for Fort Pulaski.

  “Well, Union troops swooped in and arrangements were made for my release. Matt set me up with his family. His mother in Savannah. Anna was gracious enough to take me in.”

  The sound of crying gulls and the piercing blast of the Prince Piper’s whistle move their attention to something else for a time.

  Finally, Sophie asks evenly, “Are you all right, Jane?” The slow unraveling of her friend’s emotions is reassuring to her. She hopes they can make amends. “I just feel so awful about—”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Soph,” Jane abruptly straightens. “I have had plenty of time to think about, you know, all this,” she says, flipping her hand dramatically. “I believe there is a reason for everything. Matt believes God is working in our lives, even now, even under these astounding circumstances. If I hadn’t gone through the portal, I would have never known my husband. My life, the people I love, the good friendships I have made along the way would have never come to be. I made up my mind a long time ago to say goodbye to my old existence. This world, this life is real and I have a place in it.”

  Now and then the wind from the harbor invades their space with the bitter nippiness of coming winter. It penetrates their clothes and burns their faces. Jane tightens her knitted scarf around her neck. She could really use that fur muff Mrs. Paddy had loaned her. There is almost no sensation in the tips of her fingers. Her gloves will be no match for winter weather.

  Jane’s thoughts roam to the sick and wounded men in her hospital ward. “Mean rumors and Mr. Cadbury’s prying is probably what got me fired,” she announces. “I thought it was something I did. It hurts to think about,” her voice drops. “My patients need me.”

  Sophie has no words. Instead, she puts her arm around Jane’s shoulder. She is relieved her friend does not recoil. Suddenly, Jane’s arm is around Sophie’s waist, drawing them even closer. The two stand for a minute, heads together, bonnets touching, feeling warmed and united on many fronts.

  Colette knows Sophie and Jane need their time. She had stood quietly by, until this moment. “The French say, nous avoir besoin l'un de l'autre. In short, we all need one another. We must accept ourselves as we are and love ourselves as we are each day,” she says thoughtfully, brushing at flecks of oily ash on the sleeve of her coat that leave tiny streaks.

  “Mon dieu! Our clothes are getting absolutely filthy,” Colette complains haughtily. “If we stay on this primitive, soot-belching monstrosity much longer, they will be ruined.”

  Chapter 72

  MORE SUITABLE LODGING

  When the three ragtag and weary women arrive at Mrs. Kingston’s House for Women Patrons a clock greets them with four metallic clangs denoting the time. The wintry sun gives off a light low in the sky and the temperature has dropped considerably.

  “Miss Peterson,” Mrs. Kingston says, somewhat taken aback. “What a surprise.” She had not expected to see the woman with the Southern accent again.

  “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this.” Jane introduces Sophie and Colette.

  “You have a cold, Mrs. Kingston.” Jane notices the woman is terribly congested. “Warm broth, plenty of fluids and a hot bath. Breathing in steam helps the sinuses. And if your throat is sore, gargle with salt water,” she offers. She would like to add frequent hand-washing will help keep others from getting sick, but thinks Mrs. Kingston might take it the wrong way. People in this time don’t understand germs and how they spread.

  “My-my!
I thank you for your solicitous gesture of good will, Miss Peterson. You, dear ladies, are just in time for tea,” Mrs. Kingston announces with a wet sneeze into her hankie. Curiosity and a charitable heart will not allow her to turn the women away. “I especially enjoy the ritual on a blustery day like this,” she smiles and sniffs. “It will take but a minute. I make it myself.”

  Jane sees this as a clever ploy to size them up. Mrs. Kingston can obviously deduce why they have knocked on her door. She glances at Sophie. The last thing they need is to get sick. Hopefully this visit will pay off and they will have a place to sleep tonight.

  Accepting Mrs. Kingston’s offer is draining to say the least. Jane, Sophie and Colette manage to paste phony smiles on their faces and thank the woman for her kindness when they want nothing more than to rest and unwind.

  Soon, Mrs. Kingston comes bustling into the room holding her silver tea tray as if it were a pair of reins on a spirited pony. Like a medicinal spritz, the hot brew and blazing fire in her parlor satisfies. The trio politely listens, happy to let Mrs. Kingston chatter like a jay about her typical day as a landlady.

  During a brief lull, Colette asks if she might find work on the island as a seamstress. At this, the conversation becomes more interesting. The woman clicks her tongue, wipes her drippy nose, and launches into a series of complaints.

  Mrs. Kingston tells them the miserable pittance seamstresses receive is scarcely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Apparently, Colette hit a nerve.

  “Their prospects, anymore, are no brighter than the almshouse,” Mrs. Kingston fans herself, heated by her displeasure. “And I tell you, our factories are not much better. Wages are a cunning device of the devil,” she says crossly. “It is designed to benefit those who would retain all the recompense of slaveholder without the expense and trouble.”

  Mrs. Kingston’s eyes slant to Colette briefly, then turn back to Jane where most of her attention during their visit falls. “My poor, poor worthy and most virtuous girls. I do what I can.”

  Beyond that, Mrs. Kingston is cordial but tight-lipped. She accepts their payment for one night’s stay. There is no excuse given for her decision to put them out in the morning. To help, however, she recommends a Mr. and Mrs. Alvin Staff for suitable lodging. She scribbles directions on a small scrap of paper.

  That evening, a light supper is brought to their meager room with apologies for not having appropriate space at the community table. The three women share a bar of soap to wash their hands and faces thoroughly. Their sleep is restless, not knowing what the new day will bring.

  At dawn, Jane, Sophie and Colette are provided a hot breakfast of oatmeal. They are advised to dress warm. It is a considerable walk to Mr. and Mrs. Staff’s modest home nestled in rock, vegetation and dunes of drifting sand on the outskirts of town.

  Surveying their environment, Sophie scoffs, “What did Mrs. Kingston say? Suitable? It looks a whole lot to me like we’re on the bloody wrong side of the tracks.”

  She hands a medium-size carpetbag off to Colette and reties her bonnet. They have been taking turns carrying the heavy bag and passing the only parasol they have between them. Smaller necessities are stuffed into Jane and Sophie’s reticules. They will send for their trunks as soon as they get settled. Mrs. Kingston was kind enough to temporarily store them and declined additional compensation for her trouble.

  Colette nudges Sophie playfully, “But madame, we are right on the ocean. This will be prime real estate one day.” The coastline’s raw beauty cannot be denied.

  “It’s a million dollar view. And I betcha at a bargain price,” Jane laughs. She sifts a handful of light-gray granules through her fingers and stifles the quirky impulse to pull off her shoes and stockings and feel the coarse sand between her toes. A cloudy memory reminds her of the many layers of clothing that restrict her movement. Where is the girl who once frolicked freely in the surf and soaked up the sun’s rays in her bikini having the time of her life? So long ago, she sighs.

  Tugging her gloves back on, Jane sets off, “Come on, y’all. Let’s see what we can do about getting a room.”

  The rustic cottage, built in Italianate style, is in sorry need of repair. Decades of salt air from the Atlantic have rusted hinges and doorknobs. Paint has peeled away from surfaces. Over half the shutters are misaligned. Once inside, though, it is unexpectedly cozy.

  Ida Staff, who is on in years with hair as white as snow, keeps a clean yet cluttered house. Sensing her visitors’ scrutiny, she trills with wit, “Indeed, a home is not a home unless it is lived in.” Ida may be in her seventies and frail in body, but her mind is as sharp as a tack.

  “We have come to ask about a room,” Jane smiles.

  “A room? Oh dear, I hope you have not gone to any trouble coming here.” Ida notices the carpetbag the women carry.

  “This is a boarding house—”

  “Oh, yes. But, well.”

  When Ida sees the women’s sunny faces suddenly threaten despair, “Here now, my doves, leave your things over there. If you are inquiring about a room, you will need to speak with my husband.”

  “Thank you so much. Mr. Staff is home then?” Jane asks carefully.

  “Holed up in his study like most days, lately,” Ida chuckles genially. She is missing two teeth. “I didn’t see a buggy—” Glancing down, the women’s skirts have a light coating of sand. Ida thinks their shoes must be in similar condition.

  Jane catches the look. “We walked from town, Mrs. Staff.”

  “Oh, you poor things. Call me Ida. And you are?”

  “I’m Jane. These are my friends, Sophie and Colette.”

  “We don’t get much company out here. By chance, do any of you need to use the outhouse?” When Ida gets two out of three nods, “This way girls. I’m sure you’ll want to tidy up a bit.”

  On the way to the privy, Jane checks one more time with her friends. “You still want me to be the spokesperson,” she whispers. The decision had been made in a rush of valid reasons. It appears they are sticking to it.

  “Okay then, as long as you back me up.”

  Sophie and Colette bob their heads. They maintain Jane can do a better job of negotiating. Jane is not so sure about that, but she does have the most hands-on experience in this time.

  Chapter 73

  NAIL-BITING SNAIL’S PACE

  Alvin Staff sits at his desk like the master of a ship. It is obvious the man is younger than his wife by a number of years. Although there are few similarities otherwise, something about his bearing makes Jane think of Captain McIntosh at Sea Oaks.

  Looking around the dimly lit study with mahogany trim and heavy wooden beams on the ceiling, she notices nautical touches that confirm her opinion. It is also hard to miss the books and newspapers stacked on every surface. Mr. Staff is either an avid reader or a compulsive hoarder, or maybe both.

  The conversation begins with formalities as etiquette of the day demands. After a round of introductions, Mrs. Staff quickly excuses herself and Mr. Staff gets straight to the meat of things.

  “So, you need a place to stay,” Alvin says, clearing his throat. He rustles through some dusty papers, more so to mitigate his restless energy than for actual purpose. “We have not received boarders into this house for some time,” he comments curtly.

  “Then there is a vacancy. We hope you will consider us.”

  “And why should I?”

  “Mrs. Margaret Kingston recommended you,” Jane offers demurely and detects a flicker of recognition on the man’s face, scarred and toughened by exposure to sun and brine. Like so many times before, she reminds herself, keep it simple.

  “She did, did she?” Alvin’s forehead wrinkles.

  “Yes, you are highly recommended,” Jane stretches the truth a little.

  “Mrs. Kingston, you say?” Alvin sniffs loudly and charily sweeps Miss Peterson’s companions with quick beady eyes that emphasize a large bumpy nose. The women sit erect in their chairs, still as stone statues. The
blonde Amazon draped in black and the smaller dark-skinned Negro are as quiet as church mice.

  He proceeds, “Forgive my curiosity. What part of the South are you from, Miss Peterson?”

  Jane holds steady, “Georgia, sir.” It is a reasonable question.

  “Ah, the fifth state to secede from the Union.”

  “I have escaped the unpleasantness like so many, but I admit my accent gives me difficulty sometimes.”

  “That may be,” Alvin considers, benignly. He takes up his pipe, taps it on the palm of his hand a couple of times, and reaches in his pocket for a satchel of tobacco.

  Jane is about to ask Mr. Staff not to smoke, but a slight jerk from Sophie tells her to leave it be.

  “The war,” Alvin shakes his head, “It has torn this country in two. Each side has its own complaint. One is as good as the other, I dare say. Depending on how you look at it. My dearly departed mother and father, God rest their souls, resided in South Carolina. Charleston, to be precise.”

  Mr. Staff pinches a small batch of tobacco in the opening of his revered pipe and tamps it evenly with a tool. It is a distinct activity in the realm of rituals that produces feelings of contemplation and order.

  “Are you familiar with Charleston, Miss Peterson?”

  “Yes, uh—”

  “Such a charming city. I played on the shore when I was a boy, collecting seashells and dreaming of freedom, adventure and untold treasures.” Alvin’s eyes briefly glaze over, “Aye, it was my first taste of the sea. A lifelong love of mine.”

  Jane is about ready to scream. The man moves at a nail-biting snail’s pace. She is beginning to think the ax will fall any minute.

  “You have family?”

  “Yes, of course.” Jane makes a point, “They are in the South.”

  “Interesting. Boston is a long way from Georgia. What part, did you say?” His attention moves to Sophie again, but he makes no further comment.

  “I didn’t say,” Jane remarks, crossing her feet in agitation. “If you must know, Savannah is my hometown, Mr. Staff.”