by Sherry Lewis
Sighing softly, she tore herself away from the view. “Lead on, Meg. I’m ready to see the rest.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we continued your tour later.”
“Oh, but I can’t wait. I need to see everything now.” She closed some of the distance between them again, but stopped at Meg’s sudden frown. “Have I offended you?”
“No, Madame.” Meg’s cheeks flushed so brightly, Shelby knew it was a lie. “But I do have chores to finish before the end of the day and your luncheon and dinner to prepare.”
“Don’t worry about meals. I won’t be around that long.” Surely she’d wake up any minute and find the house deserted, dusty, and disheveled once again. “I wonder if Winterhill is as grand as this place,” she said, more to herself than to Meg. “I’d like to see it while I’m still asleep.”
That seemed to cause Meg even more distress. “You want to see Winterhill?”
Shelby laughed at her stricken expression. “Is that bad? Out of character? I’m sorry, Meg. It’s just that I’m not used to being Agatha Logan. I’m not certain how she’d act.” She settled herself on the edge of the bed and arranged her skirts carefully. “Why don’t you tell me how she’d behave?”
Meg’s mouth fell open, but she clamped it shut quickly. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “You are a fine lady, Madame. From one of the best families in Hannibal.”
“I know that,” Shelby assured her. “That’s in all the books. But what about Agatha? What makes her tick?”
“Tick, Madame?”
“What drives her? What pushes her buttons?”
Meg’s brows knit and her cheeks flamed again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“What motivates her, Meg? I assume she has reasons for what she does.”
“I’m quite certain of that, Madame.”
“Well? What are they?”
Meg’s fingers flew nervously across the lace on her collar. “You would know that better than I would.”
“Well, I don’t. And I want to know what you think they are.”
Meg studied her for a long moment. “I think,” she said at last, “that you are lonely.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Why do you suppose she’s lonely?”
“Because. . . ” Meg’s eyes locked onto hers. Another deep breath for courage. “Because you . . . because she has been hurt.”
Shelby held back a shout of triumph. She was right. Agatha wasn’t crazy. “How was she hurt? What happened?”
“We never speak of that time, Madame.”
Shelby smoothed the fabric of her skirts and wondered why her dream characters were so stubbornly tight-lipped. She made a conscious effort to mentally loosen Meg’s tongue. “I want to speak of that time,” she insisted.
“I am only following your instructions, Madame.”
“That’s nice, but I’m changing my instructions. Do you think she’s . . . that I’m crazy?”
Meg’s gaze danced around the room, but it never lit on anything for long. “No.”
Shelby ran out of breath and stood again. “Neither do I. But I wish I knew how to prove that.”
“To whom, Madame?”
“To everyone. To Zacharias, and the people in town, and to people who’ll live a hundred and thirty years from now.”
Meg’s brow furrowed. “Yes, Madame.”
“You don’t have to keep calling me Madame, you know.”
“No, Madame.”
“I’m serious.” She stood to face Meg. “Until I leave, I’d rather have you call me—” If she asked Meg to call her Shelby, Meg would think she was crazy. “Call me Agatha.”
“As I did when you were a child, Madame?”
“Exactly.” Impulsively, she grabbed Meg’s hand and tugged her from the room. “Come on. Show me the rest of the house before I wake up.”
Meg went along for a few steps, then ground to a halt and looked at her with such worry, Shelby felt a pang of guilt. “I don’t care what anyone says, Madame, I think we should have the doctor in. You aren’t yourself.”
Shelby laughed, surprised at the way the sound echoed in the cavernous house. She’d never had a dream that seemed so utterly real before. “You’re right about that,” she said. “But I don’t want to waste even a moment of the time I have here worrying about doctors.”
“Still—”
“No.” She moved away again toward the magnificent staircase that cut through the middle of the house. “If you won’t show me the rest, I’ll explore on my own.”
To her surprise, Meg stood her ground. “I won’t show you the rest, Madame. Not until you’ve seen the doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is something wrong, Madame. You aren’t acting like yourself at all. And when you become yourself again and think back on this experience, you will not be happy.”
“It won’t matter, Meg. This isn’t real. None of this is real. You’re not even real.”
“Please, Madame.”
Shelby wanted to refuse again, but Meg looked so worried she finally relented. “Oh, all right. I’ll lie down for a while. Will that make you happy?”
Meg nodded hesitantly.
“But no doctor.”
“If you say so, Madame.”
“I do.” She followed Meg back to the large bedroom and stepped inside. She allowed Meg to help her lie on the bed and even closed her eyes just to wipe some of the concern from Meg’s kind face. But when she heard Meg walk away and close the door, she also heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her heart thundered. It had been such a lovely dream. Such a lovely, lovely dream, but now it had turned into one of her nightmares. She tried to sit up but the damned corset made her flop backward again. Feeling like a grounded seal, she rolled to her side and lowered her feet to the floor, then pushed herself up from the bed.
Any minute now, she’d wake up, drenched in sweat, exhausted from the effort. Any minute now. But that didn’t stop her from racing across the room and trying the door. Or from pounding on it with her fists when it refused to respond to her efforts.
She hated being locked up. Hated being constrained. And she couldn’t seem to rid herself of the nightmares where it happened.
Shouting, she pounded again, but Meg didn’t come back. Shelby didn’t expect her to. Nobody ever came back. But that didn’t stop her from pounding until shafts of pain zinged through her arms and shouting until her throat began to hurt.
It was the pain that finally made her start to wonder. She never felt physical pain in her dreams. Never. Fear, yes. Pain, no.
She took a calming breath, then pinched her arm hard enough to jolt anyone out of a dream. It did nothing except hurt. She bit her lip, then released it quickly.
If this wasn’t a dream, what was it?
She crossed to the mirror and studied her reflection—or, rather, Agatha’s. She couldn’t actually be Agatha, could she? No. That was ridiculous. Impossible.
Crazy.
She pinched her cheek and winched at the sudden sharp pain. Okay. . . This was almost like an episode Quantum Leap, of one of her favorite old television shows. It was almost as if she’d been transported through time and dumped into Agatha Logan’s stiff, prim body.
But that was impossible! Wasn’t it?
She ran her fingers across Agatha’s face and stared into her eyes. She looked at the breakfast tray, listened to the sound of a tugboat whistle, and the sound of a train clacking across rails in the distance. Not only could it happen, but it had.
She didn’t know how and she couldn’t imagine why, but she was Agatha Logan.
THREE
Fighting the rising tide of panic, Shelby paced from one end of the bedroom to the other, pausing occasionally to look out one of the windows overlooking the shaded lane, the broad circular drive, and the rolling expanse of lawn and formal gardens separating Summervale from the main road. A train whistle s
hattered the stillness and set her nerves jangling. Far below, she could see the river through the trees and the river traffic that only made her more convinced she’d really made a gigantic leap through time.
The familiar panic she’d felt as a child when she was ripped from one foster home and dropped into another sang through her veins. No amount of positive self-talk made her feel better.
Then, as now, she’d had no idea what behavior her new “family” would consider appropriate. No idea how to think or act or behave. No clue as to whether tears would be met with hugs or anger. She’d learned to school her expression and hide her emotions, and that’s exactly what she wanted to do now. Nothing else would be quite safe.
She felt marginally better for a few seconds, then reality came crashing down around her again. Meg had told her it was the first of May, 1871. The date hadn’t meant anything to her before, but now that she had a moment to think, she remembered that Agatha had died in early June of the same year. Is that why she’d been zapped into the past?
Meg had locked her in the bedroom, which probably meant she’d sent for the doctor, after all. But how would Shelby ever pass herself off as Agatha to the physician’s probing eyes? If the doctor knew Agatha well, Shelby would fail miserably. She could only hope that Agatha had already cut herself off so completely from the outside world that no one other than Meg and Colin really knew her.
Pacing back and forth in front of the windows, she tried to remember everything she’d ever read about life in the 1870s. But even if she could remember a few details they wouldn’t tell her how Agatha had occupied her days, or what she’d done in the evenings, or what she liked to eat, or how she reacted to stress, or . . . or any one of a zillion other things.
The only bright spots Shelby could find were that Agatha hadn’t been fond of entertaining, so her audience would be limited. And that Agatha and Zacharias were estranged, so she wouldn’t have to pretend to be some strange man’s loving wife. If Shelby only had to fool Meg and Colin and the occasional stray doctor, she might be able to pull off the deception for a little while.
A pang of sympathy tore through her when she thought of Agatha cooped up in this house—lovely though it was—without anyone but Meg and Colin for company. Without telephones. Without television. Without friends. Really, the poor woman had a miserable existence. And that existence, at least for the time being, was Shelby’s.
What a depressing thought.
She started to turn away from the window, but the sight of a massive brown horse and an equally massive rider making their way up the drive caught her eye. As he drew closer to the house, his gleaming black top hat kept his face shielded from view, but she recognized the quality of his pearl gray coat, the breeches that stretched taut across his thighs, and the polished boots that gleamed in the late morning sun.
Obviously, the doctor had arrived. It was time for Shelby to give the performance of her life.
While Meg admitted the doctor to the house, she tried to decide which Agatha was most likely to do—lie on the bed to wait, or remain standing. She decided on the latter. Agatha had survived many years alone in this house. She’d endured gossip and scorn. She must have been a strong woman. But Shelby certainly didn’t feel strong when she heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs. And when the key turned in the lock a moment later, her heart began to thud with dread.
Pasting on a mask of courage, she turned toward the door.
Meg, flushed and anxious, appeared first. “I’m sorry, Madame. I—”
Before she could finish, a tall blond man with angular features and chiseled jawbone, pushed past her into the room. “What kind of nonsense are you pulling this time?”
The attack caught Shelby off-guard. She took an involuntary step backward, caught herself, and forced herself to stand up to him. He looked vaguely familiar, but Shelby figured she’d probably come across his picture in the historical society’s archives. While most of the old pictures she’d seen were flat, faded gray or yellowed images of stern, unyielding faces, this man was very much alive. So alive she could almost feel the energy radiating from him.
It didn’t take much effort to keep her voice cool and haughty. The attack was totally unwarranted and completely unprofessional. “I beg your pardon.”
“I’m sorry, Madame.” Meg said again, twisting her hands together in front of her. “I asked Colin to fetch the doctor. I had no idea he would do this.”
Then this wasn’t the doctor? Shelby let her gaze travel over the man again, more slowly this time. She took in the broad forehead, the slightly patrician nose, the clenched jaw and thin lips.
“Zacharias?” The name escaped before she had a chance to stop it.
She seemed to catch him by surprise and that put them on more equal footing for a moment. But no more than that. He stared at her and curled his lip in disdain. “You’re actually speaking to me? To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The venom in his voice surprised her. Whatever had driven Agatha and Zacharias apart had certainly left him angry. Perhaps Agatha was angry, as well, but Shelby didn’t have a lot of anger in her. “I haven’t been myself this morning,” she said honestly.
“So I hear.” He took a step further into the room. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but Colin seemed inordinately worried.” He let his gaze roam her face for a second or two. “I suppose now I can understand why.”
“I seem different, then?”
He laughed harshly, one bitter note that tore a gasp from Meg who still hovered near the door. It brought him around to face her. “What do you think, Meg? Does she seem different to you?”
Meg nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Well,” he said, turning back toward Shelby, his movements outwardly languid but rife with tension below the surface. “There you have it. I suppose it’s too much to hope for an explanation.”
Shelby did her best not to look nervous, not to clutch the fabric of her skirts or reach for a lock of hair to twist around her finger as she’d always done when something frightened her. “If I had an explanation,” she assured him, “I’d certainly give it to you.”
“Would you? How interesting.” Zacharias motioned for Meg to leave them alone, which sent another wave of panic through Shelby. Meg closed the door slowly, almost as if she was reluctant to do so. When they were alone, Zacharias smiled coldly. “What is your game, Agatha?”
“Game?”
“Ho! She speaks again. Tell me, how am I expected to react to this sudden change?” He began to pace, following the path she’d created earlier, and he spoke to the walls and furniture as if she wasn’t there. “Am I to be flattered? No, I think not. She would have me believe that she is confused, perhaps even unwell. But Agatha would not allow herself to be unwell. It would be a . . . ” He glanced at her from beneath furrowed brows, and the hatred she saw in his eyes shocked her. “. . . A weakness of the flesh. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
“I—”
He cut her off before she could stammer anything more. “Furthermore,” he said to the mantle, “I know Agatha does nothing without reason. A cold, calculated reason. So, what do you suppose she has up her sleeve?” He stopped pacing and faced the mirror. “You have noticed, I presume, that I have been allowed to invade the sacred bedchamber and am still alive to tell the tale.”
His sarcasm made her angry and she lashed back without thinking. “If this is so distasteful to you, why did you bother coming?”
“I came,” he said carefully, “because Colin convinced me that you were ill. But now that I see you looking quite healthy, indeed, I wonder why you sent for me.”
“I didn’t send for you,” she protested. “I had no idea Colin would fetch you.”
“No?” His brows knit a bit further.
“No. And if I’d had any idea you were going to be so thoroughly disagreeable, I never would have let you in.”
His mouth twisted bitterly. “That is one threat that no longer has any power
over me, my dear.”
Shelby didn’t miss the nuances behind that statement, and it gave her a bit of courage. “But it did once?”
“As you know only too well.”
She let her eyes stay locked with his for a moment. Who would ever have imagined that his eyes would be so blue or full of fire? The portrait on the wall at Winterhill certainly hadn’t done him justice. It had captured the likeness, but not the essence. And the essence charged the air between them.
He looked away quickly, but not before she saw the flicker of something unexpected beneath the anger.
Thinking quickly, she decided to offer an explanation for her seeming confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” she said with a weak smile. “I seem to have lost my memory.”
Concern darted across his face, but it disappeared almost immediately. “Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“How did that unfortunate circumstance come about?”
“I really don’t know. I awoke feeling weak and disoriented, and unable to remember anything at all. Maybe we should talk about this . . . situation . . . between us.”
He stiffened his shoulders and plunged his hands into his pockets. “Is that why you’ve lured me here? So you can see me humble myself to you?”
Shelby held up a hand in protest. “No, of course not.”
“Well, that’s good. Because it won’t happen. I’ve humbled myself for the last time, Agatha. I told you that years ago.”
“I just think it might be wise to talk about it.”
“It is wise,” he snarled, “to continue as we have been.” He reached for the door handle as if he intended to walk out without telling her anything.
She bit her lip and thought quickly. “What about the children? We do have to consider them.”
Zacharias froze with his hand in mid-air. A dozen different emotions flashed across his face and through his eyes. “The children?”
“Mordechai and Andrew.”
“I am aware of their names.” His voice was harsh and angry. “However, I’m surprised that you remember.”